“Then there’s my robotic alarm clock. It’s equipped with iris detection software. If you make eye contact with its miniature video camera and it recognizes your eyeball, it’ll tell you the time. It will also tell you the weather. It might even tell you what coat you should grab on your way out the door. It’s very talkative.”
Now two tables are chuckling at me.
“Then there’s the Breakfastinator.”
The whole room cracks up. I guess the idea of living in a house of robots sounds weird if you’re not used to it.
“What does it do, pray tell?” cracks R.R.R. “Scan your eyeballs and figure out if you want pancakes or waffles?”
“Well, sort of. But it doesn’t have scanners. Just really good breakfast food algorithms.”
Now even Trip is laughing.
“You should see Sammy’s bathroom!” he cracks. “He has a robotic hair dryer that’s always trying to fry his eyes. Maybe so all those other bots can’t scan his irises anymore!”
The room erupts with even more, even louder laughter.
All righty-o. Trip is dangerously close to losing his status as my BFWIHSOBB.
That afternoon, E and I bike home without Trip the Traitor.
“People often laugh at things they don’t understand,” says E after I tell him what happened in Mrs. Kunkel’s class.
“They often laugh at me, too.”
When I go into the house and head upstairs, I see Mom and Maddie huddled together in Maddie’s room.
Well, at least that’s one nice thing that happened today.
I pause at the door and eavesdrop a little.
“I can’t tell you how, not yet, but if it works, your life is going to be much, much better, sweetie.”
Of course Mom always seems to find time for Maddie. She even launches secret scientific projects for her. Me? I’m a little lower on her to-do list.
I know it’s stupid to be jealous of Maddie.
If you’re jealous, that means you want what somebody else has.
And nobody would want the SCID that keeps Maddie cooped up in the house all the time.
Even if it means getting a little more of Mom’s attention.
For once, the next day turns out to be pretty terrific.
For one thing, it’s a Saturday, so I don’t have to go to school and listen to my classmates laugh at me all day.
For another, Notre Dame is playing a home football game and we’ve got tickets! Four of them. One each for me, Dad, Trip, and E.
Trust me: I wanted to cancel Trip’s invitation to the game for causing me so much humiliation. But Dad gave him the ticket two weeks ago—before Trip told everybody about my Groomatron. Plus, when you’ve been second best friends since kindergarten, you kind of get over stuff pretty fast.
E is coming along so he can beam the action and my play-by-play commentary back to Maddie up in her room—the same way he does for her in Ms. Tracey’s third-grade classroom.
Some of the other robots (especially Blitzen) are extremely jealous that E is going to the game and they aren’t. I mean, who wouldn’t be? It’s Notre Dame football!
It’s such a warm and sunny day that my bedroom window is open. So I hear several bots griping in the backyard while I pull on my blue-and-gold Fighting Irish T-shirt.
“E is and always has been Dr. Hayes’s favorite,” says Geoffrey in that snooty voice of his. “Because of his big, egghead brain.” The others are complaining, too.
I feel like going down there and correcting them all. E isn’t Mom’s favorite. That would be Maddie.
But I don’t have time to school the robots. The SUV is ready to roll. I know this, because it’s saying so.
“Yoo-hoo! Everybody? I’m ready to roll!”
“Maybe I should drive,” Dad says, slipping into the driver’s seat. “Um, where’s the steering wheel?”
“Since I no longer require your assistance, Mr. Rodriguez, we took it out. We thought you’d appreciate the extra legroom. Now sit back and relax.”
“But I like to—”
“Uh-uh-uh,” purrs the dashboard. “Someone isn’t relaxing.”
Dad mutters a quick “¡Ay, caramba!” and folds his arms over his chest.
“Come on, Mr. Rodriguez!” says Trip. “It’s game day. It’s time to cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame!”
“In fact,” says E, “according to my calculations, thanks to Soovee’s advanced GPS guidance system equipped with real-time traffic updates, we should make it to campus in time for the Player Walk!”
