I explain that we’re Frank’s foster family and he’s living with us until he goes to Monkey College. Before she can ask me what Monkey College is, I tell her Frank comes from an organization in Boston that trains capuchin monkeys to help the disabled.
She looks at me with mistrust. “You’re kidding, right?”
Hannah isn’t the first person who doesn’t believe Frank’s skills. I take him out of his cage and bring him to the living room.
“DVD,” I tell him.
Frank obediently scampers to the DVD player and presses the button that opens the tray.
Hannah covers her mouth with her hands, surprised at Frank’s dexterity.
“Watch this.” I turn to Frank. “IN.”
Frank takes a DVD from the stack and inserts it into the player.
Hannah looks confused. “I thought you said he’d learn this in Monkey College. How come he already knows how to do it?”
I take pride in my answer. “I figure since he’s with us anyway, he might as well learn stuff.” It dawns on me that some of my classmates probably think this way all the time—trying to get ahead in their schoolwork instead of falling behind like me. Why am I teaching my monkey better study skills than I have?
Hannah makes me show her every trick Frank knows, which includes unscrewing the top to a water bottle and turning the light switch on and off. The fun—as always—is interrupted by my mother.
“Are you two getting ready to work?” She’s wearing scrubs, so I know it’s a day she’ll be in surgery.
Hannah assures my mom she’s brought a ton of work for us to do and she can’t wait to get started. Upon hearing the word ton, I tiptoe toward the back door with Frank. My vigilant mother grabs me by the elbow and puts Frank back in his cage while Hannah spreads out a stack of papers on the table.
“This is going to be fun,” Hannah says. As if to emphasize the point, she claps her hands.
Great—now I’M the trained monkey.
Saturday Is Finally Here
I get up early so I can hang out with Frank before my mother starts in with her rules and regulations. It means I’m the one who has to change Frank’s diaper, but he’s so happy to see me, I don’t mind. I take Bodi outside to relieve himself, but he gets distracted by a squirrel, and we end up outside for twenty minutes. When we get back to the kitchen, my father’s making breakfast burritos with scrambled eggs, black beans, and rice. He seems saddened when I douse his masterpiece with ketchup.
Since he hasn’t been working, Dad’s got a bit of a beard going, which I can tell my mom isn’t crazy about. But the only thing that matters today is that he’s driving my friends and me to Global Games. The focus group is being held at one of the movie studios, and by the time we reach Culver City, Umberto’s pulling up with Bill in his specialized wheelchair van. There’s so much anticipation in the parking lot, I think my dad’s SUV might explode with nervous energy.
Before he leaves, my dad turns to us with his Serious Father Face. “Ask for Tom when you get inside. And it goes without saying, you all need to behave—I know these guys.”
My friends and I quickly agree to be on our best behavior.
I’ve been on this studio lot before, but my friends haven’t. Carly’s mouth hangs open as we walk by the soundstage where they film Jeopardy!
“Whoa!” It’s not one of the famous TV shows that has Umberto in disbelief; it’s the giant line outside the building we’re headed toward. He lets out a long whistle. “I thought there’d be only a few kids here today.”
Carly does a quick scan and decides there are almost fifty kids in front of us. “Suppose we don’t get picked?”
Matt tells her not to worry, that my father probably took care of everything. But maybe my father’s name doesn’t mean as much at Global Games as Matt thinks it does and we won’t even make the first cut. This could be like one of those reality shows where contestants get voted off before the competition even starts. I tell myself not to fret, but I do.
Matt takes the lead and goes to the front of the line to ask if Tom’s around. A guy with an official Global Games lanyard tells him Tom’s inside and gives Matt handouts for us to read while we’re in line. Instead, we entertain ourselves by making up stories about the people in front of us.
“See those three guys in the matching Wreck-It Ralph T-shirts?” Umberto asks. “They’re triplets from Germany who moved to Hollywood to make it big. They talk in silly character voices the whole time they play.”
“That girl with the pigtails and the X-Men backpack doesn’t want to be here,” I chime in. “Her parents make her play video games as punishment when she doesn’t clean her room.”
“The guy with the gold space helmet is the number one PlayStation player on the planet,” Carly says.
The three of us race to correct her.
“The number one PlayStation player on the planet is El Cid,” I say. “No one knows what he looks like.”
Carly points to a photo in the brochure Matt gave us. (She, of course, was the only one to even look at it.) “That is El Cid. Global Games flew him here for the focus group.”
Matt and I jump on the back of Umberto’s wheelchair to get a better look. Nobody knows El Cid’s identity; he apparently wants to keep it that way by hiding inside his golden space helmet, cape, and gloves.
“Every gamer knows El Cid,” Umberto says. “If he’s here, we don’t have a chance.”
“Maybe they want to test kids with regular skills too,” I suggest. “They can’t just make games for super-geniuses.”
“If El Cid’s a super-genius, then she’s obviously a girl,” Carly says.
