White moonlight from the window slowly transitioned into yellow sunlight, and traveled up the floor of an average two-story suburban home onto a twin sized bed of a teenager, whose legs had outgrown it. Above the blanket, resting crumpled over the lower stomach, a slightly underweight girl a purple sweater could be seen, her tin and wire tangled head half buried in the white pillow.
Waking with an instant scowl, her eyes cracked open at the most obnoxious sound in the world. "Shannon! Time to get up!"
Shannon Westerburg growled, turned over on her back, and gazed up at the ceiling. When she dared sit up, her sweet blissful dream world melted away before her and revealed her disastrously unkempt bedroom. A closet door that never shut, dirty clothes that either fit awkwardly or not at all, and toys from days gone long by, all mixed together in a painful explanation that only she could convince herself to be true:
She did not care about anything and everything.
The terrible word on her mind caught on the end of her tongue like bad morning breath. "Monday."
The lanky preteen bobbed down the stairs, rounded into the hallway, passed the dining room and into the kitchen.
"Good morning, sweetheart," her mother said, hearing the mixture of metallic and sneaker footsteps and knowing immediately know it was. She turned from the sink. "How'd you sleep?"
"You want the honest answer," Shannon asked, "Or the socially correct one?"
"Honest would be good," Mrs. Westerburg answered with good humor.
"Like crap," Shannon spat, then hopping onto a stool by the counter with a lispy sigh, and holding her head up.
"You going to be okay for school today?" her mother asked optimistically, handing her a box of cereal labeled 'Frosted Krunchers'.
"I don't see why not," she said with a shrug, pouring a tiny serving of sugar-coated cereal into the blue bowl in front of her. "Do we have any marshmallows?"
"Always," her mother spun around with a fresh bag.
After pouring the milk, Shannon grabbed a handful of mini-marshmallows out of the bag and sprinkled them over her cereal. It was a morning ritual she never went without, even though the sticky white sugar lumps should, and always did, get stuck in her braces. Contrary to what her waist size might imply, Shannon was an even greater sugar addict than the typical kid, and breakfast was the only time she let herself indulge on foods she really shouldn't be eating in her condition in the first place. For the rest of the day, she had to watch carefully what she ate in front of other people to make sure that none of it got stuck behind the metal wires around her teeth and grossed somebody out. It happened once when she first got the braces, and with the humiliation it overwhelming her newly self-conscious mind, declared that it wasn't going to happen again.
For the heck of it, she reached up and tugged at one of the wires with her fingernail, pulling it back and releasing it to hear the sharp 'PING' that came with the guitar string-like, thin, taut wire. Six months, she thought grudgingly, wrapping her left arm around the bowl, another three and a half years to go.
As she was eating, an pair of footsteps entered the kitchen from the hallway, this one softer on the tiled floor. It was no guessing for the teen that it was her slipper-wearing grandfather standing behind her. "Hi there, Tiger," he smiled, patting her on her bony shoulder..
Without turning around, and Keeping her head low to the bowl, Shannon replied, "Hey grandad," in a soft voice, before taking another spoonful.
"What's the matter?" he asked, bending down beside her, and looking pained as he did so-weak knees.
"Life's a matter," Shannon said.
"Which part exactly?" he asked, in a painful rasp.
"All of it."
Her grandfather grunted, rubbing his lower back. "Ohhhhh," he groaned, straightening his posture once more. "I shouldn't be doing that. But, I do know there's no obstacle old Champ here can't overcome."
"I won one pee-wee baseball game when I was seven," Shannon reminded him. "You don't have to keep calling me 'Champ.'"
"A one time winner is still a winner," Mr. Westerburg replied with a grin.
Shannon squeezed her eyes shut. She wished the old man wasn't so oblivious to her cues. Twelve years old, even thought it was a little childish, she still would have preferred that—would have loved it, in fact—if her grandfather call her 'honey' or 'princess' or 'cupcake' or even 'sweetie,' like other dads and grandads did with their daughters. But no matter how many times Shannon dropped a hint, he never seemed to take it. Her grandfather was a guy in his own reality. A responsible guardian and a good dad-stand-in to Shannon, Richard's only true fault, other than the peculiar effects of his post traumatic stress disorder, was that he didn't well pick-up on things, which included the fact that his granddaughter was getting older and that she would finally like a little recognition as a girl.
Back at the sink, Mrs. Westerburg heard the rumble of an engine and glanced out the window just in time to catch the end of the bus take off out of the neighborhood.
"Oh, honey," she slapped the dishrag down in the sink, "There goes the bus!"
"It's okay," she shrugged, "I planned on walking today."
Mrs. Westerburg looked over at her father in law, then back. "Why?"
"What do you think?" Shannon raised her spoon, then dipped it into the milk. "Exercise."
Her mother looked concerned as she approached her daughter and placed her hands on her limp shoulders. "Why don't you let one of us drive you?" asked the missus, then looking to Shannon's grandfather. "Dad?"
"Naw, that's okay!" she assured, throwing her hands up and shaking them, "Please," she added with a sigh.
The last thing she needed on her second week of middle school was her grandad dropping her off at school. If her braces and her prosthesis and her general awkwardness didn't do enough to make her a laughingstock.
But Shannon took sensitivity to that, and made another excuse for herself—or rather, stated the other real reason she preferred to walk.
"I need to do something to stay in shape," she watched and twisted her spoon around in the sugary milk, "I'm not doing a sport at this place."
"Sweetheart, you can't get any thinner," Mrs. Westerburg noted, pointing to her daughter's practically bone-thin adolescent figure. "You'll blow away with a gust of wind."
As her mother passed by, placing a hand on her shoulder, Shannon scoffed and continued gazing at the milk. "That's not my fault..." she muttered. Letting go of her spoon with a clank, she cupped her chin in her palms and gazed longingly into space, plucking her wires.. "... Man, I miss steak."