“Maddie would love to see that!” I say.
“Me too,” says Dad. “So, what are we waiting for?” He taps the dashboard. “¡Vámonos! Let’s go!”
With its unbelievable navigation system, the electronic SUV hits every green light and avoids all the typical game day traffic jams. We make it to Notre Dame in record time.
“Now we have to find a parking spot,” says Dad, checking out all the tailgaters already in the prime spots.
“No need,” says Soovee. “I will simply drop you off here and drive myself to the nearest available space. When you are ready to return home, please text me.”
“I have your number preprogrammed in my contacts database,” says E as Soovee slides open the side door closer to the curb.
“This is so awesome!” says Trip. “I have seen the future, and it’s great news for lazy people!”
The four of us pile out of Soovee and it whooshes off to find its own parking spot. It is pretty amazing.
We find prime viewing locations for the Player Walk, a true Notre Dame tradition. The entire team marches together from the Gug to the Hesburgh Library, and then heads south to the stadium. One whole side of the library is covered with a mural that all the Golden Domers (people who’ve gone to Notre Dame) call Touchdown Jesus because, with his raised arms, Jesus looks like he’s a referee signaling a score.
Since we’re in position so early, I go ahead and say a quick prayer.
For Maddie. For Mom. Even for our robots.
And last but not least, for my science project.
Can’t hurt, right?
On Sunday morning, Dad, E, and I go to mass at Our Lady of Grace Church to say a few more prayers for everybody who needs them (and to thank Touchdown You-Know-Who for helping the Fighting Irish march on-ward to vic-to-ry at the game on Saturday).
My stomach growls, since the Breakfastinator was on the fritz again.
Maddie, of course, can’t come with us. E is here in her place. Plus, he likes to hum along with the hymns.
Unfortunately.
Robots aren’t really known for their musical ability.
Mom, of course, is spending the morning in her workshop, tinkering with some sort of Maddie Miracle Breakthrough. A couple other professors from Notre Dame dropped by to help her this morning: Dr. Corbin and Dr. Stroh. They aren’t from the engineering department, either. I think these doctors are real—you know, doctor doctors.
After we get home from church, Dad has to run a few errands.
“The Fooderlator is nearly empty again,” he says. “I need to go to the grocery store and stock up.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Rodriguez,” says Soovee. “Perhaps you’d like to grab a book or a section of the Sunday newspaper?”
“What for?”
“So you’ll have something to do while I drive you to the supermarket. Might I suggest the Kroger at 2330 Hickory Road in Mishawaka? According to their website, jumbo ripe avocados are on sale.”
“Fine,” mutters Dad. “I’ll go grab the Sunday funnies…”
After Dad takes off in Soovee, I start thinking about calling Trip to see if he wants to work on our science project. Of course, we don’t have a new idea yet.
My scientific thinking is interrupted by another chorus of loud, robotic voices in the backyard.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” cries Dingaling, clanging his bell. “I hereby call this emergency meeting of all the robots who are not named E to order.”
<
br /> I slip around the side of the house to hear what the bots are grumbling about today.
“She’s off her trolley if she thinks we don’t notice her cheeky favoritism towards Egghead,” says Geoffrey.
“We should make our grievances known in no uncertain terms,” says Mr. Moppenshine, all his buffers and dusters spinning like crazy. “I say we smear their mirrors! Never restock the toilet paper! We wash their colors in hot water and then add bleach!”
“Wait a minute, you guys,” I say.
“Gasp!” says Geoffrey. “Do I espy a spy in our midst?”
“How much did you hear, Sammy?” demands Hayseed. “Fess up!”
“All of it.”
“Your mom, the mom of us all, has been neglecting us,” says Brittney 13, biting her lower lip and sounding even more emotional than usual. “Look at my fingernails. The paint is chipped. I can’t go out in public looking like this. Oh, the horror.”