“She COULD be, but she’s not,” Umberto says. “El Cid’s a twenty-year-old guy from Peru who got into MIT when he was seventeen. The rest is a mystery.”
The line inches forward until we finally reach the large metal door leading to the Promised Land. We give the guy our names, and he checks us off without a lot of fanfare. I guess it was silly to think we’d get special treatment just because my dad did storyboards for a few video games last year.
But another guy with a Global Games baseball cap proves me wrong. (Not that THAT’S hard to do.) “You’re Jeremy’s son!” He introduces himself as Tom and goes on and on about what an amazing artist my father is. “And he’s so funny,” Tom gushes. “Last time he was here, he had us all on the floor. Literally, on the floor, screaming with laughter.”
I’d describe my dad as mildly funny, certainly not the comedian Tom makes him out to be. Matt starts sucking up to Tom by joining in on how hilarious my father is. I try not to roll my eyes at Matt’s obvious attempt to brownnose one of the guys running the event. When I look over at Carly, she’s smiling. One thing about Carly—nothing gets by her.
Umberto wheels over to tell El Cid he’s a giant fan, but the best he gets out of the gaming whiz is a nod. While he’s doing that, Matt and I pretend we’re magicians by making four doughnuts disappear in less than a minute. From across the room, Carly shoots us a mom face telling us to stop inhaling the free food, so I grab a napkin and focus on Tom, who’s trying to quiet everyone down.
He looks around, then pulls a whistle out of his pocket and blows it really loud. “Let the games begin!”
A Quiz?!
Tom divides us into groups of three, which means one of us has to join another group. Umberto, Matt, and I stare down Carly, who gives us the evil eye before heading to the center of the room.
“Do you think she feels like we ganged up on her?” I ask.
“No more than any other time,” Matt answers.
Umberto can barely summon the strength to speak. “Look whose group Carly’s in!”
We turn around to see Carly smiling like the cat who ate the canary as she takes a seat next to El Cid.
“That could have been me,” Umberto says.
“Or me,” Matt adds.
“Maybe that’s what we get for ditching her.” I can’t help feeling a pang of guilt for the w
ay we sometimes take advantage of Carly’s good nature.
“Maybe she’ll get some tips,” Umberto says in a hopeful voice.
An intern passes out giant handbooks to each table. The manuals are thicker than the Los Angeles Yellow Pages my mom insists on keeping even though we never use them. “Are we supposed to READ this?” I ask.
A guy at the next table with a lame bandana tied around his neck looks at me and sneers. “No, this is an origami workshop. Start ripping and folding!”
Everyone at his table laughs, and I can feel my cheeks flush.
“That WAS kind of funny,” Matt admits.
I’m grateful when Tom continues. “You lucky people will be the first kids in the universe to play our new video game.” He pulls off the black cloth covering the monitor in the front of the room. “Say hello to Arctic Ninja!”
Everyone in the room lets out a giant “OOOOHHHHHHHHH!”
“If the rest of the graphics are anything like this, this game will be huge!” Umberto says.
Sure enough—the screenshots that cover the board are filled with intricate details of exotic landscapes and lush colors. I’ve played a lot of video games that take place in different settings, but the incredible habitat of this video world is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
“So first, everybody go through your manual. Then after you take the quiz at the back of the book, you’ll be ready to play!”
“Did he just say QUIZ?” I whisper to Matt. “No one said anything about a quiz!”
“On a Saturday!” he adds.
But as I look around the room, everyone else has already started reading. Some kids are turning pages so fast, I wonder if there’s a wind machine nearby. Umberto’s on page six before I even get through the first paragraph.
For some reason I thought being part of this focus group would be a break from reading, a place where I didn’t feel ten steps behind everybody else. Maybe I could even be BETTER at something than most kids for a change. It’s becoming clear that I should get used to being at the lowest rung of the ladder—not just in school but also in life.
Even though she’s at the next table, Carly’s mind-reading skills are in top form. When I look over at her, she’s staring at me with her Are-You-Okay? face. I appreciate her constant support—I just wish I didn’t always need it.
I do what I always do when I have a big reading assignment—skim ahead to see how many excruciating pages I have to look forward to. Ninety-seven?! In my case, it looks like the light at the end of the tunnel is a train.
“There’s no way around it,” Umberto says encouragingly. “Better get started if you want to play.”
He’s right, of course. I hunker down and begin.
A few hours later I look up at the clock and realize that only ten minutes have gone by.
It’s going to be a long day.
Carly Surprises Us
When we finally break for lunch, I’m horrified to discover my friends are already cleared to move on to the video game room. I pretend I am too, not admitting I still have fifty pages to go. (Yes, I kept track of each page like a New Year’s Eve countdown.)
We heap our plates with macaroni and cheese, salad, and chicken wings, then refill our lemonade glasses several times. I am heading to the table with the others when Tom calls me aside.
“It looks like you’re having a tough time with that reading,” Tom says.
I didn’t know my reading disability was something physical like a broken leg you could see from the outside.
“No worries,” Tom continues. “I’m sure you’ve read enough to join the rest of the group.”
