“W-w-well,” I stammer. “I’m not exactly sure—”
Cooper cuts me off. “You taught him? That means when this cheap scrap heap isn’t on his custom-built bike, your ‘brother’ the robot is an uncoordinated klutz just like you. Right, Dweebiac?”
I’m about to answer when I hear E whirr forward.
“Actually, Cooper Bernard Elliot…”
“Whoa! How’d you know my middle name?”
“It is listed on your birth certificate in the St. Joseph County vital records online database.”
“Bernard?” Jenny Myers giggles.
I might actually start smiling soon.
“Trip is correct, dude,” E continues. “I do know more tricks. Stand back, please. I am about to bust a move.”
With that, E hops into an amazing handstand and walks on his palms all the way up the curving sidewalk to the school’s front doors.
Trip and I follow after E. So do all the other kids, except Cooper Elliot, who never likes being in a parade that isn’t all about him.
“Good morning, E,” says Principal Reyes, who’s on front-door duty. “Great to have you back at Creekside.”
“Great to be back, Mrs. Reyes,” says E, who is still upside down and using his hands for feet. “But I would be remiss if I did not advise you to tie your shoelaces as soon as it proves convenient for you to do so.”
“Thanks, E. Will do. Okay. Move along, boys and girls and, uh, bots. You have a lot to learn today. And I need to tie my shoe.”
When we’re inside, E flips out of his handstand, does a double somersault in midair, and nails an Olympic-gymnast-style landing. Trip applauds.
“Hey, E—you want half a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich at lunch today?”
“No, thank you, Trip. I eat electricity, not food. But might I suggest you bring your sandwich to the lunchroom in a plain paper bag today?”
“What? You don’t like my Snoopy lunch box?”
“Oh, I enjoy it immensely. However, I also know it is currently worth ninety-five dollars on eBay.”
“No way.”
“Way. A valuable treasure such as that should be kept in a safe place at all times. Perhaps you should leave it locked up at home in the future?”
“Cool! Thanks for the tip. See you in class, guys.”
While Trip hurries off, I turn to E. “How’d you know people make fun of Trip’s Snoopy lunch box?”
“I knew no such thing, Samuel. However, I assumed they might.”
“What about that handstand? How’d you learn how to do that?”
“Easy. One day, I saw you execute a similar move for Maddie. If I remember correctly, she smiled.”
“Yeah. She usually smiles when I do something extremely stupid like that.” Because when I tried to flip out of the handstand, I crashed and burned.
“You are a good brother, Samuel. And please—do not worry, brood, or fret. I will keep my distance from you during normal school hours as you have previously requested.”
With a ZHURR-CLICK-ZHURR, E lumbers and lurches down the hallway.
The first bell is about to ring, but everybody wants to hang in the hall so they can slap E a high five or shake his hand or ask him what other amazing things he can do.
Me?
I kind of don’t exist.
Okay, I have to admit it—Mom did an amazing job fixing E.
During language arts, he doesn’t start spouting annoying factoids at Mrs. Kunkel about conjunctions or interjections. Actually, he doesn’t interject once!
But later in the morning I sure do.
We’re working on an art project called the Statue of Me. First, we discuss why the Statue of Liberty is important to America and what it stands for. Then we’re supposed to draw our own statues and show what’s important to us. Everybody does it with pencils, markers, and watercolors.
Well, everybody except E. He uses clay.
“Wow!” I exclaim when I see his creation.
When it’s time for spelling drills, E sits out.
“I have an unfair advantage over my classmates,” he explains to Mrs. Kunkel. “I have memorized several different dictionaries. English, Spanish, Mandarin, Farsi, and so forth.”
But he does help out anybody who is struggling.
Like Davy Morkal, who can’t remember how to spell believe.
“If I may offer a bit of advice, Davy,” E says, after Mrs. Kunkel says it’s okay for him to coach spellers from the sidelines, “never believe a lie.”
I’m guessing Davy Morkal will never forget that believe is spelled with an l-i-e.
When I stumble on my word, misspell, E tosses me a great hint.
“Remember, Samuel—Miss Pell never misspells!”
Then, during math, E surprises us all.
Mrs. Kunkel gives him a word problem:
“All right, E. Ronnie is in the orchestra. Jonelle is in the band. There are thirty-nine students in the orchestra and twice that number in the band. There are twenty-three boys and thirteen girls in the choir. If each student only participates in one group, how many students total are there in the orchestra, the band, and the choir?”
E cocks one of his new eyebrows and says, “Way too many, Mrs. Kunkel.”
Yep. E cracked a joke. Everybody laughs, including Mrs. Kunkel.
“Is that your final answer?” she asks him.
“No. However, as I have learned from my bro—er, friend—Samuel, sometimes it is wise to interject a little humor into one’s daily routine. All work and no play makes E a dull robot. But, jest concluded, let me state that the correct answer to your original question is one hundred and fifty-three students.”
“Well done, E. You’ve earned another gold star.”
When it’s 11:30, Mrs. Kunkel announces, “All right, everybody, put away your books. It’s time for lunch.”
Lunch.
The last time E tried that, food went flying.
Forget math and spelling.
