“Fire at will!”
“Ready, shoot!” says the robot. Then it makes squiggly BLOOP-BLOOP-BLOOP alarm sounds and shoots miniature foam rubber disks out of its mouth.
Later in the day, Trip and his new “first-best friend in the whole galaxy” (his words, not mine) are a huge hit in the cafeteria. Especially when Trip loads the toy-bot’s mouth cannon with banana slices peeled off his sandwich instead of those foam rubber disks.
But then a peanut-butter-smeared banana discus flies across the lunchroom and—SPLAT!—smacks Cooper Elliot right between the eyes.
Mr. Wymer, who’s on cafeteria duty, hauls Trip off to the principal’s office.
That’s probably a good thing.
Otherwise, Cooper Elliot might’ve smooshed Trip flatter than one of those banana slices after they hit the wall, the floor, or his face.
E carries all our new lunch buddies’ trash-filled trays (he can balance, like, fifteen at a time) to the dirty-tray window.
“What are we going to do about Trip?” I ask. “He only did that banana-flinging stunt with his remote-controlled robot because he’s mad at us.”
“You are most likely correct, Sammy.”
“Now Cooper’s going to clobber him.”
“Don’t worry. As I promised, I will defend Trip.”
“Great. But how do we stop Trip from doing something even goofier?”
“Perhaps we need to make him feel welcome in our circle of friends. The same way you have now made me feel welcome in yours.”
“Um, I didn’t really have enough friends for a circle till you came along, E. Just Trip.”
“All the more reason for us to actively assure him that he is still your best bud.”
“Second-best,” I say. “Maddie comes first.”
“You, of course, are correct, Sammy,” says E. “My bad.”
Yep. The robot I used to call Error now admits when he makes one.
“No biggie,” I say.
“Cool,” says E.
“We need a plan, E.”
“Indeed we do, bro.”
And then we knock knuckles and do a secret finger wiggle—the way Trip and I used to all the time.
“Um, any idea what that plan should be?” I ask.
“Working on it,” says E.
“Yeah. Me too.”
After E and I complete our silent-reading period in the afternoon (E’s a very fast data scanner—he finished Charles Dickens’s 736-page novel David Copperfield in sixty seconds), we’re able to work up a quick plan.
“You will need to contact Mother,” E whispers.
“Already texted her,” I whisper back. “She’ll be here five minutes after dismissal. In costume.”
“Cool,” says E.
“We go directly to the bike rack,” I remind him. “No stopping to sign autographs.”
E nods. He understands. His fans might be disappointed, but saving Trip’s butt comes first.
The final bell rings. E and I get to the bike rack before anybody else.
I figure it might take Trip a little while to exit the building. Don’t forget—his brand-new, remote-controlled bro-bot moves slower than most snails when they’re crawling through a swamp filled with syrup.
I check the parking lot and look for Mom’s van.
I don’t see her, but I do see that black SUV again. It’s parked in the street right in front of the school building.
“I think that car is following me,” I say. “I see it all the time.”
E makes some ZHURR-WHIRR-ZHURR noises as he rotates his head so he can line up his eyeballs with the SUV. Next I hear a KWEE-VROON sound as his ice-blue LEDs telescope out about an inch. Then there’s a CLICKETY-CLUNK-CLUNK as his eyes retract.
“Not to worry,” he reports. “I scanned the SUV’s license plate. Indiana Notre Dame vanity plate AA999. Using my internal Wi-Fi, I ran that tag number through both the police and FBI databases. The vehicle in question does not pose an imminent threat.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Then why is that same SUV always popping up in weird places?”
Those new eyebrows Mom gave E? They twitch a little.
“Unknown,” he says.
“It’s been parked outside our house a bunch of times,” I say. “It followed us to school that day you first rode your bike.”
“Really?” says E, his voice cracking a little on the vowels. “Fascinating.”
And you know what?
I think E’s lying to me.
“You’re sure that creepy SUV isn’t dangerous?” I say.
