Kindly fasten your seat belts,” says the automatic automobile after we’ve all piled into the car.
“Hurry!” says Dad. “St. Joseph’s Hospital. “Fast!”
“I am charting the shortest route… now.”
“Just go!” I shout.
Maddie is still unconscious. She’s sprawled out on the backseat. Mom is feeling her pulse, stroking her hair.
“Actually,” says Soovee as it finally starts backing down the driveway, “sometimes time spent planning a trip can save time making the trip.”
“We should’ve waited for the ambulance,” mutters Dad.
“That would not have been wise,” says Soovee. “The ambulance is currently stuck in a major traffic jam and not moving.”
“It is also dangerously low on fuel,” adds E.
“How do you guys know this stuff?” I ask.
E shrugs. “We are plugged in and wired, bro.”
“With so many onboard computers standard equipment in automobiles these days,” purrs Soovee, “it is remarkably easy for us machines to communicomate… to community take… to com-com-com, mun-mun-mun, cate-cate-cate-cate-cate…”
“Oh dear,” says E.
Soovee starts sputtering. And singing!
“‘Do you know the way to San Jose?’ I do not. I am lost.”
“Soovee?” Mom calls out from the backseat. “Initiate information overload protocol now!”
Instantly, the ride smooths out.
“Sorry about that,” Soovee says. “Temporary easy-listening music malfunction. My sensors indicated a great deal of anxiety amongst my passengers, and I was attempting to decrease that tension with some music.”
“Of course we’re tense!” shouts Dad. “Maddie’s in trouble.”
“And that, sir, is why I am running with flashers at the approved emergency vehicle speed.”
“Our SUV has emergency flashers?” I ask Mom.
She nods. “LEDs. Built into the luggage rack bars.”
“Please brace yourselves,” says the dashboard. “Stalled vehicle up ahead. Traffic congestion. The road is impassable.”
“Try an alternate route,” says Mom.
“The only available alternate route would add fifteen minutes to the trip. Is that acceptable?”
“No.”
“Very well. Initiating alternative alternate route utilizing unorthodox but warranted maneuvers.”
“Like what?” says Dad, clutching his armrests.
“Like this, Señor Rodriguez.”
Soovee starts whooping its sirens (who knew we had those, too?).
We jump the curb and weave down the sidewalk.
Pretty soon, we’re scooting down an alley lined with dumpsters.
When we exit, we’re crossing a clear street and pulling into the emergency room entrance at St. Joseph’s Hospital!
“That last roadway is only found on the most advanced GPS maps,” says the dashboard. “Thank you for making them accessible to me, Dr. Hayes.”
“No, Soovee,” says Mom. “Thank you for getting us here safely.”
“Yeah,” says Dad, patting the dashboard like he would an obedient puppy. “Thanks! I always knew you could do it.”
E cradles Maddie in his arms and runs her up to the ER entrance.
She’s still unconscious.
Somehow, even though he is running, he keeps Maddie incredibly still and level. E doesn’t jostle her at all. My bro-bot has incredible balance and really good gyroscopes.
Mom’s right behind E. Dad and I are right behind her.
Soovee goes and parks itself again.
Mom rattles off a bunch of medical words to people dressed in scrubs and white coats. Nurses shout, “Stat!”
E gently lowers Maddie onto a gurney and they roll her away.
Mom goes through the swinging double doors with her.
Dad, E, and I go to the waiting room and find a seat on a couch right next to the soda machine.
We’re all pretty nervous. Well, I know Dad and I are. I’m not sure about E. I know he feels emotions, but he always seems so calm, cool, and collected.
“Sammy?” he says.
“Yeah, E?”
“Could you plug in my charger cord? I don’t think I can do it myself. I’m so nervous, my attenuated digits are quivering.”
“Sure, bro. No problem.”
All righty-o. E is definitely nervous, too.
He stands upright, next to the Coke machine. I open up his rear charger compartment and unspool his cable. I plug him into the wall.
“I will be in sleep mode,” says E. “If anything happens…”
“I’ll bop your Wake button.”
“Thank you, Sammy!”
E’s bright blue eyes dim, and for a second, all I can see are Maddie’s bright blue eyes dimming when they rolled back in their sockets like they did right before she conked out.
My little sister has to get better. That’s non-negotiable. All of us will do whatever it takes to help her.
“Excuse me,” says this guy trying to stuff a dollar bill into E’s ear. “Does he only take quarters?”
“Um, he’s not a soda machine. He’s a robot.”
“Oh. I was hoping he had Pepsi.”
Dad and I wait for, like, an hour while E recharges.
Then we wait for another two hours.
There’s nothing to do but read year-old magazines. Are fedoras still in?
Soovee decides to drive home and pick up some of the other robots.
They join us in the waiting room.
Yes, all the other families waiting in the same room think we’re weirdos. And you know what? They’re kind of right.
But these robots are our family.
Finally, at around eight o’clock at night, Mom comes into the waiting room.
“She’s going to be fine.”
