The superteacher project, p.17
The Superteacher Project, page 17
“I see a square chip sticking out of a tiny slot,” I report. “Is that it?”
The teacher nods. “Press it and it will pop out.”
It’s almost like the memory card of a camera. I remove it and close up Mr. Aidact’s back. He takes the chip and slips it into his pants pocket.
“You have to get rid of that,” Nathan reminds him.
“When the time comes,” he promises, “I will.”
I hand him the bus ticket to Denver. “It leaves at eleven forty-five sharp. Platform six. We saw Mr. Perkins in the parking lot with three government goons. So the minute the game ends, you’ve got to get out of here.”
“Goons.” A head tilt. “An enforcer hired to terrorize or eliminate adversaries. Yes, I suppose they are goons from my point of view.”
Outside, we hear the shrill of a whistle, and Mr. Aidact hurries off to take charge of his team.
“I wish he’d let us flush that chip,” Nathan tells me. “What if he forgets to get rid of it?”
“No, it’s smart,” I reply. “If Perkins realizes that his robot and his chip aren’t together, he’ll know something’s up.”
By the time we emerge from the field house, the bleachers are packed and kids ring the field on the sidelines. The buzz of nervous excitement is almost electric. We know it’s all about Mr. Aidact’s escape plan, but the Seahawks’ fans probably think we’re this amped about middle school field hockey. They’re looking around at us like we’ve flipped out.
Cassidy and the Seahawks’ captain square off at the centerline. Then it’s game on.
And there’s a lot more at stake than one little state championship.
33
Principal Candiotti
Some people think a principal’s day ends when the buses pull out and the kids are gone. Nothing could be further from the truth. This job never ends. More often than not, dinner is a sandwich or a salad at my desk, as I struggle to get through paperwork and parent contacts. It’s only been more hectic lately, with the whole community up in arms about the AIDACT project.
Well, at least that will be over soon. I take no comfort in it. I like Mr. Aidact. I suppose I should change my wording now: I liked Mr. Aidact. But pretty soon he’ll be nothing more than a carton or two of spare parts.
Saturday morning finds me on the way to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for another week’s worth of sandwiches and salads. My weekends are almost as busy as my weeks, since I have just those two days to get all my errands done. Actually, I don’t mind shopping. It’s almost soothing in its simplicity—until I pass by Memorial Field.
Something big is going on there. The parking lot is full and the bleachers are jammed with people. Even with the windows up and the radio on, I can hear the cheering. I sigh wanly. That could have been us. The Bobcats were supposed to be playing on that field in the state championship that wasn’t to be. It sure didn’t take the Parks Department very long to find another event to host there.
And then I catch a glimpse of the action on the field and almost drive up a telephone pole. It’s field hockey! And one of the teams is in teal and white!
I pull over to the side of the road and stare. Certainly, we’re not the only school to wear those colors. But—I catch sight of a lone figure standing on the sidelines, ramrod straight, absolutely still, as if somebody planted a man-shaped flagpole right there. It’s Mr. Aidact! It has to be! This is our game! Somehow, against the wishes of their parents, and ignoring everything I told them, the Bobcats are playing for their championship. Why?
School spirit? Bobcat pride? Some of that, sure. But mostly, they’re doing it for him. Mr. Aidact. Word travels through a middle school faster than head lice—of course they figured out that he’s leaving. Kids aren’t burdened by the prejudices of their parents. And they came back to him one last time.
I abandon the car in a no-parking zone and run to Memorial Field, squeezing myself in among the standees on the sidelines.
A piece of paper is shoved into my hands and a young voice tells me, “When the game is over, we’re all going to . . .” Then Avalon’s wide eyes stare at me and the words taper off.
I examine the paper. It reads: MR. AIDACT IS UNREAL.
“He certainly is, Avalon,” I tell her. “In more ways than one.”
