I shrug. “I guess.”
“You guess?”
Not this again. Not today, when I’m already nervous about the competition. I turn away from his glare and lean my forehead against the cool window, willing us to get to school already.
The radio host is still screaming about the “evils of immigrants.” Dad lowers the volume. “You know, the government’s been letting all these foreigners in.”
Ugh. If I throw up, will he stop talking?
“And, if you’re not careful, they’re going to take over. We have to be ready.”
It feels like I’m suffocating. My breath fogs the glass as we pass Ajeet’s house on the corner and finally, finally reach the school.
But then I spot my best friend, nestling his robot between his jacket and shirt as he run-walks across the school’s lawn.
“God, they really are everywhere.” Dad points to Ajeet as he struggles against the wind.
The collar on my T-shirt suddenly feels too tight.
“Oh, look. He’s got a toy, too,” Dad says sarcastically. We come to a stop at the end of the carpool line. “Do you know him?”
I throw open the door. “Here’s good,” I mutter, wanting to escape.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Dad asks. “Let me pull up first.”
“That’s okay.” I jump from the truck, scrambling to grab my backpack and crates. The wind blows against my back, drying my sweat. I force myself not to shiver as I jostle QUEN-10 and the parts box, and then elbow the door closed.
My eyes zero in on the school’s entrance. I know it’s wrong, but if I hurry, Dad won’t see me talking to Ajeet. I rush along the sidewalk.
“Rebel,” my friend calls.
Oh, no.
“Hey!” Ajeet’s shoes glide across the grass, making a whooshing sound. “Wait up.”
I go faster, but then he cuts me off. “You deaf or something? I’m talking to you.”
My gaze drops to a crack in the sidewalk. “Uh, sorry.”
“Rebel!”
My knees tremble at the sound of Dad’s rough voice. He’s still grasping the steering wheel with one hand while leaning toward the open passenger-side window.
Kids rush past us. “Is that your dad?” Ajeet asks and then waves. “Hi, Mr. Mercer!”
“What are you doing?” I say under my breath, pushing his hand down. Dad scowls. My heart beats fast. “Let’s go inside.”
My friend’s eyebrows knit in confusion.
“Look at me,” Dad barks. He’s blocking the carpool line, but he doesn’t care. “That’s an order, young man!”
Ajeet’s mouth falls open; my toes clench the insides of my shoes.
Cars honk as I follow Dad’s order.
His face is red. “We are not finished here.”
I want to shout: Yes, we are! I want to grab Ajeet by the shoulder and scream: This is my friend; it shouldn’t matter what he looks like!
But I don’t.
Like the coward I am, I turn and run.
TWO
So running away from Dad this morning wasn’t one of my finest moments. It probably ranks only slightly better than the time when I was five and zoomed around in front of Mom’s friends, wearing nothing but underwear on my head, yelling, I’m Captain Cotton! I’m Captain Cotton! Aunt Birdie still likes to bring that one up.
“Hey,” Ajeet says. “You okay?” It’s about the fiftieth time he’s asked since I freaked on the sidewalk. School’s almost out for the day, but I still haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’ll never be tough enough or anywhere near good enough for my dad.
The rubber soles on our shoes squeak against the waxed floors as we walk the long, empty hallway on the way to our school’s gym. Our science teacher let us out a little early so we could grab our robotics crates from the tables in the gym and be ready to compete. Ajeet nudges me with his elbow. “Because if you want to talk ab—”
“I’m fine,” I lie, cutting him off. Through the hand smears on the double glass doors, I spot the vans from other schools. My stomach bubbles with nerves. I need to focus.
Only two kids move on to Regionals, and one of them has to be me. I may not be any good at football. But maybe I can still prove to Dad that I can be a winner.
As we turn the corner, the school bell rings, signaling the end of the day. Ajeet and I both cover our ears and pick up the pace. Classroom doors fly open. My hands drop to my sides as we push through kids streaming from their classes, all chatter and laughter.
“Hey, Rebel,” Connor says as he exits one of the classes with that cool wave of his. He’s the star pitcher of our undefeated baseball team.