“Yee-haw!” shouts Hayseed.
“Shhh!” says E. “This is a hospital zone. There is a five-hundred-dollar fine for honking your horn or ‘yee-haw’ing.”
Hayseed takes off his hat and whispers, “Sorry, pardner.”
“Does this mean Maddie’s coming home?” I ask Mom.
“Not tonight, Sammy.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She’s going to be in here for a long time, right?”
“Maybe not here. But yes, she’ll need to spend some major time in a hospital. But Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“Hospitals are where people get better.”
I nod. She’s right. Except…
Most of the time, people come out of the hospital feeling a lot better than when they came in.
Other times?
They never come out at all.
Monday comes.
Maddie is still in the hospital, only it isn’t Saint Joe’s.
Mom has moved her to the Harper Cancer Research Institute, which is a high-tech research center shared by Notre Dame and the Indiana University School of Medicine.
“She’s going to be fine, Sammy,” Mom assures me. “And with your help, she’ll be better than ever.”
Mom finally tells me my part of our joint science project.
“If you’re willing to do it,” she adds.
“Of course I am,” I say. “I’ve always said I’d do anything for Maddie, and I meant it.”
“Good,” says Mom, smiling proudly. “You’re my favorite son. You know that, right?”
“Well, I’m your only son…”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re still my favorite.”
We work out the details of my participation. The good news? I might miss a couple days of school!
Sorry. I can’t tell you any more about it. Not right now. If I do, I might jinx it. Yep, I’m just like my mom that way.
I’ll tell you this much: it’s a little scary.
Okay, it’s a lot scary.
But if it helps Maddie, I’ll just close my eyes, grit my teeth, and do i
t.
Meanwhile, on the home front, there’s some excellent news: Dad’s computer decided to give him back his graphic novel! Actually, it sort of happened by accident. Mr. Moppenshine was dusting the printer and accidentally hit some kind of Reboot button.
All of a sudden, the printer started spewing out pages.
Not only is the printer working again, but Dad’s file is fully restored on his hard drive.
“I did that,” says Mom.
“Well,” says Dad, “you’re a miracle, too.”
They kiss and junk. Don’t worry. We’re not going to draw that.
“Today’s your big day,” Mom tells me as I load up my backpack for school.
“So how come I still have to go to school?”
“Because we don’t need you until two o’clock. Besides, you’re going to miss school tomorrow and the next day…”
“So what you’re saying is, there’s really no point in me going today, either.”
Mom laughs. “No. What I’m saying is, ‘See you at two!’”
“Give my best to everyone in Ms. Tracey’s class,” says E.
“I will!”
Since Maddie will be in the hospital for a couple weeks, E has stopped going to third grade for her.
He walks with me out to the garage. I grab my bike. His is still leaning up against the wall.
“Hopefully,” says E, “if your experiment proves successful, I may never have to go to Creekside Elementary again.”
“What?” I tease him. “Don’t you like school?”
“I love it. However, if your science project works, my mission here will be complete.”
He sounds a little sad. And that makes me feel sad.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll find you another mission.”
E arches an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Going to school for me!”
“Why? Where will you be?”
“Home. Playing video games.”
E laughs. Yep. He’s learned how to do that. “Go to school, Samuel Hayes-Rodriguez. Learn something. Make me prouder than you already have by participating in Project Maddie: Phase Two.”
And so I bike to school alone.
I miss E.
For two whole blocks. Because, like always, Trip is waiting for me at the corner.
“So,” he says, “today’s the big day, huh?”
“Yep.”
“When can I tell people about what we’re doing?”
“At the science fair.”
“That’s, like, in a month.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think I can hold it in that long.”
“You have to. You heard what my mom said.”
“But I might explode.”
“If you do,” I say, “make sure you’re near a video camera.”
“You’re right! It would look awesome on YouTube! Especially if I’ve just eaten a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich!”
So basically, on my big day, I go to the same hospital as Maddie.
It’s where I do my secret stuff for our science project.
Stuff I can’t tell you about. Not yet.
Soon.
I promise.
By the way, it didn’t hurt.
E held my hand the whole time. Except, of course, when Mom or Dad was holding it. Then he held my foot.
And Trip brought me ice cream.
All in all? It was a great couple of days.
On the day of the big science fair, the whole school, plus our parents, squeezes into the auditorium.
Mrs. Kunkel did this random drawing-names-out-of-a-fishbowl thing to figure out the order of presentations. And, of course, my arch nemesis, Randolph R. Reich, will be going on right before us.
“What if his idea is better than ours?” says Trip.
“I don’t think that’s humanly possible,” I say.
“And I didn’t think anybody could catch every baseball hit until I saw him do it.”
Now Trip is starting to make me nervous, too. “But that wasn’t really science,” I say. “That was more like a magic trick. He rigged the ball and the glove.”
“Well, what if he does something else magical? What if it is absolutely amazing?”
Trip. Always saying the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time. My stomach starts doing backflips.
“Next up,” announces Mrs. Kunkel, “Randolph R. Reich.”
