PENGUIN WORKSHOP
Penguin Young Readers Group
An Imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Text and cover illustration copyright © 2017 by Penguin Random House LLC and Girls Who Code Inc. All rights reserved. Published by Penguin Workshop, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. PENGUIN and PENGUIN WORKSHOP are trademarks of Penguin Books Ltd, and the W colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Ebook ISBN 9781524786649
Version_1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Acknowledgments
Hi, I’m Reshma. I’m the founder of Girls Who Code, where we teach middle- and high-school girls how to change the world by writing code and creating digital games, apps, websites, and more.
One of the most exciting things we work on—and one of my favorite topics—is robots! Robots can do all sorts of things. Girls in our program have built a robot that helps sort and recycle garbage, one that can be used as a personal assistant and provides weather, news, and music recommendations, and one that helps kids with learning disabilities. The possibilities are endless!
In this book, you’ll read about Sophia and her BFFs in coding club. Together, they enter a hackathon—a marathon day of coding with other kids—and learn what it’s like to code a robot. But things don’t always go as planned, and they find out what it means to be there for one another—sometimes without even asking.
In addition to robots, this book is about another favorite topic of mine: sisterhood. A sisterhood is a supportive group of friends who are always there for you when you need them—it’s one of the most important things we teach in our programs at Girls Who Code. Sisterhood is about working together to solve a tough problem, giving one another courage to try new things, and asking for help when you need it.
If you like what you read in this book, I hope you’ll join one of our free coding clubs—and maybe even go to a hackathon and create your own robot! We’re building a sisterhood of tens of thousands of girls across the country and the world—and we’d love for you to join us.
Happy reading—and coding!
Reshma Saujani
Chapter One
“Touchdown!” I mouthed, holding my camera steadily in place. Coach Tilton pumped his fist excitedly downfield, and I let the viewfinder stay on him for a few seconds. The towering oak trees that surrounded the Halverston Middle School athletic field were just beginning to turn color, and the air was crisp and cool. Perfect football weather.
“Did you get that?” Tyson called over to me. I was in charge of filming the play from across the field, and Tyson Phillips, the other student manager, was getting the close-up.
I made sure the mic was off and adjusted the strap on my camera. “Like you even need to ask!”
We liked to compare video footage and make sure we’d gotten everything Coach wanted. People thought being a manager meant standing around, telling the players what to do, or filling the coolers with water bottles, but it was actually hard work—especially when Coach Tilton was in charge.
Tyson was lying on his stomach, getting one last shot. The football players were piling up on one another as if it were the first touchdown they’d ever scored—and this was just practice. I sprinted over to Tyson and nudged his giant foot with my sneaker as he rolled over. “Show me what you got, superstar,” he said, squinting up at me.
Tyson was in ninth grade, and at first I’d been a little nervous around him. But he was really funny and down-to-earth. Sometimes I forgot he was three years older than me.
I knelt down beside him, and we quickly looked at the playback. We had to be fast if we didn’t want to miss anything—or get mowed down by the players.
“Nice work, Soph,” Tyson said, nodding appreciatively. “You’ve got a good eye.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling proud.
“For a middle schooler.” He winked, and I crossed my arms and sighed. I should have known he’d tease me. I didn’t really mind, though. Since I was only in sixth grade, it was a big deal that Coach had given me the job alongside a high-school freshman. Coach usually only picked seventh- or eighth-graders to comanage the high school football team along with a high schooler. But I’d lobbied hard for it—I was curious what it’d be like to be a manager—plus, I was good at being in charge. I’d been playing sports since I was little, I was a hard worker, and I think I’d impressed Coach with my ideas for keeping the team organized. Honestly, it didn’t feel that different from taking care of my three little sisters, Lola, Pearl, and Rosie. Not that I’d tell the guys that.
I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked back toward Coach as he yelled at the players to run faster. But a flash on the nearby soccer field caught my eye. A supercute, athletic, smiling kind of flash named Sammy Cooper, a boy I’d known since we crashed into each other playing soccer back in kindergarten—and who happened to be in coding club with me.
His cleat made contact with the ball, and—whoosh!—it sailed across the field, sending the midfielders scrambling.
“Amazing,” I muttered, nodding. It wasn’t easy to impress me, but Sammy had serious skills. And even though he was Focused with a capital F, he had a huge smile plastered on his face. I swear I never saw him not smiling.
Except apparently he wasn’t that focused, because he turned and looked in my direction. Unless he also had supersonic hearing, there was no way he’d heard me compliment him, but still, I quickly averted my eyes. I didn’t want him to think I was staring at him.
Because I wasn’t.
Okay, maybe just a little.
I realized that my heart was thumping, and I willed it to calm down. Clearing my throat, I turned to Tyson.
“Feels like practice is going on forever today,” I said.