“Hey,” I reply. He keeps moving the opposite direction, his crowd of fans behind him.
“I don’t know why Connor won’t talk to me,” Ajeet says as we turn the corner. “Do you think he’s a racist?”
My jaw tightens. “I’m sure that’s not it. He probably didn’t see you.”
“So I’m invisible now,” he says. “Like that’s so much better.”
Heat flickers through me. I shake my head. Ajeet can be so sensitive sometimes. “Let it go, okay?” My voice comes out harsher than I meant.
Ajeet flinches. “I was just asking.”
I force myself to take a deep breath as we walk—one, two—and exhale—one, two. Like Mom taught me. A little calmer, I add, “We’ve got bigger things to worry about than Connor Green.”
Metal lockers open and slam shut around us, but the quiet between Ajeet and me is intense. I shouldn’t have shouted at him. I don’t know why I get so angry sometimes.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say as we reach the gym. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I guess I’m just nervous about the competition.”
We stop a second before going in. “You worry too much,” Ajeet finally says.
“You don’t think I should be worried?” I ask, giving him the side-eye. Ajeet’s the most competitive person I know. Besides Dad, of course. “Has an alien invaded your body or something?”
Ajeet snort-laughs, breaking the tension a little. “No, I’m not talking about that,” he says, pointing inside the gym.
A kid shows his robot to an adult. There’s a cage around it. Too bulky, I think.
“No, it’s . . .” Ajeet pauses for a second, bringing my attention to his face. His expression is serious as he shrugs. “My dad’s hard on me, too.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. Suddenly, I don’t know where to look; my gaze hovers on his vintage Atari T-shirt. “Um.” I plunge my hands into my jeans pockets and rock backward on my heels, not really knowing what to say, either. Sure, he’s my best friend, but we usually talk about robots, gaming, and the BIG debate: whether Star Wars or Star Trek is better.
Star Wars, duh.
“Okay.” Ajeet awkwardly coughs. “It’s time for me to slay your baby robot with my ingenious masterpiece.”
I grin. “You. Wish.”
Inside the gym, it smells like sweat, but there are no jocks today—only a bunch of us nerds and teachers scattered across the gym floor. The competition table, where we run our robots through the tasks, sits at center court. I check the projection screen near the entrance: There are about thirty competitors total. Ajeet’s drawn the sixth run; mine is seventh.
Two people move on to Regionals. And we only get one run. My heart flip-flops.
Mrs. Fuentes, our school principal, waves as she approaches. She’s wearing her usual black suit, along with a genuine smile. “Glad to see you made it, gentlemen.” Her perfume smells like a rose garden.
“Thanks, Mrs. F.,” I say, and then wait for Ajeet to respond. But he only stares at her with his mouth open. Like always.
He thinks Mrs. Fuentes looks like the lady from the Wonder Woman movie and gets a little tongue-tied anytime she even looks at him, much less speaks to him.
Mrs. Fuentes nods at Ajeet. “Can’t wait to see what you came up with.” In response, he makes a strange gurgling noise.
I’d
laugh if he wasn’t so pitiful.
“Uh, thanks,” I say. She doesn’t look like Wonder Woman to me, but Mrs. Fuentes is still pretty cool. She’s the whole reason our school is hosting the competition in the first place. Her son used to do this when he was a kid, and now he’s some kind of engineer at NASA.
Ajeet still isn’t moving. It’s like he’s Han Solo frozen in carbonite. I clear my throat. “I guess we better get our robots.”
Mrs. Fuentes steps aside. “Of course, don’t let me keep you.”
I slap Ajeet’s shoulder, urging him forward. When we’re under the basketball net, I whisper, “You really need to get a grip.”
He immediately nods. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing literally for years.”
“Hey,” he protests, but laughs with me as we reach the table where we left our robots, along with my box of spare parts. After my meltdown.
Most of the other competitors have already gathered around the main table to watch the first run of the day.