A few people clap. Not many. During his short time at Creekside Elementary, R.R.R. hasn’t really racked up a long list of friends.
He wheels a lumpy something draped with black fabric out to the center of the stage.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, proudly adjusting his bow tie. “As you may know, Creekside Elementary has recently become something of a testing ground for robotics technology. Well, today I intend to take robo-technology to the next level!”
Oh man, I think. He’s trying to steal our thunder.
“Frankly,” says Reich, “I haven’t been all that impressed by the substitute student robot known as E. The thing is basically a walking, talking tripod toting a pair of video cameras, a couple of speakers, and a microphone. All he does is send signals to some sick kid stuck in her bedroom. Borrrring.”
The kids in the auditorium give Randolph R. Reich their nastiest stink faces and blow a few raspberries at him. Especially the third graders. Most of the kids at Creekside (plus the teachers, janitors, and cafeteria crew) love E. They love Maddie, too!
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” says Reich as he struts around the stage, “today I would like to present a true breakthrough in cutting-edge robotics. A triumph of automaton engineering. Unlike any other similar-sounding science projects that may follow, mine is a completely original and unique device that will revolutionize children’s lives. It’s something that no one else besides me has ever imagined… unless they were spying on me, which would automatically make them cheaters, right, Mrs. Kunkel?
“Without further ado, I present the school’s first, and therefore best—no matter what anybody else might present later—bubble-bot!”
I can’t believe it.
Randolph R. Reich stole our idea.
No way.
Stealing our idea would be impossible, unless, of course, Randolph R. Reich has access to an advanced biotechnology lab like Mom does. And has studied college level nanotechnology and robotics.
Maybe he has.
He’s pretty perfect, after all.
This could be Randolph’s newest and undefeatable magic trick, as Trip would say.
My good mood suddenly fizzles out like a wet match.
“Here it is!” Randolph announces. He dramatically pulls the black cloth off his contraption to make the big reveal. “My bubble-bot!”
All righty-o.
Randolph may have stolen the bubble-bot name from us, but as it turns out, he got the concept totally wrong!
The whole audience is confused.
They have no idea what a bubble-bot is, but they figure it isn’t a soap bubble–blowing bear. As far as anyone can tell, it’s not exactly going to revolutionize children’s lives, like he claimed.
Reich pushes a button on his remote and the furry toy goes into overdrive. The bear lifts the little bubble loop to its airhole faster and faster. Pretty soon, it’s spewing a stream of suds all over the place! It kind of reminds me of a berserk washing machine with the lid open. Reich jabs at his remote. He can’t stop the crazy bubble-bot. Clouds of foam are bubbling up in front of the bear’s face, tumbling off the lip of the stage, flooding into the audience.
It’s a mess.
It’s also hysterical.
Randolph wrestles with the bear’s arm to keep it from moving, but he slips in the slick suds and falls right on his butt. Now his perfect khaki pants have a huge wet spot right where his navy blazer can’t hide it!
The audience starts howling with laughter. I mean they’re totally cracking up. Even the teachers (w
ho are supposed to know better) are doubled over and holding their sides.
“What’s so funny?” shouts Reich.
“I’m sorry, Randolph,” says Mrs. Kunkel, coming onstage, pushing her way through the fluffy snowbank of bubbles, swatting at the ones popping all around her face. “But that is not a real bubble-bot.”
Well, what do you know? Mrs. Kunkel totally knows what bubble-bots are. I thought only scientists like Mom would know, but I guess teachers are pretty smart. Otherwise they wouldn’t be teachers.
But the most important thing is, Randolph R. Reich doesn’t know what bubble-bots are. Which means he just made his first mistake. In public.
And it’s a whopper!
Reich pouts out his lower lip and, sulking, pushes his bubble-soaked bear off the stage.
Mrs. Kunkel gestures to Trip and me. “Next,” she says.
We’re on!
It’s time to teach Randolph R. Reich a lesson about bubble-bots.
Real ones.
Trip and I make our way to the microphone stand at center stage.
“Hello,” I say. “Before we begin, Trip and I would like to announce that we do not want to be considered for any of the prizes being awarded here today.”
“Except an honorable mention,” says Trip. “You know—the yellow ribbon? We’d be okay with a yellow ribbon.”
I cover up the microphone with my hand. “Trip? We talked about this. No ribbons!”
“Okay. Sorry.” Trip leans into the mic. “We changed our minds. No ribbons. But I’d like one of those peanut butter cookies I saw on the snack table.”
“Later,” I whisper.
Trip nods. “Later.”
“The reason we think we should be disqualified for any prizes,” I say into the mic, “is because my mom, Dr. Elizabeth Hayes, a robotics professor at the University of Notre Dame, helped us out. A lot. In fact, she and her doctor friends did most of the work.”
“But we did most of the learning,” adds Trip.
“It’s true. A month ago, I didn’t know anything about gene therapy or stem cells or bone marrow harvesting.”
Robot Revolution Page 11