"When those braces come off," Mrs. Westerburg replied, reaching over Shannon's shoulder to take her bowl, "I'll make you a two-pound steak and fries."
"Throw in a double hot-fudge sundae with marshmallows and and I'll see you there," she said definitively, standing up and snatching her slingback backpack off of the back of the chair. "Well, I guess I should get going."
"Alright," Mrs. Westerburg came around the table, cupped her hands around Shannon's chin and kissed her reluctant as ever daughter on the cheek. "Have a wonderful day, sweetheart."
Yeah... wonderful.
Shannon didn't know whether her parents, in their desperation, pretended that she was the caring, selfless daughter they wanted, or that they were truly too blinded with paternal love to care that she had nothing to offer the world but a few laughs and a cold, empty glare in return.
Whatever damage the world had done to her, her parents were happily glamored from it.
But what did she care?
Just as she started for the front door, her grandfather gave one last smack on the back, one that was just over the shoulder blade and proved to be unintentionally painful. She hissed.
"Get 'em, Tiger."
Tiger?
That nickname she'd acquired from her real father as a younger child didn't so much fill her with pride as it embarrassed and irritated her, not that it ever made her proud to begin with. Sure, she loved tigers once, and she still did, but she hadn't heard that name in years. And it reminded her of something she'd rather forget...
Anyways, if she was such a beast, how come she felt like a mouse?
Reluctantly, she muttered and turned around and replied, "Thanks grandad," before she shut the door.
'Watch your step.'
This warning message caught the automaton's eye as he stepped aboard the bus. His eyes trailed from the driver's face—his square face reflecting in the orange sunglasses—and to the dirty, slotted stairs, and the one at the very top, with the words written in bold black, in all caps.
"Come on now," the driver ordered, even more irritated than he was when Robot was outside a minute ago. "You're holding us up!"
This one peculiar message on the steps delivered two possible meanings to Robot's computerized brain. One, the obvious—Are humans actually so simple that they need to be reminded to be mindful of their walking?
But the second only occurred to him as the friendless Robot took his seat in the near back of the bus. Watch your step. Be careful. But where? Off the bus? In school?
Robot Jones, however, didn't need this warning. He'd mingled with humans before, and he knew to be careful. You could never completely let your guard down when messing with human beings.
He thought about this warning for a while, all the way to school, while writing his first data log, a self-made disclaimer of sorts. For ten years, he'd largely kept his thoughts to himself, speaking to humans only when spoken to, the way both children and robots in civilized Society were best expected to behave, but now he was going to tell all, everything that had been kept inside him, gathering steam under his warm steel chest.
Okay... Walking: Nice idea.
Walking behind the bus that already passed our house: Not so much.
Polyneux was over twice as far from home as her elementary school was. Realizing her mistake only after already walking five minutes on her old school route, Shannon had to jog to keep a good enough pace that she wouldn't be late for her first class.
Although she wasn't sure why she cared. Even if she got a tardy slip, less time at school was less time with Pam and some girls who ganged up on her with their peer pressure, less time learning information about history and math and the date of some poet that died that she would almost certainly forget by this time next week, if not the same day.
When she arrived at the campus, crossing the then-empty street, she stopped just before the sidewalk, Timothy Morton, better known to everyone as 'Socks', came skidding fast in front of her, into the back of the school were the bike racks stood, nearly full. She was surprised to not see him on his bike, but she supposed it was just too far. A car honked and drove away behind her, probably Socks' dad dropping him off before work.
And I tried to run. What an idiot.
It would be nice of him to say hello. Maybe it would be nice of her to say hello. Though she knew him since pre-K, she didn't owe Socks that kind of formality as much as he owed it to her. After all, he may have been the careless outcast faking conformity at times, but at least his friends were genuine to him.
For a while, she envied kids riding by on their flashy bikes, wishing her parents had bought her another cool one after she grew too tall for her kiddie bike. But no. They said her dad's mountain bike was just fine for her right now. Dad's skinny, rusty, thirty year old, pale blue, plain as dirt, sitting in the garage behind a pair of skies, mountain bike...
As if I would be caught dead.
Shannon sighed, realizing that despite the odds, she had some decency she wouldn't surrender. Standing on the sidewalk by the road, she gazed over at the school doors, wondering if it was too early to go in. She ran to avoid being late, and now she had to wait because she was too early. She liked waiting until the last minute, because she could blend herself in with the crowd rushing inside, and she could avoid the chance of being snickered at.
Annoyed with herself for the extra exertion and having made it to the school campus without collapsing from exhaustion, Shannon regained her posture, folded her arms to keep herself upright and started tapping her sneaker on the concrete. Alright... from now on, maybe it's just walking home for me.
A great loud honk of a horn to her left startled her. Her head swiveled to her right to discover a bus coming right in her path. She jumped onto the sidewalk just in time to miss being run over by said bus. Catching her breath, she looked up at the kids in the window, all gazing at her from the corner of their cruel eyes, not one of them had noticed the girl who was almost just killed.
All the same. All except for the second to last one from the back. But what sat behind that filthy, unwashed window didn't seem to be a child at all. Two beacons of light, like the sun bouncing off of a mirror, suddenly shot in her direction, forcing her to throw an arm over her eyes. Disbelieving what she saw, as soon as the rear of the bus passed her, she fought against her reflex, lowering her arm and and squinted her eyes at the boxy looking silhouette behind that window.
As soon as the rear of the bus passed her, Shannon leaned back onto the street, craning her outstretched neck to the back of the bus. "What was that?"
But the bus speed away, down the street, turning sharply down the corner that lead to the bus drop off on the left side of the building.
