Nothing but Trouble

by Jacqueline Davies

  “vinnie_ inventory_ 1971.html”?

  This action cannot be undone. The file will be permanently deleted from the server.

  Delete.

  “A problem that is particularly confusing and difficult, one that perhaps has no correct solution.”

  “I know what the word means!” Delete. Delete. “Stop slowing me down!” Maggie had erased half the files.

  “Hey!” shouted Grandpop from downstairs. “What’s taking you so long? I could have built the pyramids of Egypt by now!”

  “I mean,” said Lena, “it’s his stuff, right? And you’re selling it and using the money.”

  “It’s junk,” said Maggie. “The only reason it’s worth anything is because I spent hundreds of hours sorting it, cleaning it, fixing it, and putting it up on the internet. Do you know how much time I invested in Vinnie?”

  “Still, it’s his junk to begin with.”

  “Yeah, and it’s been sitting in the basement for forty years. At least once a year my mother threatens to hire someone to haul it away.”

  “But she never does, does she?”

  “My mother never ‘does’ anything.” Maggie returned her full attention to the computer screen. Talking with Lena about her mother was pointless. How could someone with a mother as remarkable as Lena’s understand what it was like to have a mother like Maggie’s?

  “You’re hard on her,” said Lena.

  “You don’t get it,” muttered Maggie. She couldn’t explain to Lena—whose mother was mounting a world-class glass exhibition at the Louvre—that Maggie’s mom’s whole life was made up of nothing but broken bits and pieces of a life that no longer existed. Fragments of the dreams of what might have been.

  “C’mon,” said Maggie, shutting down. “It’ll take two of us to carry this thing downstairs.” Maggie’s computer was a bit of a Frankenstein, cobbled together from scrounged parts—but more capable than it looked. It was massive and ugly—but fast.

  They set up the computer on the kitchen table, and Grandpop parked his wheelchair directly in front. Swatting at Maggie’s hands every time they approached the keyboard, he kept saying, “No! Let me do it, so I can do it myself next time.”

  Next time, thought Maggie with a groan. How long was she going to have to keep Vinnie’s Vintage Auto Parts down? It was the complete revenue stream for their hacking, and they had a campaign to run.

  It took ten minutes just to walk Grandpop through the basics of turning the computer on, maneuvering the mouse, and using a search engine. When he finally clicked on Vinnie’s Vintage Auto Parts in the list provided by Google, he received the error message Maggie had known he would:

  404 Error—page not found.

  The requested URL was not found on this server.

  “What does that mean?” Grandpop asked, pointing a stubby finger at the screen.

  “It happens all the time,” said Maggie, rotating the screen away from him. “It just means the website is down. We can try again later. Sometimes websites disappear, you know, and they never come back.”

  “But why?”

  “Grandpop, that’s just the internet,” said Maggie impatiently. She wasn’t about to try to explain the entire modern world to her grandfather, who practically hadn’t left the house since Grandmom died a decade ago.

  “Was there something in particular you were looking for?” Lena asked softly. “A part?”

  “No,” mumbled Grandpop, wheeling away. “I just thought it would be nice to . . . you know, talk to someone who knew something about muscle cars. The guts of them. No one seems to care anymore.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

  “That was so sad,” said Lena in a whisper.

  “That was lucky,” said Maggie, shutting down the computer and disconnecting the power cord. Then she caught herself and looked toward the kitchen, where she could hear her grandfather opening and closing the refrigerator. “Yeah, it was kind of sad,” she said quietly. “Maybe I can show him how email works. I bet there are lots of people besides ‘Vinnie’ who are into auto parts for muscle cars.” She thought about how small the house felt to her, and how it must feel even smaller to Grandpop, who only ever left it to go to the health clinic once a week, where he was poked and prodded and scolded about the sugary foods he craved.

  You can’t save him, said her father.

  “No, but I can set him up with an email address,” said Maggie testily.

  “I’m not arguing!” said Lena. “See if ‘gpops17820@gmail.com’ is taken.”

