“Hey!” his voice cracked. “So—”
“Do you need help?” Melman asked, watching him struggle.
“Um . . .” Totle dropped three rolls down Hamburger Hill. They disappeared into the valley. “I think I’m good, but thanks.”
“You feeling sick?”
“Huh?” Totle followed Melman’s eyes to the toilet paper. “Oh. No. It’s for Steinberg. He’s not sick. It’s for Kiki. Sorry, Kiki 2.0.”
Melman nodded like she understood, even though she’d never heard of Kiki 2.0 and had no idea what it had to do with Steinberg needing to wipe his butt with now seven rolls of toilet paper.
Totle smiled. Then ten seconds of nothing. You stopped me, remember? Melman thought, inching in the direction of Faith.
“Are you trying out for the soccer team this summer?” Totle finally asked.
Melman felt her stomach flip. She picked at the dirt under her fingernails, a little bit mortified. “I just did. With you.”
Totle narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I’m Melvin Evans.”
Totle’s eyes bulged. “That was you? No way! You’re my IDOL!” He swallowed his enthusiasm and then lowered his head. “Sorry, that was weird of me to say.”
Melman felt herself blush. “It’s fine. Well, actually, it’s not fine. The Captain isn’t letting me play.”
“Why not?!” Totle asked in disbelief. “You were the best one out there!”
“Thanks,” she said with a half smile, “but I guess rules are rules.”
“Any rule that keeps Melvin Evans off the team is a dumb rule.” He sighed. “What are we going to do without you?”
Melman shrugged. “Put Sampson in goal, I guess.”
Totle scrunched his face like he was sucking on a sour gummy. “We’re doomed.”
They burst into laughter. Melman’s punctured spirit was partially patched and starting to inflate. She’d never reach the high she’d felt until she was back in the goal, but it was nice to know she wasn’t the only one on her side.
Totle lifted his fist for a pound. Melman pounded him back. “You’ll get your chance,” he said, dimples popping. “You’re the man.”
“Shout it with me,” Steinberg prompted the huddle of Hamburger Hillers. “K-I-K-I!”
“TWO. POINT. OHHHH!” they cheered, lifting their sandwiched hands into the blazing sky. “Mr. Roboto” was blasting through the speakers on the basketball court, and the vibration was pumping Steinberg up to the point of near implosion.
“Let’s break!” Steinberg shouted, clapping. He led his lab assistants to center court, waving at the sea of Rolling Hillers in the bleachers. The campers were chatting among themselves and didn’t wave back, but Steinberg didn’t let that get him down. They’d meet Kiki soon enough, and when they did, oh boy, would they wave.
He found his spot on the center circle where Kiki 2.0 was written in chalk and a towel was draped over a three-foot-high lump. He lifted up the towel just an inch to give his baby some air.
“Are you OK?” he whispered. She didn’t answer, which made sense—she wasn’t programmed to do so and was currently in the off position. But he fanned her anyway, for fear she’d overheat.
Steinberg scanned his competition around the circle. Beside him was Sophie, sitting in the butterfly position, clutching her feet and swaying side to side. She was humming along to “Mr. Roboto,” her eyes fixed on the short, stout, towel-covered lump before her. Steinberg read the chalk: Georgina Whitefoot. Whether or not the robot had a white foot: dumb name.
There were three other competitors: Cy Borg. Clever. Anne Droid. More clever. Cool Robot. Not a name.
Steinberg shifted his focus to the judges’ table, where TJ and the Captain sat side by side with pots on their heads. They looked more like aliens than robots, which was a fine look for an alien contest, but questionable for a robotics one. He guessed his camp directors didn’t follow him on social media, otherwise they would’ve used at least one of his last seven Halloween robot costumes as inspiration.
“Mr. Roboto” cut off mid-chorus. Either the speakers had blown out, or this party was about to get started.
TJ slipped the Captain an index card and cued her with a double eyebrow lift. Steinberg could barely sit still, he was so junked on jitters. The Captain eyed the card and gave TJ a mischievous smirk. She held her wireless mic close to her mouth and took a breath while the Hillers in the bleachers simmered down. Then she said, “Was that my CPU malfunctioning or did I just feel a spark between us?”
TJ stood on his chair. “Girl, just because you have Wi-Fi doesn’t mean you should connect with everyone who sends you a signal!”