She backs away from me like she’s afraid I bite. My principal-sense tingles. Something is definitely up. But the roar from the bleachers draws my attention back to the field. Rosalie sends a long pass bouncing to Cassidy, who fires it into the net. And just like that, the score is 4–3, with the Seahawks in the lead. The Bobcats are down, but they’re still in this game.
And their principal is with them all the way.
34
Nathan Popova
It’s getting really loud in the bleachers. When Cassidy scores that goal to bring Brightling within one, I jump to my feet and scream myself hoarse right along with everybody else.
It earns me an exasperated glance from Oliver. “You don’t care about field hockey,” he reminds me. “You barely care about sports at all.”
“I know, I know,” I confess in a low voice. “But you get caught up in this stuff when it’s your own school.”
“Keep your eye on the ball. Not that ball,” he adds quickly. “The one that has to bounce our way when this game ends. And keep an eye on them.” He inclines his head to the spot two rows in front of us where Perkins and the three engineers are seated.
I nod my agreement. Like this escape isn’t already complicated enough, we have an extra job to do the second the game ends. In the chaotic crowd, we have to snatch the briefcase out of Perkins’s hands and make sure Mr. Aidact gets it. If he’s going to have a future living on his own, he’s going to have to be able to make self-repairs.
“Okay, I get it,” I concede. “It doesn’t matter if we win or lose. So what’s the harm in winning? We’ll get a new trophy. Then maybe people will stop asking what happened to the old trophy.”
Oliver looks at me like he’d love to trade me in for a smarter friend.
Oh, sure, he’s right that the escape is all that matters. But I’d really love to beat these Seahawks. They’ve got an awful lot of swagger for a middle school team. But I have to admit they’re good. Every time the Bobcats even the score, the Seahawks always come up with another goal to go one up on us. By the halftime whistle, Sheridan Middle School clings to a 6–5 lead.
As kids hop down from the bleachers to stretch their legs and head to the snack bar to warm up with hot chocolate, Oliver and I race to the field house, where the two teams have retreated to their locker rooms. There, hanging on the doorknob, is a Bobcats cap and windbreaker exactly like the team gear Mr. Aidact is wearing.
Through the door, we can hear the coach’s pep talk to his players. “We have to increase our time of possession. We held the ball for forty-six percent of the first half. That’s not good enough. . . .”
We roll the hat up in the jacket and deliver it to Darryl in the front row of the bleachers.
“Don’t put these on until the minute the game ends,” Oliver cautions.
As the tallest kid in school, Darryl’s job is to impersonate Mr. Aidact when everybody rushes the field. If Perkins and the engineers are drawn by Darryl’s six-foot-one frame in the jacket and hat amid the surging crowd, that might buy the escapee some precious seconds in his dash for the bus station.
“Got it,” Darryl confirms, accepting the bundle. “You can count on me.”
Stinky sits next to him, his eyes wide with concern. “How does Mr. Aidact seem?”
“We didn’t see him,” I admit. “He was giving the girls a pep talk for the second half.”
Darryl shakes his head in admiration. “That guy’s something else. Here he is, facing being stripped down for spare parts. But does he let it bother him?”
“You know he’s a robot, right?” Stinky asks him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Darryl insists. “He’s quality. Good coach too. How much you want to bet we win?”
Oliver peers across the field and frowns. “What’s Candiotti doing here? She’s not supposed to know about this game.”
I experience a new alert—one that has nothing to do with Oliver. “Do you think she’s figured out that we’re trying to save Mr. Aidact?”
“Maybe she’s just hoping for another field hockey trophy,” Darryl suggests. “You know how much she loved the old one.”
“Is the plan still on?” Stinky asks anxiously.
“Absolutely,” Oliver replies. “But we have to keep an eye on her. It’s impossible to know whose side she’s on.”
The second half begins with a quick goal for the Seahawks, padding their lead to two. The Bobcats fight back, throwing everything they have against their opponents from Sheridan Middle School. They dominate the play, but the Seahawks’ goalie makes save after save, keeping the ball out.