“Yeah, Coach seems pretty set on wearing the guys out.” Tyson pulled a microfiber cloth from his pocket and wiped his camera lens. It was pretty funny how obsessive he was about keeping the glass clean. “Hey, I can stay late, if you want to go,” he said. “I’m gonna have to upload these videos at the computer lab, anyway—I can upload yours, too, if you want.”
“You sure?” I usually felt 100 percent focused at football practice, but I was kind of preoccupied today. “Coach wants the footage tonight, Tyson. Not next year,” I said with a teasing grin.
“I’ve gotten a lot better in the lab, Soph. I only had to call the service desk twice last time.”
I raised an eyebrow.
>
He sighed. “Okay, fine, three times.”
“You can always call me, you know,” I reminded him. “One day you won’t have a computer pro like me around—you should take full advantage of my genius while you can.”
Tyson chuckled and nodded. “Very true.” He couldn’t deny that I was better at the tech side of our job.
I walked over to Coach during the next water break and took a deep breath. “Coach, I was wondering if I could—”
“Sophia.” Coach cut me off, his hand on my shoulder. His voice was deep and booming—he never needed a microphone, even when players were halfway down the field. “We’re going to do another practice run. I need you to take notes on what you see. You’re my second set of eyes.” He patted my back like he did to the players when they needed a pep talk, and then strode across the field while shouting to the quarterback, “Blake, pull back to the twenty-yard line!”
Sigh. That did not go like I’d hoped.
I jogged over to Tyson, who was rearranging cones. Never a break for us managers. “No luck.”
“Aw, man.” Tyson shook his head. “Too bad.” He looked over at the players across the field. “Looks like it’s gonna be a long afternoon.”
I sighed. “Yep. Thanks for offering, anyway.” I grabbed a scorepad and headed to the sidelines.
I could see where Coach was coming from. And it felt pretty good to know how much he relied on me. But I didn’t want to be a second set of eyes. I wanted to be first in line for my mom’s attention.
We’d planned a family dinner tonight, and I needed to talk to my mom before she went to work and Abuela and Pearl got home from dance class. My mom was a nurse at the hospital, so I usually didn’t see her before I left for school in the morning. We texted a lot, but it wasn’t the same as talking in person, and I had a LOT to tell her.
The second the football team headed to the lockers, Tyson and I scrambled to put the equipment away. The football field was always a total disaster after practices—there were football bins and cones strewn everywhere. “Yo, we got this!” one of the guys called over to me. He and another player picked up a training net and started toward the shed.
“Cool, thanks!” I answered. Usually a few of the players helped put away some of the stuff, but it was part of our job as managers to make sure the field was spotless. When training first started back in the summer, some of the guys had been pretty unhappy to see a sixth-grade student manager. I knew that I had to go out there and work as hard as Tyson. So that’s what I did. And it wasn’t long before I felt like the team really did accept me. They didn’t treat me any differently than they did Tyson. And if they did . . . they’d hear about it.
The equipment shed was hot and smelled like a combo of plastic, leather, and sweat. Pretty gross, but by now, we were all used to it.
“Where do these flags go again?” Tyson asked me, waving one around.
I gave him a pained look. At the beginning of the season, I’d created a detailed system (my specialty). My friends liked to call me the Queen of Organization. Honestly, it was the only way to survive in a house with three little sisters, my parents, and Abuela.
“In the bins,” I directed, nodding in their direction. Seriously, the guy could recite a play-by-play of every game for the past three seasons, but give him a color-coded organization chart, and he was a lost puppy. “Balls go on the shelf, and cones in that box.”
I checked my phone—my dad had given me his old one. It was kind of slow but worked for e-mails and texts. It wasn’t too late. If I hurried, I might still get a chance to talk to my mom before the rest of my family got her attention. Because once they did . . . I didn’t stand a chance.
“Mom!” I shouted as soon as I opened the front door. “Your favorite child is home!” I dropped my backpack by the coatrack, hung up my jacket, and took my shoes off. The smell of lime and cilantro made my stomach rumble.
“Hola, niña!” my mom said when I walked into the kitchen. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of her scrubs. That meant she wasn’t leaving right away.
I gave her a hug. “Hi, Mom.”
She hugged me back. “Your hair smells like football field grass,” she said, scrunching her nose. She was chopping up avocado. “My special menu,” she explained, gesturing toward the bowl of steaming basmati rice and a plate of chargrilled chicken. Mom’s special menu was a way for us all to pick what we wanted, whether it was a tortilla filled with rice, chicken, and the fixings, or just rice and toppings with chips. “Want to do the chips and salsa?”
“I was hoping you’d give me a job the minute I walked in,” I said, rolling my eyes. I ripped open a bag of chips and put a handful on each of our plates except Lola’s. She liked to do it herself.