The Captain buried her face in the crook of her elbow and shook with laughter. The Rolling Hills audience followed. Not because the robot pickup lines were hilarious—Steinberg had heard them before at conventions—but because it was a blast to see TJ and the Captain doing their shtick. It was easy to forget sometimes that they were a married couple—normally he was so goofy and she was so strict.
TJ took a bow, waved down the thunderous applause, and paced the court, freestyling into the mic:
“The Robo-Hills Challenge is about to start,
We’ve got five metal buddies with a lot of heart.
This ain’t like any contest you’ve ever seen,
These bots got talents so obsceeeene!”
Steinberg wasn’t sure if Kiki 2.0 or any of the other robots had obscene talents, but he figured TJ was grasping for a rhyme. Kiki’s talent was delicioso, and Steinberg’s hands were shaking, he was so eager to share.
“The winning camper will get a killer prize,
A bit of screen time for your eyes.
Popcorn and a bunk movie of your choice
So everybody stand up and rejoice!”
Bunk movie! Steinberg jumped to his feet. The Hamburger Hill guys were already shouting movie titles over each other, like E.T. and Babe and Ghostbusters and Jurassic Park. Back to the Future, for sure, Steinberg decided.
He could see it now: TJ would drive up Hamburger Hill in his golf cart, the prehistoric TV on the passenger side and the sweet, stale popcorn in a garbage bag in the back. He’d smack away the static from the TV then pop in a big, bulky VHS tape. Very Historic System? Yeah, that sounds about right. He’d wish the boys “Adieu,” and Play Dough would tear open the garbage bag and kernels would go flying into bedsheets and underwear and dark corners—a technique he’d coined “Saving it for later.” Or if the skunks got to it first, “Snacks for skunks.” In other words, the dream prize.
“And last but not least, per Steinberg’s request,
The winning robot of this challenge will get
To co-emcee, using her ‘mad skillz,’
The one and only Miss Rolling Hillllllllls!”
At the mention of Miss Rolling Hills, the crowd went ballistic. Steinberg was so excited about Kiki 2.0 emceeing, he could barely breathe. Everything he’d ever wanted—it was happening!
TJ hopped over the circle of contestants and stood center court with his arms raised high and his fingers wiggling. He didn’t have to say a word—the Rolling Hillers quieted down and copied his movements. “Now, contestants, hold the edge of your towels.” Steinberg held the edge. “And reveal your creations in three, two . . . one!” All five contestants whipped the towels off their bots.
Steinberg’s heart was pumping faster than a jackrabbit’s. He tried to take in all five robots at once, but Chaim was on overload. It was all too much.
“Sophie Edgersteckin, you’re up!” TJ announced.
Steinberg held his breath as Sophie de-butterflied and rolled up slowly to standing. He noticed her cabinmates weren’t standing behind her like his was for him—they were in the Upper Camp bleachers screaming their vocal chords raw. Especially Jenny, who Steinberg couldn’t imagine had any investment in robotics, so must have just liked the sound of her own ear-splitting cry.
TJ handed Sophie t
he mic. “I’m Sophie,” she said, clutching it with both hands and twisting her torso. “This is my robot, Georgina Whitefoot.”
“Georgina!!!” the J-squad shrieked. “You’re so hot!”
Steinberg scoffed. As if Sophie’s clunky box of cardboard is half as attractive as Kiki 2.0. (a) Its red exterior was chipping away like a foot overdue for a pedicure. (b) Black polka-dot stickers made it look like a ladybug. (c) A wasteful number of googly eyes stared in too many directions. (d) Two red pipe cleaners drooped sadly from its sides. (e) No sign of metal or functionality. a + b + c + d + e = ugly faux-bot.
Sophie flanked her robot with jazz hands. “Georgina loves camp, and she’s here to tell you why!” Steinberg watched Sophie relax her fingers and fumble underneath the cardboard to manipulate something inside it. Kiki 2.0 was remote-controlled. He didn’t have to go and touch her insides every time he wanted her to do something.