Ajeet’s robot sits next to mine. Without the attachments, it’s bigger than QUEN-10, almost the size of a Kleenex box, and taller with its large, rubber tires about the size of coasters. “Nice wheels,” I say.
“Thanks,” Ajeet says, “I’m hoping they’ll keep him running clean across the board.”
A loud buzz sounds and echoes throughout the gym, signaling the end of the first run. Two-and-a-half minutes go fast.
I glance over my shoulder as everyone cheers. The short kid who finished his run high-fives a tall, gangly girl. I check the score on the screen: 115. That’s out of a total of 400. Good, but not good enough to win.
“You’re smart to invert the motor,” Ajeet says.
My chin lifts with pride. I knew he’d notice. My inverted motor is what makes QUEN-10 more compact and, hopefully, more agile.
I pick up my parts box and robot. There are two practice boards on the floor, where the organizers have re-created the competition table. There’s one on each side of the gym. “Should we take them for a test run?” I ask, wanting to see my friend’s robot in action.
A girl with a unicorn T-shirt has taken the practice board closest to us. Her robot pulls the plastic tower’s handle, releasing Lego pieces at the base. The robot then drags the pieces with a claw attachment into the designated circle on the board. That task is worth sixty points. Not bad.
“Coming?” Ajeet asks, already halfway across the gym. The practice board on the other side is empty.
As I pass the main table, most of the competitors bite their nails and then erupt in cheers as they watch another run.
“You first,” Ajeet says when I reach him. We sit on the floor next to the practice board.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Okay, I’ll probably run the last program, since it’s the newest.” After shifting my weight to my knees, I push the gray buttons on QUEN-10, shuffling through my programs to the final one. When I’ve found it, I pull him to home base and press start. QUEN-10’s wheels spin across the table to the opposite end before he makes a sudden forty-five-degree turn and stops short of a vertical wall.
“You’re kidding,” Ajeet says with a goofy grin. “You actually got this program to work?”
I cross my fingers and watch as QUEN-10 climbs the vertical wall using the claw. It makes a whizzing sound and then hooks onto the top. Yes!
“Whoa!” Ajeet says, his hands grabbing the sides of his head. “Mind’s officially blown.”
I sit a little taller.
“You’re going to win, for sure. That’s eighty points!”
“We’ll see,” I say, hoping he’s right as I scoot along the floor to retrieve QUEN-10 from the wall. “Now let’s see what your hunk of junk can do.”
Ajeet scoots around the table to home base and lowers his robot onto the board. He presses the down button, sorting through his programs, until he finds the one he wants. With a tap, the large wheels move straight ahead and then, out of nowhere, veer left and into the tower, making some of its pieces drop to the board.
I cringe as the wheels on Ajeet’s robot spin and groan but go nowhere.
His hands grip his knees. “Holy. Stephen. Hawking!” That’s Ajeet’s ridiculous attempt at cursing, putting “holy” in front of a famous scientist’s name.
Cheers erupt at the main table.
I resist the temptation to check the latest score; Ajeet’s nervous energy is starting to pierce my shaky calm. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to keep us both cool as I reassemble the tower. “Try again.”
Ajeet bites his bottom lip and pulls his robot to home base. He checks to make sure he’s selected the right program and then releases his robot. But it veers left again, crashing into a plastic barricade. “Holy Galileo!” he says, panic streaking his voice. “What am I going to do? They’re already on the fourth run.”
Think, think. What’s a quick fix? It’s veering, which means his gyro sensor’s probably off. “Change the gyro?” I suggest.
He promptly shakes his head. “I don’t have an extra. I spent all my money on these wheels.” Then he spots the crate on my lap. “Do you have one?”
My muscles tighten. I do, but what if I need it for my run? These gyros can be so sensitive.
“Please,” Ajeet begs. “I saw what your robot can do. No way you’ll need the spare.”
A smile tugs at my lips. He’s right: I should be fine. Besides, what’s wrong with me? He’d definitely help me if I needed it.
I pop open the lid and check the sectioned-off spaces. “Here,” I say when I locate my extra sensor and offer it to him.