Was that what she thought it was? Just barely making it above the window, it was as short as the shortest riders on the bus. The brief image she captured stayed in her mind, and grew more distorted with every passing second. Now it seemed rational for her to believe that the blaring lights were merely the shine off of a clean watch, or maybe two, but even in that hope, Shannon couldn't deny the size and power of the beams enough to feel that that was a satisfactory conclusion. Nor could she come up with a reasonable explanation for the yellowish, nearly transparent helmet-top, and she thought she might have saw a pair of pupils in those lights.
Only at the very last second did the glare from the brilliant surface fade away so that Shannon could see what most definitely looked like a box—perfectly square, except for something like wire jutting out from one or two of the sides.
Shannon blinked, then furiously shook her head and raised her fingers to her temple. Mom was right. Too much sugar is gonna get to me.
Polyneux Junior High school, as it turned out, wasn't quite the cozy, comforting, structured and organized kind of learning institution the little Robot was hoping for.
Last off the bus, Robot somehow slipped completely unnoticed through the stampeding crowd of humanoid ape children outside the Middle School. Small, short, and presently mute, the metallic boy miraculously seemed to draw no attention to himself, even as he emerged from the crowd and crawled the grand staircase of the enormous middle school. His eyes scanned every feature before him, from the lockers to the classrooms to the fire alarm system..
So, this is the institution of school.
He was not afraid.
But as he followed taller students through the steel doors, he came to a quick halt. The rowdier, older students, some slamming each other into lockers, or hollering with laughter, made him nervous once more.
Robot's head darted back and forth, both taking in the endless commotion and trying to analyze it all at the same time. So much of his concentration was used up in doing so that he forgot to keep scanning the path in front of him, and bumped into a large, muscular boy in a green jersey.
"Whoa!" he shoved the robot away from himself, shouting through his long brown bangs, "Watch where you're going, blockhead!"
"I'm sorry, I..." Robot talked, then suddenly threw his hands to his mouth. For humans, talking is what turned him from a strange looking trash can into a living monster.
And just as he feared, everybody within earshot in the hallway turned and looked at him. Some mouths agape. Those within mere feet of the tiny Robot, those who had walked with him mindlessly through hallway traffic. ignorant of him the whole time they left the bus, looked down and backed away from the machine cautiously. Paralyzed with fear, afraid that a single motion, that a single word would draw further fear of him, Robot stared at the children around him, all looking confused and bewildered, many of which had never seen a robot in real life before, let alone one of Robot's superior design.
Just down the hall, Timothy Morton and Mitch Freeman, leaning up against their new lockers, caught sight of the new student who caused such a startle with three words.
"Hey... what's going on down there?" Socks said, narrowing his eyes.
Mitch yanked the hair from one of his eyes. "Is that a kid in a cheesy robot costume?"
Socks craned his head to look passed Mitch's shoulder while trying to avoid looking so interested. From their distance, it was reasonable to assume that. "A really, really cheesy robot costume."
All Robot could do at that point was turn his head back and forth, searching for a hole in the crowd that he could slip through. If only he could get to the main office…
A hand across his shoulder caused Robot to jump, disturbing his stoic state, and made him run for the narrow gap in the crowd, the kids reacting with only enough time to give him the space to flee to the door with the sign that read 'Main Office' above it. All robots knew that offices contained information, and information was good. Information was reassuring.
"There he goes," Mitch said, following Robot with his finger. "Wonder how Madman's going to react to that. He hates when kids wear their costumes to school on Halloween."
Socks said nothing more, but he wasn't so sure it was a costume, after watching the way the boy ran.
Meanwhile, that hand that reached for him belonged to that of Leonard. Yogman, which recoiled to his body before he slinked off beneath the bewildered crowd and to the nearest air vent before anyone ever noticed he was there.
At Polyneux Middle School, things carried out as they normally did.
It was early into the semester, with plenty of fresh 6th grade meat to feast on. In his office, the respected and not coincidentally feared principal Samuel Madman was kicking off the morning with a hot cup of coffee and a round of target practice in his office.
"Come on, come on, you old coot..." he scolded himself, his hands shaking as he pulled back the string on his sling-shot. "Just one more good shot..."
'Bang'. The fake bullet hit the target, dead center.
"Bullseye!" he laughed with pleasure. "Bye bye, Georgie! Haha!"
He laughed watching the paint-filled bullet splatter dripped pink paint down from the black marker crossed-off face and down the blue shirt in George's portfolio photograph. Madman ripped the photo off of its tack on the target board and crumpled it up into a ball and threw into the waste basket. Then he ran to the ill-kept detention file cabinet against the wall. "Now, let's have a look here-who's going to be the next lucky pupil?"
Just as he spoke, the intercom on his desk cracked to life with a nasily female voice. "Mr. Madman..."
The black-haired barrel shaped man spun around on his toes with sudden ballerina grace and innocence. "Huh?"
"Madman, I have the new student ready for you."
Ugh, he rolled his eyes. I hate late starters. Well, might as well get this over with quick. Madman went to his desk and hit the talk switch. "Alright, Ms. Wilson. Bring them in."
Every time a student transferred in after new student orientation, it was district policy that the principal meet them personally. As habit, Madman closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his sweaty, black hairs, thanking his lucky stars that he still had them all. He assumed, naturally, that this kid would be like any other. The difference was a matter of gender, skin tone, and whatever manner of conforming non-conformist clothes they dawned and how they did so. Baseball cap forward or backward? Two ponytails or three?
They were all just children in Madman's eyes. And all just troublemakers. And he was there to provide their well needed discipline.
As he flipped through the ill-kept files in the cabinet, he barely heard the noises of mechanical joints squeak louder and louder, through the door opening into his office. It wasn't until the student was in the room that Madman was overcome with a bad feeling about what was behind him.
Madman, for once, found himself speechless and mouth agape as he watched the little robot follow the secretary into his office.
"Sir, I'd like you to meet the newest student," she gestured to the short, metal child, "Robot Jones."