My mom gave me a devilish smile. “You’ll get really excited later when I ask you to load the dishwasher,” she said with a wink. “So what’s new, sweetie?” She scooped out another avocado. “You said you had something you wanted to talk about when you texted me. How was practice?”
I thought about Sammy’s rumpled soccer shirt and huge smile. Had he been looking at me or just in my general direction?
My mom waggled her fingers in front of my face. “Are you okay, Soph?”
“Huh?” I said, giving my head a little shake. Definitely too much Sammy on my brain. “Oh yeah, so yesterday at—”
“Hola, Sophia!” my grandmother bellowed as she barged into the kitchen. She wasn’t a big person, but she had a way of taking up a lot of space. She and my mom had the same dark hair and bright green eyes, and they weren’t that tall. People often thought they were sisters; no one ever guessed that Abuela was almost seventy years old. I had the same dark hair and take-charge attitude, but I got my height and brown eyes from my dad.
Abuela noticed the block of cheese sitting on the counter and immediately started rummaging around the cupboard for the grater. “I’m glad you saved something for me to do when I got back,” she said, unwrapping the cheese. “Pearl’s dance lesson ended late today. Those little girls just want to move!” She shimmied as she grated the cheese.
I tried not to laugh at her silly dance moves. She wore loud clothes—long, colorful ponchos and chunky jewelry—and always wanted to hear about what was going on at school. I loved her, but she could be kind of chatty, and sometimes I just wanted my mom to myself.
I emptied a jar of salsa into a bowl and was about to tell Mom all about coding club when I realized something strange: The house was eerily quiet.
“Where is everybody?” I asked, sneaking a chip and dipping it in salsa.
“Pearl’s playing with her dolls in her room,” Abuela said, raising her eyebrows. “The dolls are all in ballet class, and she is pretending to be their teacher.”
“Dad got home early and took Rosie to the park,” Mom chimed in, taking silverware out of the drawer and setting it on the counter. “And Lola’s in her room, drawing.” Lola spent a lot of time drawing. She was smart and creative, but she didn’t always look at you when you were talking, and she got fidgety easily. My parents said she was on the autism spectrum, but she was just Lola to me: my spunky, brave, eight-year-old little sister.
“Okay, Mom, so listen,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Remember how I told you about the hackathon this weekend?” So much had happened in the last month of coding club. I hadn’t been able to catch Mom up on everything.
“A hachaflon? What’s that?” Abuela asked. She was from Puerto Rico, and sometimes her accent was pretty strong, especially with words she didn’t know.
“Hackathon, Abuela,” I corrected. “It’s like a supercool marathon day of coding.” I’d watched some videos of hackathons, and everyone looked so into it—focused and competitive. Plus, there were usually awesome adult coders—like mentors—to help you. That was when I knew: I, Sophia Torres, had to be a part of something like that.
“A
h, hack-a-thon,” Abuela repeated slowly. Her eyebrows furrowed. “What does ‘marathon day of coding’ mean?”
I was glad Abuela was interested, but how do you explain computer science to someone who has trouble using the TV remote? And my time with Mom was limited.
I explained as simply as I could. “You know how I mentioned coding club to you?” Abuela nodded. “Well, the hackathon is an event this Saturday at the community center that I’m going to with my friends from coding club. We have to come up with a coding project, and there’ll be kids from other schools there, too.”
Mrs. Clark had told us that if one of the teams from our coding club got the top prize, she would take them out for ice cream. We’d been super excited about the hackathon, anyway, but now we wanted to do it even more. Plus, Sammy’s team was going to be there, too, and I couldn’t let them get a prize and not us.
“Sounds great, sweetie,” Mom replied, but I wasn’t sure she was really listening—she was warming tortillas in the oven, and the buzzer was ringing. “I wonder if they’re warm enough,” she said to herself, peering in the oven.
“Sí, sounds fun!” Abuela said, but I knew she had no idea what I was talking about. She glanced over at my mom and the oven. “Another minute, m’ija.”
“Mom!” I snapped my fingers. “This is important!”
Abuela made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Tsk. Do not snap the fingers at your mama, Sophia. Very disrespectful.”
I blew out my breath. “Sorry.” I sat down at one of the stools at our small kitchen island. “Mrs. Clark asked us all to sign up for the hackathon at coding club last week,” I said, thinking about how when Mrs. Clark brought in the permission forms, my friend Lucy had the biggest smile I’d ever seen from her, and that’s saying a lot—Lucy Morrison was the bubbliest person I knew. “My coding group is going as a team. Dad filled out the paperwork.”
“Great, honey.” Mom took the tortilla platter out of the oven and put it on the kitchen table. “Who’s in your group again?”
Team BFF--Race to the Finish! #2 Page 1