“Hi, I’m Georgina Whitefoot,” Sophie’s robot said in Sophie’s voice, modified to sound like a chipmunk, “and my favorite parts of camp are”—it cut to the Captain’s voice, similarly modified—“the lifelong friendships.” Then TJ’s: “The fourteen-and-up boys’ soccer team champs!” Then the J-squad: “The J-squad!” Then Slimey: “The love . . . and beads and macramé!” Then Missi: “Campstock.” Then Melman: “The Faith Hillers, what-what!”
It took Steinberg one second flat to get Sophie’s gimmick. Georgina wasn’t a robot at all. She was just three flaps of cardboard masking a recording device. Still, the audience clapped and cheered and laughed after every chipmunked voice.
Steinberg picked at his cuticles. He knew the Hillers were an excitable crowd, but c’mon. He looked to the judges to gauge their reaction. TJ grinned madly, joining the ignorant wash of enthusiasm. The Captain widened her eyes and distorted her mouth, as if every voice was an unexpected twist. As entertained as they seemed, Steinberg hoped with his whole being that the judges didn’t reward Sophie’s “invention” with a competitive score.
It would be simply impossible, Steinberg assured himself, going over in his head the judging rubric he’d given to TJ. He’d designed it in Kiki’s favor—bonus points for each of her talents, none of which Georgina displayed.
Sophie’s makeshift non-robot was still blabbering on when Steinberg suddenly recognized Play Dough’s voice: “Blueberry pancakes.” Then Dover’s: “Raids.” Then Smelly’s: “S’mores.” Then Wiener’s: “Midsummer Dance.” Then Totle’s: “We do not remember days, we remember moments.”
Steinberg felt his lungs tighten and his esophagus close up. It was one thing for the Faith Hillers to blindly support their cabinmate. But the Hamburger Hillers? They were on his team. He turned around, expecting the guys to be looking down, shamefully tugging at their shoelaces. But, no. They were sitting there with dopey smiles, loving every second of their chipmunk cameos.
Steinberg’s pressing stare hopped from Hamburger to Hamburger. “Why did you help Sophie with her robot?”
“Uh . . . we didn’t,” Play Dough said.
“Yes, you did. I just heard you.”
“And finally,” Sophie/Georgina said, “what I love most about camp is . . .”
“A robotics contest?!” a prerecorded, Chipmunk-modified Steinberg said.
Steinberg turned away from the guys, the blood draining from his face. He didn’t remember being interviewed. When had she recorded him?
Chaim rewound through his every interaction with Sophie. Nothing. Nope. No. No. Nope. No. Yes! The first day of camp, when Sophie had mentioned the competition. Had she really been plotting before the buses even rolled in? Before Steinberg even knew about the contest?
Sophie reached inside Georgina and turned off the recording device. Then she took a swooping bow, as if she were royalty and deserved a standing ovation and armed security, and settled back into her butterfly position.
The Faith Hillers started chanting: “Geor-gi-na White-foot!” They clapped five times in rhythm. “Geor-gi-na White-foot!” Then stomped the same rhythm. It didn’t take more than 5.5 seconds before every Hiller was on his or her feet stomping and clapping and chanting the name of the most fraudulent robot that Steinberg had ever seen. It reminded him of when he had pitched an idea to his Hebrew school class for Ray-Bans that let you read the Bible phonetically. It pissed off the rabbi and prompted loads of teasing. Meanwhile, one of the popular kids Google Translated his haftarah into English and everyone showered him with praise. That kind of stuff happened at home all the time, but it wasn’t supposed to happen here.
TJ laughed into the mic while the Captain scribbled on a legal pad. Her distorted expression had relaxed into a smile. Why? Steinberg seethed with paranoia. Maybe she was just as underwhelmed as he was. So underwhelmed it was funny. Or maybe she was moved. Though, even if she was swept off her feet by Sophie’s edited love letter to camp, she wouldn’t let that impact her scoring, would she?
I didn’t sign a release form! I never told Sophie she could use my voice! Surely that was cause for disqualification. But who cares? Steinberg reassured himself. Kiki 2.0 has it in the bag. She’s about to knock Georgina out of this dimension.
“All right, thank you, Sophie, for introducing us to Georgina Whitefoot,” TJ said. “Her favorite parts of camp are our favorite parts of camp, and that is one strange coincidence.” That got more than a few brainwashed chuckles. “But in all seriousness, it’s major cool to work with your competition.” TJ thanked Sophie and Steinberg with a deep bow, which was straight up undeserving.