The little automaton had one of the biggest pairs of eyes Madman had ever seen. They seemed like they could catch the smallest flinch from across the room. As such, it was Madman's instinct to avoided it, as like in wildlife documentaries he watched far too often, the slightest body movement would indicate fear.
The principal recovered from his shock hurried over to Ms. Wilson, where he leaned over and whispered, "Is this supposed to be a joke, Ms. Wilson?"
"If it is," she rolled her head, her straight, black hair swinging around her face, "It'd like to be in on it. His papers have already been filed. The portfolio were sent in weeks ago, but nobody told me about it."
"How could they be sent-?" Madman thought, trailing off. Suddenly, he turned back to Robot. "He-he-he, just one moment, son."
He jumped out of his chair, and before the secretary could argue, he pushed her into the file room connected to Madman's office in the right corner of the room, as Robot looked on, curious and puzzled.
Inside, Madman hushed the secretary with a finger to his lips. "Don't let him hear you."
"Sir, is this really necessary?"
He hushed her and tapped the tiny keyhole. "Take a look."
Ms. Wilson leaned over and peeked out the hole, watching the tiny Robot standing in the middle of the office, looking around, absorbing his surroundings, every inch of it.
"What do you see?"
Ms. Wilson saw nothing out of the ordinary there. "I see a normal, confused student, thanks to you."
"Normal? Gretchen, but that's a robot!"
"The name tipped you off, didn't it?" she rolled her eyes. "What exactly is the matter sir?
"A robot can't go to public school! Isn't there a law against this, or something?"
"Yes, sir, the Amendment right after the one about taking your shoes off indoors." She straightened her back and returned her skeptical eyes to him. "I suppose it seems unorthodox, but there's no law prohibiting it. It's a new day and age we're in, Samuel. We're asked to provide education to all children, be it human, alien or… computer."
From pumping gas, to cleaning up bars and bowling alleys, to serving the richest men in the world hand and foot, robotic subservience was quickly becoming the new norm-a fad that wasn't soon to go away, despite the fact that so many Americans were opposed to them for 'stealing jobs from the workforce' as they claimed.
Madman himself didn't like robots to start with. The automatic workers enlisted in society's job market were a sign of the new generation's ineptitude, a downfall in American work ethic-at least that's how he defended his opinion on the subject. But like many of the conservative opposition, the truth was that he really just didn't trust them.
Madman narrowed his eyes and 'humphed'. "Robots... automated annoyances, thinking they can take over the world. And now they're infiltrating my school? Oh, no, Ms. Wilson, I won't let it happen. I haven't run this school exactly the same for ten years for the new generation to push their futuristic fuddle! No… there's a reason he's here, and it can't be good." Madman rapped on his chin nervously with his pudgy fingers. "Oh, I bet he's recording video right now..."
"What if he is actually just here to learn, sir?"
"You expect me to believe that? A robot enrolled as a student, it's the most -" he gasped. "Maybe he is here to learn-tohere to learn something about us. That's it, isn't it? He's a spy! I know it! He's going to report everything! My whole disciplinary career, down the tubes!"
"Now, settle down..." Ms. Wilson told him, starting to lose her patience. "Let's think this through rationally. Would a full time student even have time to monitor us?"
"A full time student would have all the time in the world to monitor us, Gretchen! But the question is, for whom? OH! The Department of Education! Of course! Those rats have been on on my back for the past twenty years!"
"Wait a minute! You don't honestly think-"
"They sent him here to monitor us!" he spread his arms and shoved his nose against hers, "Isn't it obvious? Someone—a teacher, no, a bratty kid told their parents, they called the school board, the school board called the state, and now they sent some federal droid to come and watch us... Gretchen, did you SEE those peepers?" he pointed far out of the closet through the hole again. "He could probably shoot down a fruit fly from ten yards with those eyes!"
"Shush! He's going to hear you!" she scolded him. "We don't have proof that any of that is true.. As far as we know now, he's just a normal child enrolled for a normal education. All you can do is remain calm, let him get settled in class, and pretend like there's nothing out of the ordinary. The last thing you need is to get your other students in a panic."
"Right," Madman replied, biting his pointer finger nail. "We cannot let him know we're onto him."
With a sigh, Ms. Wilson and shook her head, and she and Madman exited the closet, where a politely waiting robot gazed upon them with a look of restlessness. Madman folded his hands."My apologies," he said. "Er, where were we?" he turned to the lady. "Ms. Wilson?"
"Well, sir," she smiled cockily, "You have yet to introduce yourself to Mr. Jones."
"Huh? Oh, yes, that's right!" He stuck out his hand, which to his dismay, was shaking. Never, not once in his decade presiding as principal of the school, shaking hands with thousands of children only to earn their hatred later, did Madman feel intimidated by one of his students. Not until now.
But the robot, thankfully, seemed oblivious, and wrapped his fingers tightly and eagerly around the principal's hand and shook with a fierce strength in his tiny arms. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."
Madman drew back, the sudden appearance, loudness and depth of the child's voice setting the hairs on the back of the human's neck to stand on end. "It speaks..." he shook his head furiously. "I mean, he finally speaks! Well, what a pleasure, young man," he said, making the conscious effort to lower his own voice. "Samuel Madman at your service... er, Mr. Madman, naturally. But, of course, that would be Principal Madman to you," he chuckled nervously.
"I suppose calling you 'Madman' would be improper, then?" Robot asked, innocently.
"No," Madman furrowed his brow. "Haven't you ever attended school before?"
Robot shook his head. "Negative, sir—well, technically speaking, I was briefly enrolled in a private education course years ago, but that did not work out all that well."
Before Madman could prod more, Gretchen dropped a large portfolio into his waiting arms. "Here's what was faxed to us."
"Faxed?" Madman asked, gazing at the mass of paper. "Couldn't we have just bought the book?"
"Jones' parents will not be here to meet you until conference night, but they sent their forms," she tossed her hair, indifferently, "Signatures printed and all."