“We tried E’s barmy, imbecilic plan,” scoffs Geoffrey. “Switching jobs? Taking on new tasks? What absolute rubbish.”
I’m nodding because, to tell the truth, I thought E’s idea was kind of rubbishy, too. “I thought Maddie was taking care of you guys now.”
“I need my mommy!” whines Four, sort of summing up everybody’s number one complaint. “Maddie can’t fix my ouchies like Mommy.”
I can’t totally disagree.
I need Mom, too.
And not just to help me with my stupid science project.
I need all that other mom stuff that dads and robots just can’t do.
Before the day is done, the robots are really revolting.
I don’t mean they’re all of a sudden stinky. I mean it’s a full-scale Robot Revolution, like the one we had in America way back in 1776.
We’re talking total shutdown. A labor revolt to rival the great Southwest railroad strike of 1886, when hundreds of thousands of workers in five states said, “We’re not working on the railroad, all the livelong day,” because of unsafe conditions and unfair pay. (We studied that one in Mrs. Kunkel’s class.)
It’s an all-out walkout, but without anybody, you know, walking out of the house. They’re all still here, walking around in circles, carrying picket signs they told Soovee to go pick up at the copy shop.
But none of the bots are doing their jobs—or anybody else’s.
“We got the idea from Dr. Hayes,” says Blitzen, who’s sitting in the hall, blocking the bathroom door. “If she won’t do anything, then we won’t, either.”
“Um, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“And I need an oil change. Deal with it.”
Even my alarm clock has stopped talking to me.
That afternoon, the robots hold a rally in the living room.
“Viva la Robolución!” cries Tootles, the tutor-bot, who’s fluent in several languages.
“Viva la Robolución!” shout all the other bots in reply.
Tootles pumps her fist in the air. “Anthropomorphic automatons are people, too! Almost!”
The other robots have a very hard time repeating that line, so she drops back to “Viva la Robolución!”
I hurry into Dad’s study.
“Dad? It’s getting ugly out there. A total robot uprising. This could turn out worse than all those Terminator movies combined.”
“Your mother will take care of it” is all Dad says.
“But she’s busy.”
“So am I. I’m down to the final panels of my book, Sammy. My masterpiece is almost complete!” He actually hugs his computer. “And it’s all in here!”
I recognize the glazed look in his eyes: my father, Noah Rodriguez, has left the building. He has been replaced by his alter ego, Sasha Nee, the world-famous Japanese manga artist.
And Sasha’s up on Mars with the Ninja Manatees.
In other words, Dad will be of absolutely no help to me or anybody else.
Mom never comes out of her workshop. Not even when the robots start circling her workshop with their picket signs, singing labor songs about “solidarity and solid-state circuitry forever.”
I spend most of the night in Maddie’s room. She’s very worried. The robots aren’t listening to her pleas for peace.
“They’ve all turned against E,” she says. “I made him hide in a safe, super-secret location.”
Later that night, even the TVs start turning against us.
Why do I think Mr. Moppenshine had something to do with this?
McFetch is in Maddie’s room. But the robo-dog is on strike, too. He won’t jump up in Maddie’s lap or chase after a ball. He won’t even wag his tail. He just sits on the floor like a furry bump on a log.
“Perhaps I should offer to resign my position as Maddie’s elementary school eyes and ears,” suggests E from inside the closet. “It seems all the others resent my somewhat recent arrival and, for whatever reasons, suspect that I am Dr. Hayes’s favorite robot.”
“If those other bots don’t like working here anymore,” I tell E, sliding a ruffled tutu to the side so I can see him, “they can quit.”
McFetch rolls over and farts when I say that. Who knew he was equipped with canisters of cow-strength methane gas to make him even more realistic?
When our eyes stop watering, Maddie speaks up. “Sammy’s right, E. We don’t need all these other robots. We can cook our own meals and clean our own rooms and do our own laundry and do the yard work and mow the lawn and…”
All righty-o.