“Affirmative.”
“And we don’t have to worry about the creeps driving it?”
“Affirmative.”
“E?”
“Standing by.”
“You’re sounding all robot-ish again.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me. I beg your pardon.”
I don’t push it because finally Trip comes out the front doors with his toy robot shuffling along beside him. It’s doing “Deck the Halls” again.
Trip must’ve accidentally pushed a button on his hidden remote, because the little robot suddenly chirps, “I can dance with you!” Then it starts playing disco music, pumping its arms, and swiveling from side to side in time to the beat. “Let’s dance together!”
That’s when Cooper Elliot and maybe six of his thuggy buds shove open the doors and storm out to the sidewalk to surround Trip and his little disco-dancing friend.
But I don’t think Cooper and his buddies came out to dance.
That is the dinkiest, dweebiest robot I’ve ever seen!” sneers Cooper.
“I-I-I…” Trip’s actually trembling.
“You think you can have your remote-controlled bucket of bolts shoot bananas at me and not pay the price?”
Cooper is pounding his fist into his open palm. Trip is still trembling.
“I-I-I…”
It’s time for me to spring into action.
“Hey, guys,” I say, strutting over to join the clump of bullies around Trip and his miniature bro-bot. (Fortunately, the annoying thing’s batteries just died, so it isn’t disco dancing anymore.)
“Thanks for taking care of X-14 today,” I say to Trip.
“What do you know about this, Dweebiac?” says Cooper.
“Just that X-14 is a top-secret project my mom is working on at Notre Dame in the advanced robotics engineering lab. Something to do with the United States Air Force. Oh, and saving the world from the forces of evil. That’s basically X-14’s job.”
“Get out,” says Cooper, knocking over the toy robot with the side of his foot. “That little disco-dancing dweebomatic works for the Air Force?”
“That is correct,” says E, who has ZHUSH-SHICKED over to join us. “Why, when I was in the lab, we all wished we could be as stealthy and sophisticated as X-14. The military is counting on him.”
Cooper blows E a lip fart. “Ha! What for?”
And that’s when, right on cue, Mom makes her entrance.
Mom’s brought along two of her graduate assistants from ND—Wendy Garland and Joshua Chun—to make her entrance even more dramatic.
“Boys, I’m afraid X-14’s mission is classified,” Mom says in her most serious professor voice. “However, I am at liberty to divulge that one of X-14’s many skills is to distract our enemies with diversionary tactics.”
“By dancing,” adds Wendy Garland.
“Disco dancing,” says Joshua Chun.
“Behind enemy lines,” says Mom. “Thank you, Trip, for putting him through his paces for me today.”
“Um…you’re welcome?” says Trip.
“Now, if you’ll all please step aside,” says Mom. “We need to rush X-14 back to the lab.”
“We have new orders,” whispers Wendy Garland.
“They want him at Grissom Air Force Base, pronto,” says Joshua Chun as he packs the toy robot inside a very official-looking briefcase—complete wit
h foam slots to cradle the high-tech cargo.
All the boys who were about to beat up Trip start oohing and aahing.
“I think he’s going to Kyrgyzstan,” says E. “Shall I spell that for you?”
“No time,” says Mom. “And boys? Loose lips sink ships. Let’s keep X-14 and his secret mission secret. See you at home, Sammy, E. And, Trip, once again, on behalf of a grateful nation, thank you.”
Mom and her grad students salute Trip and then hustle off to our minivan with “X-14.”
“Wow,” says one of Cooper’s buds. “That is so awesome.”
“Totally,” says another.
Fuming, Cooper Elliot stomps off to his school bus. But all the other guys are patting Trip on the back and slapping him high fives.
“So you train robots for Notre Dame? Are you, like, a spy?”
“I’m sorry,” says Trip. “That information is classified.”
Then he shoots me and E a wink.
I think we’re all second-best buds again.