  They struggled upstairs with the bulky computer and set it on Maggie’s desk, then Maggie threw herself backward on her bed. “You do know that without money coming in, we’re dead in the water. Today is Tuesday. The candidate speech is on Monday, less than a week away. What are we going to do with Vinnie’s Vintage Auto Parts shut down?”

  “Improvise!” said Lena, throwing herself on the bed alongside Maggie and poking her in the ribs with her elbow. “It’s what we do best. We’re a couple of wing nuts!”

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE MORNING OF THE CANDIDATE SPEECHES, it poured. Not sprinkled. Not drizzled. Not rained. Poured. Great drenching buckets of water dumped out of the sky, and winds of up to forty miles an hour gusted out of the northeast. Every single sixth grader sitting in the cold, dark, moldering auditorium was damp and uncomfortable. Trash cans had been placed throughout the cavernous space to catch the drips that leaked through the ceiling. Lyle had taken off his shoes and was wringing out his socks.

  Nine candidates sat on the stage, in various states of nervousness. The three boys wore ties. The six girls wore skirts. There was one chair conspicuously empty—the one that was supposed to be for the Mouse.

  The members of the Election Board were also seated on the stage: Mrs. Dornbusch sat with her legs casually crossed, picking the top layer of dead skin off a callus on her hand. Mr. Platt sat next to her and seemed unusually excited. In his hands, he held a video game controller. Maggie and Lena, both wearing skirts as required, were seated next to Mr. Platt. (The night before, Lena had threatened to wear pants and a tie as a protest against outdated dress codes, but Maggie had convinced her to fight one battle at a time.)

  Mr. Shute stood at the podium, shuffling his index cards, glaring at the assembled sixth grade, and checking the space above his head to make sure nothing was positioned to fall on him. It was clear that the principal wanted to get through the morning’s assembly as quickly as possible. He had placed a strict time limit of three minutes for each speech, which hardly gave anyone a chance to say more than, My name is . Please vote for me.

  Stevie Jencks was the first to the podium, and he announced that he was in favor of a longer lunch period and more early release days. Amy Flitt said that if she were elected class president she would start a committee that would decorate the cafeteria each month with a new theme to “spice things up.” And if elected, Stephanie Himmelberger promised to find a way to bring back recess for the sixth graders. All the candidates received applause, though Tyler Grady definitely got the most when he suggested that as class president he would remove all vegetables from the school lunch menu and personally make sure that chicken potpie was never served again.

  Mr. Shute tapped his note cards against the podium. There were only two candidates left—Colt DuPrey and Kayla Gold—and Maggie knew the principal could hardly wait to remind everyone that any candidate who did not deliver a speech today would not be included on the ballot.

  “Next up, Colt DuPrey,” said Mr. Shute tersely.

  Colt walked slowly to the podium as if it was the dentist’s chair. He wasted the first ten seconds of his time by clearing his throat, tugging on the knot of his tie, and looking at his note cards. Maggie worried he was going to pass out, but when he did begin to speak, his voice was quiet and steady.

  “My name is Colt DuPrey, and I think I’d make a good class president. Here is why. I’m a good listener. A really good listener. You’d be surprised at all the things I’ve heard.”
There was a tiny ripple of laughter. Some of the sixth graders might have been nervous, wondering what conversations they had whispered within earshot of the quiet boy with ears like satellite dishes.

  “Why is it important for a class president to listen? Because the president is supposed to represent the people. So I’m not going to stand up here and tell you what I think you want to hear. Instead, I think you should tell me what you want. I’ll listen. I promise.”

  He gathered his note cards and took a step away from the podium, but then stopped and turned back. “Mr. Shute, I still have time, don’t I?” Mr. Shute held up two fingers to indicate the number of minutes remaining, so Colt returned to the microphone and said, “I might as well say this other thing. Here goes.” He took a deep breath in and let it out. “I never in a million years thought I could run for class president. Only popular kids do that, and I’m not popular. I don’t like to give speeches. I don’t even like to talk.” There was more laughter from his classmates, and Colt laughed, too. “I like to read. And I’ve been reading these books where ordinary kids do incredible things. And then some incredible things started happening at Oda M, and I figured, hey, if a mouse could stuff two hundred tennis balls in a locker, maybe I could at least run for class president. Because what’s the worst that can happen? That’s my new slogan. ‘Colt DuPrey. What’s the worst that can happen?’ I just came up with that now.”

