Spotlight on Coding Club!

by Michelle Schusterman

I giggled, shaking my backside a little before scooting out of the cabinet. My mom was setting her purse on the counter. She eyed the mess on the table—bowls filled with batter and glaze, flour and sugar and red food coloring spattered everywhere—and smiled at me.

  “Red-velvet waffles? What’s the occasion?”

  “No reason,” I said quickly, closing the cabinet door. “Just wanted a good snack. Any idea where the waffle iron is?”

  “Hmm.” Mom frowned as she poured a glass of iced tea. “I remember we kept it in the pantry in the last apartment, but in this apartment . . .” She took a sip and stared around the kitchen. Then her face brightened. “Wait. You haven’t made waffles since we moved here, have you?”

  And suddenly, I knew exactly where the waffle iron was. We both said it at the same time.

  “Junk closet!”

  I hurried out of the kitchen, crossed the living room, and stopped in front of the closet in the hallway. About a dozen boxes—some still taped up, some ripped open—were stacked haphazardly inside.

  Every apartment we’d ever lived in had a junk closet, although it wasn’t always an actual closet. One time it was the bathtub. (Don’t worry, the shower was separate.)

  It was never intentional. We just always hit a point during the unpacking process when we were too tired to finish. And we knew we’d be packing it all up again soon enough. So the boxes filled with stuff we didn’t use on a daily basis got shoved into what we always called the junk closet.

  A weird thought hit me as I dug through the boxes, looking for the waffle iron. This was the first apartment Mom and I had moved into with just the two of us. Now that Mom and Dad were divorced, Dad’s military career didn’t decide where we lived anymore . . . but we were still treating this apartment as if it were temporary.

  “Aha!” Triumphantly, I pulled the waffle iron out from under an unopened box of stationery Aunt Lilith had given Mom for her last birthday. I brushed dust off its plastic top, then spotted what had been underneath it and froze.

  “Brave Bonnie Broomstick!” I whispered.

  A yellow teddy bear gazed up at me with slightly crooked button eyes. Her black cape was wrinkled, and her pointy witch hat was squashed. Tucking the waffle iron under my arm, I lifted her out of the box.

  “How did you end up in the junk closet?” I asked, doing my best to straighten her hat. I didn’t remember packing her. Actually, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen her. Dad had given me Brave Bonnie Broomstick the first time he’d been deployed.

  “A very brave witch-bear,” he’d told me. “For a very brave witch-girl.”

  (That was when I was going through my witch stage. No one could pull off a gray wig and snaggly teeth like first-grade me.)

  I smiled at Bonnie, and my eyes welled with tears. Uh-oh. I was definitely thinking about The Thing I Wasn’t Supposed to Think About. And I definitely didn’t want Mom to see me crying because she’d immediately know why. And then we’d have to talk about it. Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I took a few deep breaths before heading back to the kitchen.

  “Mom, you’ll never guess what I—hey!”

  Mom looked up guiltily, her finger still in the bowl of red-velvet batter. “Whoops. Caught red-handed.” She licked the batter off and grinned. “Or red-fingered, I guess. Hey, is that . . .”

  “Brave Bonnie Broomstick!” I exclaimed, wiggling the bear in Mom’s face. “She was under the waffle iron. I think one of her eyes is a little loose.”

  “Aw,” Mom replied. “I could sew it on tighter, if you like. Or, you know, we could yank it off and go for the classic one-eyed witch look.”

  Forcing a laugh, I plugged the waffle iron in next to the coffeemaker. “Option number one, please,” I said, flipping the switch to on. “Hey, do you think it’s weird that we still have a junk closet?”

  Mom handed me the bowl of batter. “Huh, I hadn’t thought about it. Do you wanna unpack those boxes?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Uh, I was thinking you’d do a better job. You know, with your extra-awesome organizational skills.”

  We both chuckled. Mom was good at lots of things, like being a social worker, typing at lightning-fast speed, and singing along with the Grease cast album in this super-dorky way that made me cry with laughter every time. But being organized was not one of her strengths.

  “Well, at least we can find a permanent home for the waffle iron now.” Mom watched as I tested the iron’s heat by dropping a bit of batter onto the griddle. When it sizzled, I poured a ladle’s worth on, closed the lid, and set the timer.

  “And Brave Bonnie,” I said, poking her lovingly on the nose. “She doesn’t deserve to live in a box.”

  Mom took another sip of iced tea. “Yeah? Where’s her new home going to be?”

  “My room, of course!” I set down the bowl and started taking out the plates and forks. A few seconds passed before I realized Mom was watching me with that how-do-I-say-this expression she gets right before awkward conversations.

  “So Brave Bonnie’s back,” she said at last. “Honey, does this have anything to do with your dad’s mission?”

  Aaaaand there it was. The Thing I Was Definitely Thinking About Now.

  The military called them “training missions.” But they were very real and very dangerous. And Dad wasn’t allowed to communicate with us or tell us how long he’d be gone. Sometimes they lasted a few days, sometimes weeks. When I was in fourth grade, he’d gone on one that lasted almost two months.