This will probably be his biggest test of the day.
When we hit the cafeteria, E doesn’t sit with Trip and me at the losers’ table.
“As requested,” he states, “I will also keep my distance from you during lunch period.”
Mom’s robot goes off and finds a table all by himself in the farthest corner of the room.
Trip sniffs his armpits. Cups a hand over his mouth and exhales like he’s fogging up a car window so he can check out his breath. Yep. Trip does this kind of gross stuff. In public. A lot.
“Why won’t E sit with us?” he asks. “Do we smell bad?”
“I don’t think E smells, Trip.”
“Sure he does. Like a new car.”
Yes, Trip is being annoying again.
“What I meant,” I explain, “is I don’t think Mom outfitted E with, you know, a nose. A robot doesn’t need to sniff stuff unless it’s McFetch, Maddie’s dog. And that’s just so he seems more doggish.”
Trip unwraps his peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich. By the way, he took E’s advice. He didn’t bring his Snoopy lunch box to the cafeteria today, and so far nobody’s making fun of him.
Meanwhile, E is just sitting over there, all alone, having a cheeseburger, Coke, and fries. Just kidding—he actually has his hands neatly folded on top of the table. I think he might be in sleep mode. Maybe he plugged himself into a nearby wall outlet to recharge his batteries.
Before long, kids who are having today’s hot lunch (chicken patty on a bun) start streaming over to E’s table carrying their trays.
Anyway, I can’t hear what E is saying, but I can definitely hear all the kids crowded around him laughing and giggling and having a great time. Including Jenny Myers. Her giggles are the best.
So, major breakthrough time for Mom’s big, super-important experiment. E is playing well with others. Plus, he doesn’t hurl any food today.
But he does do some nifty juggling with a banana, two apples, an orange, and a clump of broccoli while telling everybody how im
portant it is to eat five fruits or vegetables every day.
“Guess E doesn’t need us anymore, huh?” says Trip. “Guess he’s one of the cool kids now.”
“Fine,” I say. “We don’t need him, either.”
“I guess not,” says Trip. “But you know what?”
“What?”
“I kind of miss him.”
“Eat your sandwich.”
“Nah,” says Trip, pushing it away. “I’m not hungry.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
Later in the afternoon, during PE class, I can see E entertaining another gaggle of girls over on the far side of the basketball court.
Mom must’ve loaded his memory chips with a ton of videos from the Summer Olympics.
While E’s doing his routine, Trip and I are basically doing our best to hide—hoping nobody ever picks us for today’s dodgeball game.
Unfortunately, Coach Stringer will, sooner or later, see our names in his roll book. So that means we’re both going to get clobbered. Again.
“Sammy Hayes-Rodriguez?” calls Coach Stringer. “Harry Hunter Hudson?”
“Yes, sir?” We both limply raise our hands.
“You two are on Jackson Rehder’s team.”
Jackson groans. Cooper Elliot smirks.
Here we go again.
Coach Stringer lines up the six balls at the center of the basketball court.
I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. It’s E. “This morning,” E says. “In the driveway. Remember how you threw that basketball at the garage door?”
“Yeah.”
“Do it again. Simply pretend the dodgeball is the basketball, your opponents are the garage door, and you are livid about having to take me back to school with you.”
“Okay. Maybe. Quick question. What’s ‘livid’?”
“Enraged. Furiously angry. Boiling mad. Fussing and fuming. Hot under the—”
“Okay, okay. I got it.”
“Put all your anger into your throw, Samuel. See the ball. Be the ball.”
Yep. C-3PO has turned into Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Coach Stringer blows his whistle. “Go!”
I tear across the field.
As I run, I think about what E just said. How I chucked that basketball this morning. How E said I could toss touchdowns for Notre Dame someday.
I reach the center line before anybody else. Maybe I’m not as slow as I thought—especially when I’m “livid.” I snatch up one of the balls.
I see Cooper Elliot. He looks as wide as a garage door.
So I hurl the ball at him.
Cooper twists sideways, trying to dodge it.
But my ball is flying too fast. It’s streaking flames like a comet. Well, it should’ve been doing that.
It nails him. Hard.
I’m so surprised, I just stand there admiring my handiwork.
And somebody else on Cooper’s team nails me. In the gut. Again.
I don’t care. I got Cooper Elliot out first! It’s not quite as dramatic as the story I told Maddie, but I’ll take it.
And guess who saw me at my personal dodgeball best?
Jenny Myers.
She’s standing over by the fence. Right next to E, who has his big right arm fully extended—pointing at me!
After school, I bicycle home with E.
Every bus in the parking lot is cheering for us. The crossing guard stops traffic so we can breeze on by. Cars honk their horns for us.
Yep. In just one day, E has become the favorite robot of everybody in South Bend, Indiana.
Well, everybody except maybe Trip.
“How come E didn’t coach me?” Trip had whined after I creamed Cooper. “Why didn’t E tell me to ‘see the ball and be the ball’?”
“I dunno,” I’d said with a shrug. “Maybe because you’re not his brother?”
“But I’m his brother’s second-best friend. Right? Or am I suddenly in third place behind your little sister and your battery-powered bro-bot?”