  The students clapped loudly and stamped their feet when Colt walked back to his seat on the stage.

  “That’s enough!” shouted Mr. Shute.

  Lena whispered fiercely in Maggie’s ear, “You see what I mean? Do I know how to pick ’em, or what?” But Maggie still wasn’t sure. Why would Colt do something to jeopardize his own candidacy?

  Mr. Shute stepped up to the podium and leaned in to the microphone. “We have just one more candidate’s speech this morning, since it appears that one of our candidates has not shown up.” He stared pointedly at the empty chair that was meant for the Mouse. “And so now, here is our current class president, Kayla Gold.”

  Kayla stood up confidently and strode across the stage. She positioned her note cards carefully in front of her, adjusted the microphone, then flashed her startlingly white teeth at the assembled students. Maggie wondered if she’d had her teeth whitened over the weekend at the same time that she’d gone to Wilkes-Barre for an updated haircut and a new outfit.

  “Thank you, Principal Shute. Teachers, my fellow classmates and Wildcats. Before I begin my speech, I’d like us all to show our class spirit with our special Wildcats cheer!”

  As if on cue, everyone in the auditorium chanted, “Huh, huh, huh, huh, ME-OW,” and slashed the air with their claws. Even the teachers joined in, except for Mrs. Dornbusch, who was staring off to the side of the stage as if she’d just noticed something rather frightening.

  “Spirit!” said Kayla, turning her megawatt smile on the audience. “That’s what Oda M is all about. And that’s what a vote for Kayla Gold means: you’ve got SPIRIT! We have a great school, with the best high school football team in the division! How many of you watched our Wildcats beat the Red Tornadoes 55–13 on Friday?” The sixth graders burst into cheering that ate up almost thirty seconds of Kayla’s three-minute time slot. Pretty smart, Kayla, thought Maggie. Everybody loves the Wildcats, and everybody loves to win.

  “Listen up!” said Kayla joyfully. “The Wildcats are going to go all the way this year.” There was more cheering and stamping of feet from the students. “There isn’t a team out there that can stop us!” The sixth graders started to stomp the Wildcat Beat, which was a complicated and precise series of knee slaps, foot stamps, and hand claps.

  “So here’s what I say. Let’s support our Wildcats as they cross the finish line for an undefeated season! As your class president, I will make sure we have a school-wide pep rally this Friday—HALLOWEEN—before our Wildcats play their final game of the season. Winning won’t be easy, because we’re facing the Danville Ironmen, and our Wildcats will need all the help they can get. But with our support and our Wildcats spirit, I know our team will win!” The crowd erupted in applause.

  “And when we win the Class AA trophy, my father has agreed to treat the entire sixth grade to ice cream and waffles at Edith’s Kitchen on the Sunday after the game. It will be a way to celebrate what makes us so special and encourage us to be our very best! So show your spirit, and tomorrow on Election Day, GO FOR THE GOLD!” Kayla raised her fist in the air in a way that said, You know you love me, now go out and vote for me!

  “How does she do it?” Lena whispered to Maggie, just loudly enough to be heard over the hooting, stamping, and hollering of the sixth grade.

  “The girl’s got charisma,” said Maggie, shaking her head in grudging admiration. “And a certain semi-evil knowledge of how to make people do exactly what she wants. What can I say? She’s Odawahaka’s Taylor Swift.”

  “Poor Jenna has to follow that,” said Lena.

  Both girls looked at Jenna Mack, who was sitting with her head bent forward, almost touching her knees. “We shouldn’t have done this to her,” said Maggie. “It isn’t fair.”

  “Fairness doesn’t exist. This is middle school.”

  “When did you become a cynic?” asked Maggie, genuinely surprised.

  “Ever since I decided I want to win,” said Lena with a fierceness that Maggie had never heard from her before.

  Well, what do you know? said her father. She’s a hacker after all.