  And guess what I’d gotten on the last day of Hanukkah? I mean, besides a few mystery books and a bag of gelt (they’re gold-wrapped chocolate coins). That’s right: a video call from Dad with the news that he’d been assigned to another “training mission.” He’d left the last week of February, and we hadn’t heard from him since.

  I kept my gaze on the timer. “No, it’s not that! I told you, she just happened to be under the waffle iron. Speaking of, drumroll, please!” I lifted the lid with a flourish to reveal a perfect waffle. “Ta-da!”

  “Beautiful,” Mom said with a smile.

  Grabbing a spatula, I gently lifted the waffle out and slid it onto a plate. Then I poured another ladleful of batter on the griddle and closed the lid. “Could you hand me the glaze?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I busied myself icing the waffle. “So my coding group has a cool new project to do,” I said, and I told Mom about the talent show and our voting feature for the talent show app.

  “That sounds fun!” she said. “But isn’t the talent show in a few weeks?”

  “Next Friday! I can’t wait.” I paused, making a face. “Except you’ll never guess what we found out today.” Mom looked up at me expectantly. “Mrs. Clark is leaving. She got a job at TechTown.”

  “Oh no!” Mom put down her glass. “I’m sorry to hear that. I know how much you girls love her.”

  “Yeah.” A memory of my not-quite panic attack flashed through my mind. I did love Mrs. Clark, but why had her news triggered that kind of reaction? I’d outgrown the whole panic-attack thing by the time I started middle school. My last therapist had said so herself.

  “Earth to Erin . . . everything okay, hon?”

  My head snapped up. “What? Yeah!” I handed the plate to Mom, along with a fork. She took a bite and closed her eyes.

  “Omigod. Perfection.”

  I grinned. “Thanks.” Turning back to the counter, I took my waffle out of the iron and started icing. No sooner had I finished when Mom cleared her throat.

  “So this has nothing to do with Brave Bonnie Broomstick, but have you taken a look at that list of therapists I gave you?”

  I swear, mothers are mind readers.

  Sighing, I cut my waffle with my fork. “Some, yeah.”

  “Any you want me to call?” Mom asked carefully. “Just for a trial session?�
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  “Nah, not yet.” I chewed my waffle and closed my eyes. It was good but not perfect. I made a mental note to adjust the cream-cheese-to-sugar ratio next time so the glaze wouldn’t be so sweet.

  “Maybe we can go over the list together tonight and pick one or two to call first. What do you think?”

  I took another bite, stalling for time. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to find a new therapist. My last one, Jillian, was amazing. Really funny, too.

  And I had looked at Mom’s list. She’d found a ton of therapists who all sounded great. But there were so many to choose from, it always ended up making me feel even more overwhelmed. Reading bios on their websites wasn’t going to help me find a therapist I liked as much as Jillian.

  “Can’t—I’ve got a group-text date with my coding club group,” I told Mom. “We need to brainstorm more about this voting feature.”

  “Ah, gotcha. After that, maybe?”

  “I don’t know, I have a ton of homework,” I replied. “Literally, tons. I had to use a forklift just to get my backpack home.”

  Mom smiled, though her eyes still had that worried glint. “Erin, I really think it’s important that we find a new therapist. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” I said, and I meant it. “It’s just not urgent. I don’t get panic attacks anymore.”

  Mom arched an eyebrow. “Who said anything about panic attacks?”

  Whoops.

  I turned my attention back to my waffle. “I’m just saying, that’s the reason I started therapy in the first place. But I haven’t had a panic attack in years because I’ve learned how to manage them.” Clearing my throat, I began ticking points off on my fingers. “First of all, I have film club, and extracurriculars are therapist-recommended to help manage anxiety. Second of all, now I have coding club, too. Twice the extracurriculars, twice the anxiety-managing powers! And third of all, Dad went on two training missions last year and how many panic attacks did I have? That’s right: zero. Nada. Zilch.”

  “All fair points,” Mom admitted. But I couldn’t help noticing the way she kept glancing at Brave Bonnie Broomstick. And when I hugged her before heading off to my room, I could tell from the way she squeezed me extra hard that the therapy talk wasn’t over.

  It was like in coding, when a loop tells a program to perform an action over and over again while a condition is true.

  while (dad_is_on_a_mission) {

  worry_about_Erin( );

  }

  My mom was totally caught in that loop. I found myself wishing I could write code that would program her to stop worrying about me.

  if (erin.panic_attacks == 0) {

  mom.believe(erin);

  }

  I laughed to myself and made a mental note to tell my coding friends about my magic mom-programming code. Then I realized that would require telling them about Dad’s mission and my panic attacks.

  Mental note: deleted.

  It’s not like I was ashamed or anything. And I knew my friends would be supportive if I did tell them. But the panic attack thing wasn’t a thing anymore. What happened today in coding club was just a tiny glitch. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

  My phone started buzzing the second I walked into my room. I flopped down on my bed, setting Brave Bonnie Broomstick next to me.

  still not over mrs clark leaving

  I KNOW

  i wonder who her replacement will be

  idk. mr owens, maybe? he doesn’t teach any clubs

  doesn’t he run student council? they meet mondays

  oh yeah . . .