"His parents?" Madman narrowed his eyes. Hm, the government covered all the bases. Oh, they're good...
Madman dropped the portfolio onto his desk and cleared his throat. "Well, Robot Jones, your paperwork is already in. Ms. Wilson, here, will fetch your schedule and take you to your first period class." He leaned over the desk and offered his hand. "Oh, and yes, welcome to Polyneux."
Robot's face lit up. Such human kindness was unexpected. "Thank you, sir," he shook the principal's hand, "I am certain that I will enjoy my stay here."
I wish I could stay the same... Madman thought miserably.
Back in school again.
Timothy Morton, also known as Socks, slumped through the front door of McMcMc's pre-algebra class. It was only first period, but all he could think about was how much he wanted to go back home and go to bed.
Or be anywhere but here, really.
Like the majority of the kids, he hadn't yet quite gotten back on the school routine, and had been fallen asleep much later than he should have. What made it worse was that the junior high school day started an hour before the elementary school, so he had to get up even earlier than he was used to if he wanted to get ready in time for the bus. Normally, he would just bike it, but Polyneux was farther from his house than M. Jagger Elementary, and it would take him longer than to just take the bus. His mother had woken him up every day that previous week, and he was still running out the door to catch his ride. Just last Friday, he had run out the door, holding his baggy pants up because he forgot his belt.
Nobody had told him that middle school was going to be this much of a drag. And he wasn't looking forward to picking up the pace now that he was in seventh.
Now he was back after the first precious weekend that school year, and all he could think about on was what other dirty tricks middle school had to throw at him. Lockers, changing with other guys in a cramped and smelly room, running around like a chicken with his head cut off just to find the next class every fifty minutes. That aside, he was fairly calm—of course, he was Socks. He was the epitome of coolness—at least he thought he was. He sure was in elementary school, and he figured now that there was nothing he couldn't handle with looks and charm. The new independence of the junior high school experience hadn't bothered him as it had a few of the other fifth grade graduates. He used it to his advantage to up his 'cool factor'.
While the teacher was at his desk, pulling out his lesson plan, Socks meandered over with his hands stuck in his pockets. "Hey, there, teach," Socks waved to the teacher from the doorway, sitting at his desk, prepping his lesson plan. "You got my comb?"
McMcMc shut his drawer, come in question in his hand, and sighed. "I've asked you every day for the past two weeks to please hold off on styling those 'lovely curls' until you're out of my class, but you never listen, so you got what you deserve, Mr. Morton."
"Aw, come on!" the not-so-mature seventh grader made a swipe for the comb. "Gimme!"
"Ah, ah, ah," the teacher held the comb up high above Socks' head, making him look like a dog trainer. "Say the magic word."
"Abracadabra!" Socks blurted out at random. "Um… Kalamazoo." He swung for the comb again. "Now give it, Stu!"
"Mr. Morton..."
"Pweese?" Socks begged with clasped hands and large, fake puppy dog eyes.
"There we go," McMcMc praised him with an extra serving of arrogance. "Now doesn't it feel better to use manners? You could learn a lot about good etiquette, Mr. Morton."
"Hey, at least I show up every day on time, don't I?" He referred to the other kids, shoving the comb back into his bag and slinging his backpack back over his shoulder.
Unlike M. Jagger, a largely upscale, middle class town local only school, Polyneux Middle School was an enormous school that served as a dumping ground for sixth graders all over the diverse, hillside suburban county. There was no magnet school within reasonable driving distance, so you had kids from snobby, pay-to-go schools like Kindest-Garden Elementary and mainstream, loud public schools like M. Jagger E. So as could only be expected, while even Jagger graduates like Socks who gave at least half a care made sure to show up for class, at least ten percent of the students were present otherwise in the building, either catching a puff of their first cigarette in one of the many bathrooms or hiding away from bullies that could reach them as soon as the stepped out of the safe perimeter of the classrooms.
Stuart McMcMc, who'd been teaching there long enough to know all of this, nodded. "Mmm." He finally handed Socks his comb. "Now have a seat, please."
Sliding into an empty desk in the third row, Socks threw his arms back behind his chair and lazily fist-bumped Mitch, who would also have to re-take pre-Algebra this year.. We so need a change around here.
As if someone of a higher power had heard him, there was a knock at the door. McMcMc got up from his desk and stepped outside.
With the coast clear, the kids in the desks began holding mini conversations with their row neighbors. Some were random, while others whispered back and forth to one another about what the deal was outside with McMcMc. Such conversations spiked after a while, once it seemed like the teacher hadn't returned for a long time.
"What do you think they're talking about?" Mitch asked.
"I don't know," Socks said. "Sounds kind of serious."
There was a pause as they listened harder. Usually, if McMcMc or another teacher were talking to another teacher, the tone would have been lighter, and they would have surely heard a laugh from someone at this point.
"They been out there for a long time,"
"What if somebody's in trouble?"
"Dude, I can't get detention again. One more strike, and it's in-school suspension for me."
"What if," some kid finally said, "McMcMc's in trouble?"
"Ooo!" "Yeah!" two kids, one boy and one girl said simultaneously.
"Busted!"
"Bad boys, bad boys..." one boy with a slight Hispanic accent said, grooving his shoulders and snapping his fingers, "Whatcha' gonna do when they come for you?"
"What'daya think he did?"
GASP! "Maybe he's got caught with dope..."
The children's eyes lit up with excitement.
"Aw, yeah, I betcha he's got a whole bunch of hash in his briefcase," another tall boy in black leather said, "Like that one teacher from Valley Way who stashed a whole bunch of reefer in his drawer, you all remember that?"
"Oh, yeah, I remember that."
"No wonder he's always acting so tweaked."
"Think Mc'll get fired?"
"If he is, pizza party, my house, four o'clock," one bald boy in a baseball shirt said, kissing his fingers like an Italian chef. "Be there or be square."