I’m on the edge of my seat, and so is everybody else, willing our team to get back into the game. On the sidelines, Principal Candiotti is twisting and gyrating with an invisible stick, trying to use body English to squeeze a shot into the opposing net. With every thwarted attempt on goal, the crowd lets out a frustrated “Awwwwww!” Down 7–5, with time ticking away, can the Bobcats come back?
“I can’t believe you don’t care,” I scold Oliver. “I get that we’re not sports fans, but this is really intense. You’re not even looking at the side of the field where the action is!”
“I’ve got all the action I need,” he replies in a voice thick with tragedy. “Krumlich is here.”
I follow his pointing finger. Sure enough, there’s Kevin, wading into the crowd of standees ringing the field. Fifteen seconds later, he’s got his phone out and he’s punching in numbers.
“He’s too late, right?” I ask, hoping to convince myself as much as Oliver. “Even if he blabs all over town and the news reaches every parent at Brightling, they still won’t have time to shut down the game!”
But before ten minutes have gone by, cars begin pulling into the parking lot, disgorging Brightling parents. It starts as a trickle, yet pretty soon it’s a steady flood.
“Krumlich!” Oliver rages. “He’s like Paul Revere with a cell phone. The robots are coaching! The robots are coaching!”
I recognize a lot of the Bobcats’ parents. Uh-oh—there’s Rosalie’s mother, president of the PTA. She’s talking a blue streak, haranguing the other moms and dads. Then she pushes to the head of the small army and marches them through the gate.
Around the periphery comes Mrs. Candiotti, her knees pumping high as she rushes to reach the invaders. She blocks their path, arms spread wide, as if she thinks she can hold back two dozen angry people from running onto the turf. It’s a standoff—principal versus parents.
“If they storm the field,” Oliver murmurs, “we have to put the plan into action early.”
“But the game won’t be over yet,” I protest. “What if Mr. Aidact won’t leave?”
We stare down at the tense confrontation on the sidelines. Something has to give.
And something does. On the field, Rosalie unleashes a long, clumsy shot that bounces its way through players from both teams. Screened by the traffic, their goalie sees it too late. The ball bounces off her foot and winds up in the back of the net.
The roar of the crowd startles the avenging mob of parents. Seeing Rosalie accepting the congratulations of her teammates, Mrs. Arnette starts shrieking, “That was my daughter! That was Rosalie!”
It stops the invaders in their tracks. It doesn’t make them any less mad. But they suddenly realize there’s a championship up for grabs—and their daughters are down by only a single goal. They settle in to see if the Bobcats can pull off another miracle comeback against Sheridan Middle School. And as for the team’s robot coach, they’ll deal with that once the outcome has been decided.
It’s nail-biting time. With only 3:53 remaining in the game, the Seahawks just have to hold on. They retreat into a defensive shell, with all eleven players inside the sixteen-yard circle. The Bobcats throw the kitchen sink at them. But with the circle so crowded, there’s no room to operate. There are so many stick fouls and body bumps that the whistle blows every few seconds. The strategy is obvious—to run out the clock on meaningless stoppages of play.
The crowd—so loud just moments ago—becomes deathly quiet as the clock ticks down to the final minute. You can hear Mr. Aidact, calling to his team:
“Stay relaxed . . . don’t panic . . . plenty of time . . .”
But there isn’t plenty of time. Fifteen seconds, then ten, then five.
Cassidy takes a desperate swipe at the ball. It slices into the melee in front of the net, ricochets off one Seahawk’s toe, bounces against another’s heel, and trickles through the goalie’s pads a split second before the clock turns to all zeroes. The referee raises his arms, signifying a Bobcats goal.
The Brightling fans explode in joyful celebration.
“Now!” Oliver grabs my arm and tries to drag me down the bleachers. But the row in front of us isn’t budging. Nobody’s budging. We bounce off, dazed.
Oliver is practically hysterical. “Why isn’t everybody rushing the field? The game is over!”
“No, it isn’t!” I hiss. “It’s seven–seven!”
“So it’s a tie! You think I care about that now?”