  I smiled, thumbs flying over my phone.

  replacement should be the prez of techtown. they take one of ours, we take one of theirs! #battlecry

  lol!!

  hahaha

  seriously!!

  btw, erin . . .

  My stomach suddenly clenched. Had Maya noticed my not-quite panic attack during Mrs. Clark’s announcement? We’d only been friends since I moved to town at the beginning of the school year, but Maya knew me pretty well. Especially considering how much time we spent hanging out because of coding club. I held my breath until her next text appeared.

  seriously, what’s your talent show act gonna be??

  I exhaled a huge sigh of relief, a grin spreading over my face as my friends chimed in with suggestions.

  you should do impressions!

  YES!! bet your stand-up act would be funnier than bradley’s!

  but your voice is so gorgeous! you should sing!

  or dance! is there a way u can do all three??

  actually, YES. remember this?

  Quickly, I opened a web browser and searched for my favorite viral video of all time—it was of a little girl singing—then copied the link and pasted it into our group text. Half a minute later, my friends started to respond.

  rofl!!!

  OMG, LOVE IT!

  THIS IS HAPPENING. want me to help you film it?

  if you win, can we be your backup dancers at the assembly??

  yes and yes!!!

  I was bouncing on my bed with excitement. The text conversation turned to voting-feature details and splitting up tasks, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my talent show act. It would be a lot of work, between film club and coding club, especially considering I had already committed so much time for the talent show. But that was a good thing. And necessary.

  All the Talents was going to be All the Distractions I needed until Dad’s mission was over.

  Chapter Three

  By lunch the next day, Mrs. Clark had helped Bradley’s group get the All the Talents web app up online. It was just a home page—no actual videos or features yet—but the whole school was buzzing about it. Maya and I passed by Bradley in the hot-lunch line as we headed to our table.

  “Nice job getting the site up so fast!” Maya said. “Although it looks kinda plain . . .”

  Bradley took a plate heaped with mashed potatoes and set it on his tray. “Oh, just you wait,” he said with a grin. “We’re working on a super-cool design. We just wanted to get something up online with the rules for entering so everyone can start making their videos.”

  I nodded. “Good call, since the first round’s due Monday.” My stomach did a flip as I said it. After our group text last night, it was pretty obvious the voting part was going to be really complicated to code. And while it was going to be fun, it probably wouldn’t leave me with much time to film my audition.

  “Why don’t I come over Saturday afternoon?” Maya asked. “I can help you get set up and film.”

  “That’d be great!” I answered. Apparently best friends also had mind-reading powers.

  In front of Bradley, a tall girl in a cute blue-plaid romper turned around. “Hey, Maya!” she said eagerly.

  Maya smiled. “Hi, Hannah. Love your headband.”

  Hannah touched the wide purple cloth wrapped around her cropped black curls. It complemented her dark skin perfectly. “Thanks! Hey, I heard you’re doing a fashion show for All the Talents, and—”

  “What?!” I whirled around, staring at Maya. “Are you really? That’s so cool!”

  “Yeah,” Maya said, toying with her long beaded necklace. “Designing is a talent, too. My video will be a fashion runway, with girls modeling my outfits.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you about,” said Hannah. “If you’re looking for models, I’d love to do it! Your dresses are amazing.”

  “Sure!” Maya exclaimed, surprising me when her voice shot up an octave. “You’d be a great model. I mean, because . . . um . . .”

  I stared at her. Was Maya blushing? I’d never seen her so flustered.

  “Because you’re so tall,” I finished for her, smiling at Hannah. “And because you’ve clearly mastered walking.”
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  Hannah laughed. “Cool! I’ll text you later about it, okay?”

  Maya nodded, still pink faced. “Yeah, okay!”

  We headed to our table, and I nudged her elbow. “What was that about?”

  “What? Nothing,” Maya said quickly. “Oh hey, don’t let me forget to ask Sophia if I can use that dress I made her for the dance.”

  My heart warmed at the memory of Sophia walking into the winter school dance, all eyes on her. Maya had sewn all these lights into the fabric of Sophia’s dress, and then programmed them to blink and flash to the music. It was amazing.

  “So a fashion runway, huh?” I asked. “That’s going to be so cool!”

  Maya beamed. “Thanks! I’m really excited.”

  Lucy, Leila, and Sophia were already deep in conversation when Maya and I sat down.

  “I ran into Mrs. Clark right after third period,” Lucy told us immediately. “She said a ton of students already signed up for the talent show. And enrollment is open until tomorrow!”

  “Wow,” I said, unwrapping my sandwich. “Film club’s gonna be busy. We have to screen all the videos and approve them before they go up on the site.”

  Maya bit into a carrot stick with a loud crunch. “You know, most reality shows have a few rounds,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe we should consider that, since so many people are entering.”

  “I like that,” Sophia said. “We could narrow down the contestants to a small group. It would make things more exciting, too!”

  “Not to mention more work for everyone in coding club,” I added.

  Lucy tilted her head. “You don’t think we should do it?”