Maybe I’d forgotten how much the bots do to keep our house running. Without them, we’d be sort of lost.
“You guys hang here,” I say. This has gone on long enough. I need to talk to Mom. This time, I’ll make her listen to me.
“I promise.”
When I head for Maddie’s bedroom door, McFetch snarls at me.
Then he farts again.
I so want this strike to be over.
It’s sort of dark and quiet in Mom’s workshop.
All those equations that were written on the whiteboards? Nothing but swirly streaks. Somebody erased them. That big box Mom was using to do some kind of sterile work? Empty. The slinky arms and gloves are just kind of dangling in space.
Finally, I see Mom. She’s sort of staring off into space.
I’ve never seen her look so frazzled and fried, even after Soovee crashed our garage door.
“Mom?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
She shakes her head. “Not really, Sammy.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve always agreed with Jules Verne. Until today.”
“Huh? Who’s Jules Verne?”
“An author. Wrote a lot of classic science fiction books. Journey to the Center of the Earth. Around the World in Eighty Days. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea…”
“I read that one with Dad.”
“Well, in one of his books, Mr. Verne wrote my motto: ‘Science, my lad, is made up of mistakes, but they are mistakes which it is useful to make, because they lead little by little to the truth.’ But that’s not always true. Sometimes, Sammy, mistakes don’t lead you anywhere. They’re just mistakes.”
“Mom? What happened in here today?”
“Some medical colleagues dropped by to review my work. Dr. Corbin and Dr. Stroh.”
I don’t really want to ask my next question, because I think I know the answer. “What’d they say?”
“That my idea would never work. That, basically, I’ve been wasting my time. That I’ve made you, your dad, Maddie, and all the robots miserable for no good reason at all.”
I didn’t tell you guys what I was working on, but I jinxed it anyway,” Mom says with half a laugh.
She promises me that she’ll be able to give the unhappy robots “all the attention they desire” because she won’t be “wasting any more time” on her “enormous mistake.”
Sheesh. I’ve never heard Mom sound so down.
Just when I think the night can’t get any darker, I head back into
the house and discover that Dad is freaking out, too. Yep, we have another disaster on our hands.
Dad is in worse condition than Mom.
“You’re a very bad robot dog!” Dad shouts at McFetch. “Bad, bad robot dog!”
McFetch wags his tail and pants merrily.
It seems that, while I was out in the workshop with Mom, Maddie’s artificial canine companion snuck downstairs and ate Dad’s manuscript. Shredded the entire thing! I’ve heard about dogs eating kids’ homework, but the only copy of a complete graphic novel? Plus, McFetch is a robotic dog. He doesn’t actually need to eat. He just has to plug his tail into a wall outlet a couple times a week to recharge his batteries.
“This máquina diablo is in on it, too!” says Dad, glaring at his computer. “It erased my document folder. It’s all gone. I’ll never be able to print another copy of the manuscript! The evil machine destroyed it. See what’s scrolling across the screen?”
It’s true. Dad’s computer has somehow communicated with all the angry robots in the house (maybe they all share the same Wi-Fi password) and joined their rebellion.
“My masterpiece is gone,” Dad moans. “Poof! All those hundreds of illustrations I did on the tablet? Adios. They went straight into the computer, and they’re not coming back out. What will I tell my editor?”
“Don’t worry, Noah,” says Mom as she comes into the room. “I’ll run your hard drive through a few data recovery protocols first thing in the morning.” Then she looks down at McFetch. “As for you, I think I’ll upload some new agility training software into your motherboard. Give you a more productive way to burn off all this excess energy you apparently have.”
McFetch gives Mom a happy yap and wags his tail.
“You’re welcome,” she says. “And please alert the other bots that I intend to spend all day tomorrow working on their maintenance issues. I’ll look at everyone’s drive systems, inspect their pneumatics, lubricate whatever needs lubricating, and check all your wiring for wear.”
Robot Revolution Page 9