His hands are shaking as he takes it from me and dismantles his robot. He pries his failing gyro off the side of the robot’s brain-cube and replaces it with mine. For a second, he holds the plug, like he’s trying to remember which port to plug it into.
I nudge the black wire with my fingertip. “Port three?”
“Right,” he says and plugs the wire into the correct port. “Thanks.” He starts to reassemble the rest of his robot.
“Do you have gyro protection?” I ask, stopping him. “It keeps the sensor from jiggling so much.”
Ajeet’s face is losing color fast. Like he’s about to blow chunks. “I shouldn’t even be here.”
“No, wait,” I say, trying to fend off his breakdown—or really his barf-down—as I fish through my crate and hand him a couple of L-brackets.
Ajeet takes the brackets and tries to place them under the new gyro, but his hands keep slipping. He wipes his fingers against his jeans. “I wish my hands weren’t so sweaty.”
“Here,” I say, taking them from him. Feeling his nervous stare, I balance his robot on my lap and place the brackets under the gyro.
“Make sure it’s level,” he instructs.
I nod and fasten the brackets into place with plastic pegs. When I’m finished, I give it back.
He wipes both hands across his shirt before reassembling the rest of his robot. “Thanks,” he says, sounding relieved.
“Is it calibrated to zero?”
Ajeet nods. “I should probably test it, though.”
“Ajeet Deshmukh,” the judge calls.
“Holy,” he croaks.
I hear the click-clicking of her heels before I see Mrs. Fuentes rushing up behind us. “It’s your turn,” she says to him.
“But I need to test it.”
“No time.” Mrs. Fuentes gestures to the main table. Several eyes stare at us.
My stomach twists. “Don’t worry,” I say, forcing a smile. “You’ve got this.”
Ajeet nods a little too hard. “I’ve got this,” he says like he’s trying to convince himself. He drops his out-of-whack gyro inside his back pocket and repeats the phrase.
Cradling his reassembled robot, he jumps to his feet and hurries over to the main table with Mrs. Fuentes.
When I know he’s not looking, my smile falls. I wish we could’ve tested it first.
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I return the cover to my spare-parts crate and set QUEN-10 on top of the lid. With my hands full, I near the table as the judge signals the start of Ajeet’s time.
The gym goes quiet—the only sound is the whirring of his robot’s oversized wheels. Kids cheer.
His robot moves with precision, on to the second mission. The judge checks off the box for the first completed task. Twenty-five points.
I breathe. Good for him. It’s working.
And working. And working.
Ajeet’s robot successfully completes mission after mission. The cheers grow louder with each completed task. My face hurts from grinning so much. There are only ten seconds left as he attempts the final mission—the vertical wall climb. His robot’s wheels rev and start the climb. I hold my breath, but then his robot tips backward, landing on its side a split second before the final buzzer goes off.
But it doesn’t matter. Everyone’s screaming and clapping. Mrs. Fuentes is whistling. A kid’s arm shoots up and accidentally bumps me. QUEN-10 teeters, but I manage to snatch him before he falls to the ground. “Sorry,” the kid says.
Within seconds, Ajeet’s score posts: 320. No penalties. The run was perfect, except for the last task. I’m shouting the loudest. Ajeet spots me on the other side of the table and grins. I give him a thumbs-up as best I can with my hands full. Other kids swarm and pat him on the back.
As they sweep my friend away from the table, my smile fades. Sweat beads on my forehead. His score is going to be tough to beat.
“Rebel Mercer,” the judge calls over the noise, inviting me to the starting point at the corner of the table.
I carefully nudge my way through the crowd and place QUEN-10 on home base, setting my spare-parts crate on the floor between my feet.
People are still buzzing about Ajeet’s run as the judge announces the start of mine: “Three, two, one.” I wipe my forehead and push the center button on QUEN-10.
He rolls across the baseline toward the first task, the one where he should flip the disc and move it into position. “Come on,” I say under my breath. He did it this morning. This shouldn’t be a problem. The shovel attachment lowers and then stops midair as QUEN-10 edges to the right, ramming into the wall.
The Inside Battle Page 2