"I bet the principal will let him slide if he shares it. In all fairness, Madman needs it."
Just then, their teacher let out a cheerful goodbye, and the door knob rustled.
"Shush," Socks warned, "He's comin' back in!"
The chatter ceased completely as all the kids sitting on top of the desks rushed back into their seats and folded their hands, gazing nonchalantly at down at their desk tops. With the typical sound of their teacher's footsteps re-entering the room, they raised their eyes, some actually expecting to see the principal standing there with their teacher in handcuffs, while others anticipated a beautiful, easy going female substitute teacher ready to take over the class immediately.
Those children turned out to be the most surprised, once they looked up.
There was silence.
The class became an audience to a sideshow, as before their stunned eyes stood a figure, oddly shaped, dawned in all silver metal with the exception of single red and black bands across the torso, with rock-hard limbs, including elbows bent at 90 degree angles. The kids at first didn't know what to make of it..
"Dude, check it out," Mitch whispered to Socks in the lowest voice, "It's that costume kid."
"I'm starting to think it's not a costume," Socks replied tentatively. .
The boy, who was truly made of steel, marched with the firmness and stiffness of a hardened general, but bore the huge eyed, tiny lipped grin of a naïve solider. He confidently made his way the middle of the front wall, standing right in front of McMcMc's desk, and turned his body, all at once with a series of mechanical groans, to greet his new comrades in education, waiving his spooky looking claw-like fingers. "Hello, humans."
Gasps shot out from the girls, as their hands flew to their mouths. The boys, including Socks, sat mouth agape. The looks were one thing, but to hear him speak in such a convincing computerized voice made the realization set in that this kid, if anything, was no phony robot.
"Everybody," McMcMc announced, "We have a new student starting in class today." The teacher rested his arms on the kid's silver shoulders, "This is Robot Jones." He paused and bent down next to him. "Um, I'm a little confused by your papers," he said, showing Robot an elaborate paper that had been pulled from his enormous file. "Where are you transferring from again?" he asked quietly.
"This is my first day of public education," Robot told him.
"Oh..." he said slowly, "Well, Robot, I hope in that case that your lack of recent practice won't give you trouble keeping up with the class. Lucky for you, it's all just been review from last year, but just to be sure, I'll go slow today and walk through the material."
"Affirmative," Robot said, not giving so much as a blink to hint what he was feeling.
"Great. Now, why don't you take that empty seat right in the middle. Class, take out your homework review packets from this weekend."
The class groaned, creating a storm of noise as they reached into their purses, sling-strap backpacks, folders and binders for the assignment. Nearly none of them finished the whole thing—over half of them even forgot to do it. As McMcMc walked around the class to check them in, he tisked several times and shook his head as he crossed off student's names on his clipboard.
"This is very upsetting, children. I had expected more from you—you're sixth graders." He eyed Socks and Mitch especially, making them cringe.. "Some of you, seventh graders. I can appreciate that middle school work is harder than what you're used to, but you must try harder."
As he made his way through the rows, he stopped at Robot's desk and handed him a copy of the review packet. "Just complete it tonight, and let me know if you have any questions."
Robot nodded with a smile and looked over the first questions.
McMcMc returned to the front of the room and dropped the stack of homework on his desk. "For those of you that did at least attempt to start the homework," the teacher said, putting his hands on his hips, "Would any of you like to put up the first problem on the board, and explain to us how you got it?"
Crickets.
Not an arm moved from the desks.
McMcMc sighed. This wasn't his first class of incoming sixth graders, and it wouldn't be his last, and from the looks of it, it appeared that this was going to be another long year.
"Now come on," McMcMc lamely encouraged, without even attempting to alter his monotone, "I saw a couple of you had it. Stop being shy and-"
"Teacher, sir?" Robot raised his claw, glancing down at his packet.
A few of the kids snickered at his kindergarten-ish address to McMcMc.
"Yes, Robot," McMcMc asked, "Do you have a question?"
"Affirmative. Is it fifty three?" Robot asked.
"Is what fifty three?" McMcMc replied.
"The... answer to the first equation," he replied shyly, bringing his arm back down. "Sir."
The teacher appeared baffled. He gazed upward, muttered a quick calculation under his breath before he turned back to robot with surprise. "Why... yes, I believe you're right. Two x plus one hundred and six..."
As McMcMc turned to write the steps out on the chalkboard, the students twisted in their seats to gawk at Robot. The young automaton gazed down and his desk, folding his claws on his lap, shy from all the eyes that were suddenly drawn to him, looking unsure if he made the right choice by speaking up. "Heh," McMcMc said under his breath, "Pretty good for a late starter."
"Nerd Pet," snorted a dark haired boy in jeans and a baseball cap sitting to Socks' left one row ahead. At his desk, Socks shook his head in sympathy for the robot-guy. Poor kid's a goner.
Aside from their hard-to-ignore, obnoxious new kid, the class continued as normal. Socks succeeded once again at getting extremely bored and began to twiddle his thumbs. Next to him, Mitch was doodling on the blank side of his severely incorrect homework paper. Socks leaned over and saw that his pal was drawing a crude picture of McMcMc rambling about math-his vocal balloon filled with random mathematical symbols and numbers—walking absentmindedly towards the edge of a concrete floor, which, when zoomed out, appeared to be the roof of the Empire State building.
Socks noticed something weird about the new kid—something other than him being a four foot tall, real live robot. He noticed with every correct answer, that Robot appeared to be getting more confident. And as his confidence rose, McMcMc went from enthusiastic, to bored, and finally somewhat irritated. It eventually got to a point where it was impossible to block out their awful monotones flying back and forth.
"Now, does anyone here know the answer to problem number sixteen?"
Socks glanced behind himself, and sure enough, the new kid had his hand up, and the top of his head flashed with the undying eagerness of answering the question, despite the fact that not a single student other than him was attempting to get the answer in before him. And unlike when he'd first walked in, a smile adorned his face now. He was having fun.