A couple days later, we’re called to a special assembly in the gym. Dr. Scientrific—a guy with curly hair, a wild mustache, and a wireless microphone headset—is going to show us how much fun science can be.
Woo-hoo.
We file in by grade and have to sit on the floor behind these miniature orange safety cones, leaving an aisle up the middle. I think that’s because the fire department says we have to have a “quick means of egress.”
You see, Dr. Scientrific does a lot of stuff with fire shooting out of beakers and balloons that magically inflate when you hook them up to a pop bottle filled with baking soda and vinegar. It’s all kind of advanced (and a little scary) for the younger kids. So this assembly is only for third graders and up.
I’m sitting in the very back row. E is squatting beside me. He can do that without his knees hurting. For hours.
Trip has decided to give Cooper Elliot and the rest of the goons at Creekside some fresh ammo for their insults by sitting down front in the first row. With the third graders.
What can I say? Trip loves science.
After doing some pretty neat tricks with clear jars of liquids that turn bright red, white, and blue to teach us about chemical reactions, Dr. Scientrific sees E squatting in the back row. His eyes nearly bug out of his head.
“That’s our newest student, E,” says Principal Reyes.
“Well, E would be the perfect volunteer for my next demonstration!”
“No, thank you, Doctor Scientrific,” says E, very politely. “I prefer to observe rather than participate.”
But the whole gym starts chanting, “E! E! E!”
E doesn’t have much choice.
E lumbers up the center aisle. Dr. Scientrific twists a valve on the portable Bunsen burner he has on his little magician’s table. The nozzle hisses. When the scientist sparks a flint near the gas jet, it immediately turns into a bright blue flame.
“Ooh! Ooh!” I hear Trip kind of shout as he flails his arm around in the air over his head again. “Be super careful! E’s shell is made out of plastic! It’s extremely flammable! It could melt!”
The nutty professor shoots Trip a look, slips on his safety goggles, and ignores the warning.
Uh-oh.
I have a funny feeling we’re about to see the South Bend Fire Department in action again—real soon.
So, E, do you have twenty dollars I can borrow?” the visiting scientist says when the two of them are behind the table together.
“Negative,” says E, and the whole audience laughs. “I do not carry cash.”
“Because he’s nothing but a talking trash can!” heckles Cooper Elliot. Before the teachers can figure out who hurled the insult, Cooper ducks down behind a wall of kids.
But from where I’m sitting, I can see that Cooper has a thick rubber band strung between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. His right hand is fidgeting with a paper clip. One of those big, black binder kinds of clips.
“I have a twenty,” says Trip from the front row.
“Great,” says Dr. Scientrific. “Come on up.”
Dr. Scientrific takes the twenty-dollar bill from Trip. “Rule number one when doing this experiment? Never use your own money!”
More laughs.
“All right, E. It seems I forgot my tongs today. I noticed that your hands are actually clamps.”
“That is correct. My articulated digits give me a great deal of manual dexterity.”
“All right,” says Dr. Scientrific, “grab this twentydollar bill. Good. Now dip it into this solution.”
“Wait!” says Trip. “What’s in the bowl?”
“A mixture of tap water and household rubbing alcohol. Go ahead, E. Soak the money in the solution. Great. Now light the bottom.”
E cocks a hydraulic eyebrow. “Are you really a doctor? What you suggest seems dangerous.”
“What? Haven’t you ever heard of ‘money to burn’?”
“Of course. It means ‘to have a lot of money and spend large amounts on things that—’”
“Just light it, E,” says Dr. Scientrific. “This assembly is only supposed to last an hour.”
E does as he is told. Fire shoots up from the twenty-dollar bill. It looks like it is completely engulfed by flames. But the money doesn’t burn. When the blaze peters out, the bill isn’t even charred.
“So, boys and girls,” says Dr. Scientrific, “why is it that the money didn’t burn?”
Before he can explain, I hear a FLICK-WHOOSH and a PLINK.
Cooper Elliot scores a direct hit.