“It’s the championship game!” I point to the field, where the umpire has pulled both teams together for a briefing. “Look—they’re setting up for overtime!”
35
Oliver Zahn
“Overtime?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the screen. It’s 11:31! “We can’t do overtime! That bus is leaving in fourteen minutes!”
“We have to,” Nathan insists. “You know Mr. Aidact won’t abandon the team. You think he’s going to bail on them when they’re so close?”
“But he’s got a bus to catch!” My voice is coming out high and panicky—like a little kid who’s lost at the mall. “If he has to stand around the depot, waiting for the next bus, Perkins and the engineers are going to find him and shut him down!”
“Shhh!” Nathan’s eyes are on the group from the Department of Education, sitting just two rows in front of us. “It’s not going to work out so great if they hear you,” he adds in a low voice.
Down on the field, sudden-death overtime begins. But up in the bleachers, I’m in agony because this could be real sudden death for Mr. Aidact if our plans go down the drain. What’s a rule-wrecker to do? It’s going to take split-second timing and perfect execution to get him away from those engineers. But if he misses the bus, thanks to overtime—no amount of preparation can save you from that.
I sit there, fuming and freaking, while precious minutes slip away. I can’t even watch the game. “Somebody score!” I shout in exasperation. Honestly, I don’t care who wins, so long as it happens now.
“Don’t say that!” Nathan pleads. “How can we make it this far only to lose in overtime?”
I see his point. After dominating during the comeback, the Bobcats have run out of gas, and Leticia is in a shooting gallery.
Come on, Seahawks—score! Get it over with!
“Mr. Aidact has to do something!” Nathan laments. “Otherwise we’ll lose for sure!”
At that very instant, a whistle stops the play, and the Bobcats’ coach runs out to talk to the umpire. Pretty soon, there’s an animated conference underway, involving most of the two teams.
“Oh, great,” I mutter savagely. “Now we can waste even more time talking.” The bus leaves for Denver in only nine minutes!
Mr. Aidact keeps pointing at the Seahawks’ goalie. And the next thing you know, the umpire gets out a yardstick and measures her pads.
“Could this take any longer?” I seethe. “I don’t care if those things are fifteen feet wide! Get on with it!”
“No, this is good!” Nathan exclaims excitedly. “If the pads are too big, it’s a foul.”
“I don’t care if it’s a crime against humanity!”
The umpire signals a penalty stroke—a free shot on goal. My mind races. If we end the game right here, right now, there still might be time to make it to the bus.
We have to wait for their goalie to change into legal pads, while the Sheridan parents complain bitterly, and our fans shout them down.
This is no penalty corner. It’s a shot from directly in front of the net. Captain Cassidy stands over the ball as Memorial Field becomes deathly quiet.
Suddenly, I’m the biggest Bobcats fan in the whole place. Don’t miss! I exhort, beaming mental energy from my brain to hers.
Cassidy pulls back her stick to blast the ball into the top left-hand corner. Then, just as the goalie commits, she flicks her wrists and sends a modest little dribbler into the opposite side of the net.
Final score: 8–7 for the new state-champions, the Brightling Bobcats.
I absolutely did not care who won this game. I believe school spirit is a plot cooked up by teachers to keep kids from wrecking rules. But I have to admit I like the sound of that.
A scream of celebration erupts from every Brightling throat. The Bobcats mob their coach. That’s step one of the plan—but for sure, they would have mobbed him anyway. Without his electronic eyes to notice the illegal pads, who knows how this game might have ended? It was his final contribution to this miracle season.
The rumble of hundreds of feet running down the metal stands is like a stampede of thundering buffalo. Nathan and I are right with them. As we come up behind Perkins and the three engineers, I reach out, snatch the giant briefcase by its handle, and carry it away with me.
I hear a loud “Hey!” from behind, but I’m already too far down the bleachers for anybody to grab me. Up ahead, kids are pouring onto the field, converging on the winning team and, at their center, the victorious coach.