"Anyone besides the new student?" the teacher asked impatiently.
McMcMc carefully scanned the rows of kids, but the flashing light of little enthusiastic one in the middle kept distracting him.
When Socks turned back around, McMcMc slapped his face, yanking his fingers downward, pulling the surprisingly loose skin like a plastic mask far below his chin, then releasing it, and letting the skin snap back into place perfectly.
"Well, Mr. Robot Jones," he said for the upteenth time in less than thirty minutes, "Do you know the answer to number sixteen?"
The automaton's head stopped flashing, and he brought his arm down. "The correct answer is forty-eight."
"Thank you, Robot. Now the next problem is a tricky one, class-"
"Seventy-six."
McMcMc whipped his head around. "Excuse me?"
Instantly, the groggy class snapped to attention. The new kid had been spitting out good answers left and right that whole period. This time, he hadn't even let the teacher finish his sentence before he butted in with the answer, and with renewed interest, they saw McMcMc wasn't content with that interruption, even if it was the right answer. The teacher did not seem pleased at all, and the sudden sharpness of his tone made everyone look quickly at Robot. They waited almost eagerly to find out how the new kid would respond after a harsh reply like that. To their devilish pleasure, it seemed that their new mincemeat kid had slowly but surely built up a understanding of the cocky McMcMc great enough that he meant what he said, how he said it, and stuck by it.
"The answer is seventy-six," the robot answered proudly in front of his human peers. "Your mathematical questions are too easy for my superior computer brain—don't you have anything more difficult?"
While the class excitedly waited for what would happened next, Socks was nearly blown away. He looked over at Mitch, who was wearing the same impressed smirk, and decided he could still save the poor naive new student from social ruin by doing what he did best: Break awkward silence. "Dude," he said to Mitch, "Man, he really burned the teacher!"
Hearing that, the class broke into laughter. The sleepy kids were now wide awake and anxious to hear more from McMcMc's new robotic challenger.
Meanwhile, the teacher was literally twitching with anger. It was one thing for this new kid to act like a know-it-all—he'd had plenty of know-it-alls in the past, and he knew how to handle them. However, what Robot said crossed the line, challenging not only the teacher personally, but for his intelligence.. He didn't know where the boy learned to treat his elders, but McMcMc decided then and there that it was time this little student smart-alack got put in his place.
"Robot, to the front of the class!"
The little automaton didn't initially think much of the command, nor did he notice the rising aggression in the teacher's voice. His best conclusion was that the teacher may have wanted him to write the whole equation on the board to explain his work to the class, but if Robot understood anything about the meaning of human tone, this was not correct. As he marched, he heard his peers chorus an "Ooo..." sound that he did notice and thought was peculiar. Robot didn't realize what he'd gotten himself into until he reached the board and saw McMcMc glaring down at him, at which point he tensed up in intimidation. Socks leaned forward in his seat, eager to see where this was headed.
"So, you want to be a class clown, ay?" the teacher hissed. "Well, we have a place for clowns at this school! It's called the principal's office! Now, GO!"
Socks had never heard a teacher lose it like that! Especially McMcMc—normally so proud of his composure, he seemed like the last type of teacher who would ever go nuts because of some misbehavior of his students, and it was just one kid! To think that the short, scrawny, seemingly innocent robot had done that to the teacher—not even twenty minutes into his first day—now that was impressive. Heck, it was downright admirable! As the little Robot marched out of the classroom, Socks smiled at his desk, watching a vein at the side of the teacher's neck bulge a clear blue through the skin.
"I think, Mitch," Socks told his equally content brunette friend, "That school just got fun again."
Back in his office, Madman paced back and forth about the room like a dog tied to a bike rack. "Find anything yet?"
At his desk, Ms. Wilson sat hunched over the portfolio, flipped through crisp, white page after crisp, white page of tiny, elaborate bold type. "I'll tell you what I told you five minutes ago: It's all techno-know-how and 'medical' procedures. I don't see anything about a search warrant."
"Keep looking, there has to be something to explain where this kid comes from: Something to spill the truth."
She held her chin in her palms. "I don't know sir, this boy seems legitimate... " She removed her glasses for a moment. "Samuel, do you think you might be overreacting, just a little bit?"
"Oh, Gretchen, I don't know what I'm going to do." The principal had his head planted on his desk. He raised his face off of the desktop and sat his head on his chin, his arms tucked over his head as he store with despair at the cracks in his desk. "With this little spybot running around, I'm going to have to rethink my punishment policies, or risk a penalty."
"You don't mean-?"
"Yeah... if they misinterpret just one thing…" he gulped," a lawsuit."
"Hang on their a sec, chief," she said, hearing the telephone ring in the joint office next door.
Madman opened his eyes.
"I think I just heard someone come in." Gretchen excused herself and slipped out of the room to see who was calling her to her desk, shutting the door behind her, while Madman combed his hair back with his hands and attempted to regain professional composure.
What do you know? First period, and we've already got the first troublemaker of the day. Another school year, Madman. "Alright," he threw his hands up to his face and massaged his eyelids. "Who is it?"
"Uh..." she called from the other room, "It's Mr. Jones for you, sir."
"Oh, that's-" he parted his fingers around his eyes. "Wait-What did you say?"
She opened the door once more, and for the second time that day, Robot entered the office. Only this time, he wore a confused frown in place of a genuine, sharply-bent smile.
Him? Again?
"Mr. Jones, what are you doing here?"
"I was ordered here, sir," Robot said, sheepishly.
"By who?"
"The Pre-Algebra teacher."
"What for?" the principal asked, this one time, genuinely curious.
Ms. Wilson sighed. "McMcMc just called me at the start of passing period. He said Robot was mocking him and disturbing the class."
Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in Madman's head. That's it! The robot can't be a credible reporter of trouble if he's a troublemaker himself! It's ingenious! I'm going to scare that robot so bad, he'll never have the guts to blab to the feds!
With a grin, he looked up at his secretary. "Gretchen, I believe I can handle things from here."
"If you say so," the secretary said, then let herself out, shutting the door firmly behind her.
After watching her leave, the little robot turned to the principal, "Am I in trouble, sir?" he asked.
"Here, come have a seat, son," Madman said, pointing to the large chair by his desk.
He called the chair that Robot sat in 'the hot seat'. It allowed him to get nose to nose with his students and scare them straight. It was one of his most effective methods of getting his message on through to some of his most 'difficult' students.
After hopping onto the seat, Robot looked at his principal, then gazed curiously to his left, then his right, waiting for the adult to speak, much like a toddler in a similar disciplinary setting. But even thought this was how Robot was raised to respond to discipline, he, in his nature, had to speak up.
"Sir, I apologize if I have interrupted-"
"Well, well, well," he said. "Mr. Jones... The amazing Robot in my office..."
The automaton was starting to look bewildered.
"...yet again."
Robot blinked silently.
"Let me be honest with you. I don't get the whole 'technology thing'..."
The automaton was extremely confused. Why was the principal acting in such a strange manner to him all of the sudden? Robot knew he was currently in a bit of trouble (for a reason he still quite didn't understand), but less than an hour ago, the human would've seemed pleased to have been able to talk it out with him. Yet now Madman wouldn't even let Robot get a word in edgewise.
"... Gears, circuits, microchips-" the principal sneered, "Rubbish."
That word—rubbish—Robot wasn't sure of it's exact definition, but he understood what it was supposed to mean. It confused him that the principal would use that word following all of those common, overrated robot parts. But how he said it, so menacingly, it made Robot realize that the principal had just insulted him—on purpose. The seemingly kind principal from earlier that morning, who had just not more than an hour ago introduced himself politely and welcomed Robot to the school now appeared almost hostile with him.
Even though with prior experience, it was hardly a surprise to Robot that human beings could be so rude and out of line, or that they could seem to turn on a dime, Robot was still stunned when the adult stood, reached over his desk and began drumming his index finger on his cheek, his face within inches of the automaton's, glaring into the boy's large, dumbfounded eyes with his angry, little black pupils.
"So listen up, future boy," he hissed, tapping his nail against the thin, steel plate with every word, "'Cause you're on thin. Ice."
To Robot's slight relief, Madman backed off, taking his hand back and sitting back down in his chair. "Just one more slip up," he pointed to the ceiling, his voice back to normal volume, "and I'm putting you..." he paused for dramatic effect, then out of nowhere, folding his hands and grinning devilishly. "In detention."
Madman then chuckled—not like he just heard a bad joke on a sitcom, but with pleasure of his own words. In his girth, his height, his high-ranking position at that educational facility, Madman had the upper hand. Had the power, the strength, the might. Proud he was that he wasn't a textbook case of the Napoleon-syndrome—a man trying to overcompensate for his small stature by flashing his degree, job and accomplishments. Without being the ultimate authority in that facility, Madman still had an intimidating physique to fall back on-granted, it was all lard-and he clearly drew self esteem from that knowledge.
In reality, his profession may have made him feel more powerful than he was. He may have been able to render mere children to fear with his size, but no adult with a smidge of confidence would be intimidated by him in the same way. Nor would he be stupid enough to try it on an adult. So the job that came with constant interaction with timid, unknowing youths gave his physical stature importance, because only children, middle school age at the oldest, could have a legitimate fear of him—their ultimate away-from-home authority. He may have well been the dictator of their happiness.
The somewhat naïve Robot Jones still had much of this to realize in due time, but he realized this human was certainly trying to intimidate him-why all the sudden, who knows?. Although Madman probably, like most humans, had to overcome his own intimidation of Robot, the adult was determined to not let any of it show.
It was a question of who was the more imposing threat. And Madman wasn't about to let a child win in that department, even if he was a self-operating robot and had a super-powered strength Madman wasn't even aware of yet.
Madman had to lay down the line there and then. His subtle plan would only work if Robot truly believed there was something to fear of his principal. If the robot was as intelligent as he seemed, he would understand not to mess with this human.
So Madman rushed to put the fear of life into him.
But Robot wouldn't accept it. Not because he wasn't smart enough, but because he refused to be bullied.
While Madman's plan sort of worked—Robot took the bait, believing he really was now walking the tightrope with Madman and possibly all of school authorities, he wasn't going to put himself in a position of fear. Not again.
No human, no matter how large, was going to achieve making him scared. No human was going to make him fear the consequences of his own actions. Robot refused to walk on eggshells for Madman's sake, or anyone's sake, for that matter. Robot didn't even believe he did anything so wrong. Madman hadn't even bothered to ask Robot what had happened in McMcMc's class, let alone ask Robot's side of the story. He was just putting him through the mill, like he must have done with every other kid, no questions asked. While Robot was usually fair minded, and would normally reach an agreement with any human speaking to him in a respectful tone, the little teenager was naturally compelled at this point to want to rebel and make his stay at that school even more difficult for this rude man. However, as reasonable as he was for his age, Robot did make a note in his mind to make an honest effort to act more respectful to the humans and their inferior intelligence from now on, and hopefully prevent more trips to the office in the future.
He had no doubt that it wouldn't happen again.
Even with his logical mental adjustment, Robot was still getting over his emotional annoyance with Madman. He wasn't willing at this point to follow through with any command this human had for him, but believing that he was taught better than that, the young automaton blinked and gave Madman his sincere nod, thereby accepting the lecture and admitting that he understood its implications.
But Madman was too satisfied with himself to see the anger in Robot's eyes. I've got him hook, line, and sinker, he thought. We won't be hearing from Robot Jones again anytime soon.