I probably should’ve answered Trip or made him feel better. But I was feeling too good to worry about Trip feeling bad. And, well, Jenny Myers came over to talk to me.
“Egghead told me you’ve been practicing,” Jenny said.
“He did?” I tried my best not to let my whole head, including my ears, turn bright red.
“Uh-huh. At lunch. He said you were getting so good at throwing stuff, you’d probably play quarterback for Notre Dame someday.”
How awesome is that?
Long story short, maybe having E go to school with me on a regular basis isn’t the worst idea Mom ever had. Maybe hanging out with the E-ster will make life a little easier for me. Maybe it will be good for Trip, too. Maybe not today, but soon.
A couple blocks from home, E raises his arm to signal a stop. So I do.
E climbs off his bike. I straddle mine. The robot marches right up to me. Have I mentioned how tall he is?
“Samuel?”
“Yeah?”
“We have to talk.”
So E and I have a little heart-to-hard-drive chat.
And I have to admit something else: Mom actually did an unbelievable job making E, well, kind of almost human. He seems to have feelings. Moods. He can be happy one minute, worried the next. I’m wondering if that’s what Brittney 13 was all about. Was she Mom’s first attempt to give her robots lifelike human emotions?
“I know it is not easy for you to be seen at school with me, Samuel,” E says sympathetically. “I feel your embarrassment.”
“Well,” I confess, “I wasn’t so embarrassed today. You were awesome in class. And at lunch. And especially during gym class. You’re totally different than you used to be.”
“I have grown and adapted, Sammy. I have also learned from you.”
“Me? No way.”
“Way.”
“But you’re super intelligent.”
“And you, Sammy, are wise in the ways of the world.”
“I am?”
“Definitely. I am not certain I could navigate my way through Creekside without your expert guidance.”
Yep. Mom’s robot is kind of kissing my butt. I like it.
“I will help you as well as Harrison Hunter Hudson anytime you two want me to,” says E. “Or I’ll back off. Your call. Totally up to you.”
“Great.”
“One more thing, Sammy. And I just want you to think about this. Trust your mother. Elizabeth is very smart, and she loves you very much. The same goes for your father, Noah.”
“Um, thanks. But I already know that my dad’s first name is Noah. You don’t have to ID him every time you talk about him.”
“My bad. Like every other sentient being on the planet, I have certain flaws. I am not perfect, Sammy.”
“I know,” I say. “For one thing, you use words like sentient.”
“Sorry. It means conscious, alert, aware.”
“So use one of those words. They’re easier for people to understand.”
“Will do. As previously stated, I am not perfect.”
“I know. But guess what, E?”
“What?”
“Not being perfect makes you even better.”
Okay, this is me being super honest again: I have to admit that school has kept getting better and better since E came back.
All of a sudden my table in the cafeteria is the cool table—filled with all kinds of kids who have never been cool before. Since E doesn’t really need to eat during our lunch period, he just sits there and tells us funny stories and jokes. The ones I taught him. Well, I let E borrow my Big Book of Yuks and Chuckles, but E keeps telling everybody the jokes are mine.
Our new pals laugh so hard, chocolate milk shoots out their noses.
There’s only one slight problem.
Remember that table way off in the corner where E used to sit?
Well, that’s where Trip sits now. All by himself. With nothing but his peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches.
I�
�ve asked Trip to sit with me and E. Three times. Once for every one of his names.
All three times, I got the same answer: “No, thank you. Have fun with your new bro-bot, XSBFF.”
It took me a little while to crack Trip’s code, but I’m pretty sure XSBFF means Ex-Second-Best Friend Forever.
The very next day, Trip comes to school with his very own robot.
I kid you not.
It’s only about eighteen inches tall, and it wheels down the hall very, very sloooooowly. Trip has both his hands stuffed inside the front pocket of his hoodie. I think that’s where he’s hiding the remote control for his little plastic friend.
I’m guessing Trip bought the RC robot on eBay. Or maybe they sell toy-bots at Radio Shack. Anyway, it’s silver with blinking eyeballs and flashing, multi-colored shoulder lights. Its square head swivels back and forth a lot—for no apparent reason.
It talks, too.
“You are my master now,” it says in a tinny voice that comes out of a speaker the size of a dime. “Request instructions!”
“Walk,” says Trip.
“I can go for a walk with you,” says the robot cheerfully.
Then the gizmo starts flashing all its lights and scooting up the hall while playing organ music and whistling. The tune is “Deck the Halls.” Don’t ask me why.
Trip pretends like he just saw E and me gawking at him.
“Oh, hello, Samuel. E. Meet RC. He’s my bro-bot. And he can do all sorts of cool stuff E can’t.”
“Really?” I say. “Like what?”
“He has weapons!”
“Please, Trip,” suggests E, “do not demonstrate your robot’s weapons capabilities on school property.”
Trip, who, I’m guessing, is still mad at E and me for the whole dodgeball thing, doesn’t listen. “Why not? Afraid RC will totally show you up, E?”
“Negative.”
“Yeah, right. You’re just jealous. Watch this!”
“Request instructions!” chirps the little robot.
House of Robots Page 5