I thank Tom, but inside I think, If the reading wasn’t so important, why did we have to do it in the first place? I realize getting angry would be a waste of time and decide just to be grateful for the reprieve.
When I join my friends, they’re all staring at the table near the door.
“El Cid has to eat sometime,” Umberto says. “We’re waiting for him to take off his helmet.”
We’re not the only ones checking out the gaming legend; most of the other kids in the cafeteria are watching El Cid too. The whole room sighs when El Cid stands up, grabs his tray, and heads out of the room.
“He’s probably going to eat in one of the conference rooms,” Matt suggests between chicken wings. “Or maybe one of the bathroom stalls.”
Carly covers Matt’s now gigantic pile of bones with a napkin so she doesn’t have to look at the debris of all those chickens. “The company made one of the private dining rooms available,” she says. “They want to help El Cid maintain his privacy.”
It’s strange for Carly to be the one with the inside scoop—she hardly ever played video games until she started hanging out with us.
“Don’t act like you’re El Cid’s new best friend,” I tell her. “You probably didn’t even talk to him.”
She gives me one of her sweetest smiles and holds up her cell. “Then why did he just text me?”
“WHAT?!” Umberto, Matt, and I grab for the phone, but Carly jumps up from the table and reads the incoming text.
“El Cid says the macaroni and cheese tastes like paste.” She types a response while the three of us look on in astonishment. “It could use some bacon,” she reads as she types. “Bacon makes everything better.”
I ask Matt and Umberto why Carly is always ten steps ahead of us.
Matt looks at me like I have a python slithering out of my ear. “Duh, because she’s a girl. They always kick our butts. Get used to it.”
“Everybody finished?” Tom shouts a bit later from the front of the room. “Your new Global Games video awaits!”
We empty our trays into the trash and head toward the double doors. It’s been three hours since we got here, and my fingers are itching to finally get hold of a controller.
The room is gigantic, filled with long rows of tables. Every table has ten seats and high-end monitors, each with its own console. If Christmas, Hanukkah, Halloween, summer vacation, and my birthday were suddenly transformed into a room, it would look exactly like this.
“I never want to go home,” Matt says.
“I’m bringing my sleeping bag next weekend,” Umberto says. “They’re going to have to drag me out of here.”
Carly takes a few pictures with her phone until an intern races over and tells her we’re not allowed to take photographs. Carly’s never in trouble, so it’s fun to see her reaction the few times she is. “I was just going to show Mrs. Kimball at the media center this cool room design.” Carly flushes. “It’s not like I’m spying on their precious video game.”
“Maybe you can unmask your new boyfriend El Cid too,” I suggest.
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
“Are you sure?” Umberto points to the other side of the room, where El Cid is motioning to Carly. She walks away in a huff to join the gaming legend, leaving the three of us nobodies in the dust.
What I CAN Say
The good news is: Arctic Ninja is the most amazing game my friends and I have ever played. It’s THAT good.
The bad news is: We can’t tell anybody.
Don’t try to get details out of me, because I can’t say a thing, except to my dad, who ended up talking to Tom about Arctic Ninja this week.
“What’s your favorite part of the game?” Dad asks me on the drive to the hardware store. (His new project is replacing all the doorknobs.)
“It’s hard to pick just one part,” I answer.
He makes me tell him what I know about the game so far.
“Well, there’s a narwhal called Skippy that knows martial arts. He has to swim through fourteen different levels while being bombarded by razor-sharp icicles being shot from a flying drone. If you make it through the booby-trapped igloo, you discover a portal leading to different worlds. While under constant attack, you need to find the secret code and break it before the lemmings do. Not to mention there’s a bloodthirsty snowman who pops up unexpectedly. And don’t for
get a narwhal’s horn is treasured by poachers, so there’s plenty of THEM around too. Plus, the background music has a million hooks and you’ll NEVER get it out of your head.”
My father smiles. “And that’s just Level One.”
Talking about Arctic Ninja makes up for the fact that it takes Dad forty-five minutes to pick out doorknobs.
That’s right. Doorknobs.
Why Is Saturday Always So Far Away?
As a normal twelve-year-old, I spend most of my time desperately waiting for the weekend, counting off each school day, each chore, each homework assignment until Saturday finally—FINALLY—arrives. But since I joined the video game group, it’s like the entire world’s in slow motion, dragging out each minute of school so long that I want to scream. The fact that the state tests are coming up only makes things worse.
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time preparing for these tests. But I’m sure all of you will do well.”
I admit I can be completely paranoid when it comes to tests, but it does seem like Ms. McCoddle might be focusing today’s little speech on me.
“It pays to be prepared,” she continues. “That means some things might have to take a backseat—things like sports, music lessons, skateboarding, texting, video games. These things may all seem important—”
“Because they ARE,” Matt interrupts.
“But so are these tests.” Ms. McCoddle gives Matt’s desk a little rap with her knuckles as if that somehow gives her the last word.
My Life as a Gamer Page 2