  “All right. Settle down,” said Mr. Shute, taking his place behind the podium. “A fine speech, Kayla. I like the positive spirit you bring to our school. And that concludes our Candidate Speech Assembly. If you would all return now—”

  “Excuse me, Principal Shute!” said Mr. Platt, jumping up from his seat like a prairie dog popping out of his hole. “I have a bit of a, hmm, surprise. Something I’d like to share with the sixth grade. And I believe we have time. Since we’re one candidate short?”

  “Mr. Platt!” Principal Shute said with exasperation. “Assemblies are carefully planned. Carefully timed. If you wanted to make an announcement, you should have cleared it with me yesterday.”

  “But I only finished it this morning, and quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I could make it work.” He turned to Mrs. Dornbusch and said confidentially, “Issues with weight distribution and the drive train. I had the wrong coefficient of friction, which created madness in my calculations. And then transporting it in this rain—it’s a miracle I got it here at all!”

  “Settle down, Paul,” she said drily. “You might spontaneously combust.”

  “I might!” he responded gleefully. “I just might.” And then he turned to address the sixth graders, completely bypassing the microphone, which Principal Shute had covered with his hand as if he could mute his overenthusiastic math teacher with one weak tactic.

  “My friends! As you all know, I have been wanting to kick off a Robotics Club here at Oda M. I was president of the Robotics Club at my middle school and high school, and not only did we build some pretty incredible machines, we also won a couple of championships. Now, I’m all in favor of cheering on the football team—Go Wildcats!—but there’s no reason the Wildcats have to be the only winning team here at Oda M. Why not have a trophy-winning Robotics Club? So! To give you an idea of what can be done with simple robotics these days, I put together a little demonstration in the hopes that it might encourage a few of you to sign up for the club. Behold!”

  He held up the video game controller and pointed it to the left wing of the stage. There was a whirring sound and a clicking noise, as if a swarm of locusts had settled into a nearby tree.

  Suddenly, a six-foot-tall mouse made of Legos, K’NEX, Magformers, and Techno Gears rolled into view, paused, turned smoothly to its right, and headed for the podium.

  “Wow!” said Lena. “The Mouse showed up!”

  Maggie stared in amazement. “Didn’t see that coming,” she said under her breath.


  “The Mouse is in the house!” shouted Max, bouncing out of his seat and throwing both hands over his head. All the sixth graders jumped up, crowding the foot of the stage. All except for Jenna, who remained in her chair, holding on to her stomach.

  Mr. Shute, however, threw out his arms, guarding the podium as if it were the Alamo. “Students! Return to your seats. Mr. Platt! Stand down! I order you to stand that mouse down!”

  Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off the robot. There were so many things she wanted to know. What was the drive train? Was there more than one? Did the robot run on batteries? Where was the battery pack? How much did it weigh? And what else could it do?

  “Mr. Platt!” she said. “That is so cool!”

  “You want a turn?” he asked. “After all, you . . .” He pointed at the mouse, winked, and handed her the controller.

  “Thanks,” she said. She had an intuition when it came to controls of all kinds. She positioned the enormous rodent directly in front of Mr. Shute, and then pressed Button C. The mouse extended its skeletal arm as if to shake hands with the furious principal.

  “Does it talk?” she asked Mr. Platt.

  “No, sorry. Not enough time.” He was smiling from ear to ear.

  “That’s okay,” said Maggie. “We’ve got that part covered.”

  During all the commotion, Jenna Mack had quietly climbed the steps on the far left of the stage. “Excuse me, Mr. Shute?” she said, approaching him from behind.

  Mr. Shute whirled around as if fearing an attack from the rear, but then quickly whipped back to face the mouse. It was clear that in the battle of the two, he was more afraid of the mouse than he was of Jenna Mack.

  “I’ve been asked to speak on behalf of the Mouse.” Jenna’s voice was, as always, mousy. Mr. Shute ignored her.

  Lena hurried over to the podium. “I’m just going to take a couple of pictures for the bulletin board, okay?” She snapped three quick photographs of the principal with the mouse. “And then if I could just get a few of Jenna while she talks.”