TJ pretended to Eenie, meenie, miney, moh it around the circle but pointed to Steinberg, as if he’d been next all along.
Behind him, the Hamburger Hillers hooted and hollered and chest-bumped like Kiki’d already won. Play Dough karate-chopped the air while taking the lead on Steinberg’s chant: “K-I-K-I.”
The guys jumped up and onto each other. “TWO. POINT. OHHHH!”
Steinberg felt his chest lift as Chaim dragged his concerns to the trash. How could I have questioned their loyalty? He made a mental note never to misfire accusations at his team again and sucked in a breath. The jitters were back, but only in his toes. It was time.
Steinberg powered up Kiki 2.0, via remote control. “You are a strong, independent woman,” he whispered, petting her antennae. “Do what you do best, and all the others, they’ll wish they’d made you.” He pressed his forehead against her face—a jar lid with Sharpie-drawn eyes and mouth. “Go get ’em.” He steered Kiki to the center and pressed the magic button.
Two butter knives jutted out of her side. The crowd “Oooohed” and “Ahhhed.” Steinberg watched the Captain shift forward with concern. Just you wait, he thought, anticipating Kiki’s next move. She dinged like a toaster and two slices of white bread popped out, landing side by side on a paper plate. The audience laughed. The Captain sighed with relief. Steinberg caught the beginning mumbles of “Sandwich” coming from all directions. He nodded affirmatively.
Kiki’s left antenna sucked up jelly and her right antenna sucked up peanut butter from interior baggies. Steinberg watched the translucent straws turn purple and brown. They overflowed onto the bread.
Steinberg cautiously lifted his eyes to the bleachers. The crowd had risen to their feet, craning their necks to catch the action.
Rick initiated a chant and dance: “Peanut Butter Jelly Time! Peanut Butter Jelly Time!” Yoshi joined in, louder and bigger than anyone else. TJ was pounding the judges’ table, and the Captain was bopping her head like a punk rocker.
Steinberg bit his lip to contain his ecstasy as Kiki’s knives lathered the bread and then collapsed back into her sides. She folded the paper plate inward, smushing the two sandwich halves together. The crowd went wild. More wild than he’d ever seen them before.
“I want to eat it!”
“Me, me, me!”
“I want the PB-and-J!!!”
His psycho fans screamed, even though they’d just come from lunch, where there had been an entire station
set up for sandwiches. They understood what Steinberg had known all along. Kiki 2.0 was special, and anyone would be lucky to taste the future of the culinary arts.
Steinberg wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. “Thank you, Chef,” he murmured under his breath to Kiki. He removed the plate from her grasp and hand-delivered his robot’s creation to the judges.
TJ opened his mouth wide. Steinberg held up the PB&J, and TJ took a huge bite, engulfing an entire half. “Mmmm,” he moaned over the cheering crowd.
Suddenly, there was a scream.
Followed by a collective gasp. Followed by silence. Followed by an “Oops.”
Steinberg tracked the crowd’s terrified gaze to Sophie. She was on the floor, wheezing and clutching her throat. The color in her face was draining and her eyes were rolling back in her head. Peanut butter was ALL OVER HER FACE.
“WHAT HAPPENED?!” Steinberg cried out, rushing over to Play Dough at the crime scene.
“Uh, I danced on the remote.”
Steinberg gave him his harshest laser-beam stare.
“By accident!” Play Dough said.
Wiener grabbed Steinberg’s cheeks. “And then Kiki’s antenna exploded peanut butter into Sophie’s mouth!” he screeched.
Steinberg fell to his knees by Sophie’s side as she gasped for breath. Her neck muscles convulsed. “Epi!” she croaked.
Steinberg followed Chaim’s commands. The stakes were higher than high, and time was running out. He unzipped the pouch around Sophie’s waist, grabbed her EpiPen, popped the cap, and stabbed her thigh.
Then he dropped the weapon and raised his arms, terrified he’d killed her.
Sophie gasped to life.
Steinberg went to exhale with relief but couldn’t access the breath. He tried to suck in any oxygen that would pass through, but his respiratory system was going into full-blown shock. He patted his pockets for his inhaler, but it wasn’t on him. It was in Hamburger Hill.
Crossing Over Page 6