The tablecloth erupts in flame as the rubbing alcohol spreads across it like an oil spill.
E tries to stamp out the blaze with his hands.
Which both catch on fire!
Everybody’s screaming, screeching, and panicking.
Well, everybody except Cooper Elliot. He’s giggling.
This is when Trip springs into action.
Yep. Good ol’ Harry Hunter Hudson. And can I just say, I am extremely grateful that my second-best friend since kindergarten is a nerd or a geek or whatever you call a guy who LOVES science.
E is super grateful, too.
Because Trip reaches down and pulls up that balloon Dr. Scientrific inflated by shaking a bottle filled with vinegar and baking soda. He plucks the balloon off the bottle and aims it at the flames flickering all over E’s hands.
Then Trip lets out the gas.
The balloon makes the same noise a whoopee cushion does when you sit on it. In two seconds, the fire is totally extinguished.
“And that,” says Trip, “is how you smother a fire using the carbon monoxide created when you combine baking soda and vinegar.”
Now the whole gymnasium erupts with a cheer.
For Trip!
Not long after, Cooper Elliot is sent to the principal’s office. A couple teachers saw what he did.
I hope he’s going to be suspended.
For a long, long time.
After school, I ride home with Trip and E. Since Trip didn’t bring his bike to school in the morning, he has to sit on E’s handlebars. I don’t think either of them really minds.
Speaking of home, everything there is way better, too.
Maddie is doing well. She hasn’t been rushed to the hospital in weeks. She also aced her first pop quiz of the home-school year.
“Tootles the tut-bot tried to work in some trick questions,” Maddie tells me. “But his left eyeball blinks whenever he tries something sneaky like that.”
My little sister is even coming out to watch TV in the family room more often. Sure, she has to wear a mask, but still, this is a major breakthrough.
With E working better, Mom is able to focus on a new robot named Hayseed, who does her gardening for her when she’s too busy (which is most of the time).
Dad’s busy, too. He just finished writing and drawing a brand-new manga: Hot and Sour Ninja Robots in Vegas.
I liked it. A lot. And, amazingly, my
approval seemed to make Dad really, really happy.
“I’m really, really glad you like it, Sammy,” he said. “Thanks.”
As a joke, I gave Dad some of E’s gold stars from school.
Trip liked Hot and Sour Ninja Robots in Vegas, too.
Yep. He’s hanging out at our house again. Eating Mr. Moppenshine’s pizza, playing video games with Maddie and me, asking Mom where we keep our peanut butter and bananas.
We are definitely second-best friends again.
And if I have my way, we will be forever.
School continues to be pretty cool, especially during those three days that Cooper Elliot was suspended. Some days, E, Trip, and I ride our bikes to school, but if it’s raining we take the bus.
“We don’t want E to rust” is what Trip tells people on the bus when he drips all over them. They don’t even complain, really, because there are all sorts of rumors now about how Trip is really an undercover spy.
Meanwhile, E gives out autographs on a regular basis. “But only before school, at lunch, or during recess,” he tells his adoring fans. “We do not want to create a disturbance that would inadvertently disrupt your matriculation.”
“That means E wants you guys to keep learning stuff,” I explain because I’m more or less E’s interpreter when he does Bot Talk. But he’s getting better at that, too. He’s even memorizing slang dictionaries.
“Far out, Mrs. Kunkel,” E says to our teacher one day, first thing in the morning. “What is happening? You are certainly looking groovy today.”
Too bad he started with slang from 1969.
The little kids in the building love to grab hold of E’s arms and legs, hang on, and ride him up the hall.
I can’t blame them. I really like hanging out with E, too. It’s almost as if we’re starting to become buddies, even though I know that’s weird and impossible. But sometimes—like when he sighs or wiggles his eyebrows or bops out a beat with a pair of pencils—I forget that E is a robot, that his brain is just a bunch of circuit boards and wires. I even forget that he doesn’t really have a heart. Or feelings.
House of Robots Page 6
