“Dad,” I’d say, quite reasonably, “I can’t shut this off right now or it’ll ruin my whole campaign.” (A minor fib.)
“Come on, Bart—I know you’re able to save those games.” (Oops. Busted!)
So, when we moved here to Rancho El Sunno, Dad made it a point to become buds with my new gym teacher, who promised my dad he’d help me be more active.
In fact, Coach Pluck has made it his personal mission to turn me into a star athlete just like my dad.
Each time there’s class, Coach Pluck presents us with a new “challenge,” such as “half push-ups” and “upside-down jumping jacks.”
I swear, Coach Pluck must sit up all night thinking about ways to humiliate and demoralize twelve-year-olds with weird “exercises.”
And then there’s the dreaded “Macaroni Run,” in which we have to run around the track as many times as possible in twenty-two minutes or until we collapse to the ground, whichever comes first.
What does macaroni have to do with running? No idea, but everybody hates it because it pretty much ruins you for the rest of the day.
And sadly, the day is not even halfway done.
THIS BYTES
By lunch period, you’d think I’d be starving—you know, after doing three hundred sideways sit-ups. (Please don’t ask me to demonstrate, especially if you’re eating.)
But I usually skip the long, depressing cafeteria lines, score a bag of chips, and spend some time on my beloved smartphone.
My phone is my most prized possession. My dad gave it to me for my twelfth birthday this past February. I gave him a solemn promise that I wouldn’t do anything crazy with it. Like sell vital American secrets to foreign powers or something.
So what do I do on my phone during lunch period (and in the mornings, and after school, and before I go bed, and pretty much every chance I get)?
Well, that’s a huge part of this story, and I’d tell you everything now—I’m not the kind to leave you in suspense—except the third bully in my life is approaching. And if I don’t take defensive measures now, all will be lost.
Say hello to Tigran, a.k.a. the Tyrant, my lunch period nemesis. See, YOU have to say hello to the Tyrant, because there is zero chance he’s going to say hello to you first. He doesn’t do “greetings.”
“Plain,” I mutter.
“I like sour cream and onion.”
I want to say, There are plenty of bags of sour cream and onion chips for sale over by the snack booth! But I don’t.
The Tyrant helps himself to any of my possessions whenever he feels like it. Pens. Candy bars. A calculator. Whatever.
Or my plain potato chips, even though he’s made it clear that he prefers sour cream and onion.
(I hate sour cream and onion chips. They remind me of kissing a grandparent who just slurped down a bowlful of sour cream and thought, Oh, I know—I’ll have some raw onions for dessert!)
Anyway, the Tyrant basically considers me an ATM machine with a pulse. You don’t get to know ATM machines. You don’t become friends with ATM machines. You don’t say “please” or “thank you” to ATM machines.
You walk up, you take what you want, you leave.
Now, the Tyrant has never threatened me with physical harm or anything (unlike the Golem). He’s never made fun of me (unlike the Mimic). No, his preferred terror tactics are much more subtle.
I just know that if I refuse to let the Tyrant take my stuff, something… dark… unknowable… sinister… really awful will happen.
And yep, that’s enough to convince me!
Fortunately, I’m quick enough to hide my beloved smartphone whenever the Tyrant approaches. But I’m more than a little worried that one of these days, I won’t see him coming.
THE GIRL WHO…
After countless centuries, a half dozen decades, 19 years, 3 months, 2 days, 1.7 hours, 57 minutes, and 4 seconds…
The school day is finally over.
Fortunately, I live close enough to walk home. Otherwise, I’d have to walk to Rancho Verdugo High School and wait for my dad to finish hanging up jockstraps or inflating footballs or whatever the heck else he does all day. (I kid the old man, he knows that.) While middle school is no picnic, I don’t even want to think about the horrors that await me in ninth grade.
Unfortunately, it’s still a long, slow slog through the burning sun that pummels the city of Rancho El Scorcho relentlessly.
Dad and I live in a pretty cool apartment building, and I’m lucky enough to have my own room. The window looks out onto a little courtyard, which pretty much everybody uses.
I mean, everybody passes by my window. Loud kids. Moody teenagers. Cool dudes coming home from a party. Delivery guys. Guys with leaf blowers (even though there are no leaves here in Rancho Deserto). It’s sort of like living inside the 30th Street Station subway stop back in Philly.
We used to live in a real house back then. Not only did I have my own room, but it was on the second floor and faced a tree. The tree never woke me up at 3:00 a.m. telling a dumb joke to its tree buddy.
“So, man, I just told her to leaf! Get it? Get it?”
But I do have one friend in this new apartment complex. Sort of. Kind of.
Maybe?
Whenever I walk through the courtyard, I see a girl, about my age, sitting on the third-floor balcony, right across from my own.
Every day we kind of just… look at each other. Me on the ground, her one story up. She always seems to beat me home from school. Maybe she doesn’t have an eighth-period class? Or is she already in high school?
One afternoon, I did something that surprised me. When we looked at each other, I took a chance and… waved at her.
And she… sort of waved back?
But a second later, she disappeared. Like, instantly. Yikes, did I scare her off her own balcony? Was there something on my face?
I knew nothing about the girl on the balcony, other than she a.) appeared to be a carbon-based life form who breathed air, and b.) had the ability to wave.
And the sad truth was, she was the closest thing I had to a friend.
TOP SECRET! PROPER CLEARANCE REQUIRED!
Safe in my bedroom, I opened my laptop. A pale blue glow illuminated the walls. I heard the gentle little whirl of microchips as they began… um, microchipping.
At long last, I could get on with my real work, which I began not long after moving to Rancho Verdugo.
I can’t tell you its real name. Not yet. So, for now, just call it… oh, I don’t know. Something humble like the Most Important Secret Project in the History of the Universe.
Okay, that is kind of a mouthful. So from now on, let’s just refer to it as SEC-PRO, for SEC(ret) PRO(ject).
I’m always thinking about SEC-PRO. And I work on it using my beloved smartphone as much as I can during the school day. But to really make the magic happen, nothing beats my laptop.
What is this magic you speak of? you may be asking. Well, I can’t tell you. Not quite yet. But soon, all will become clear.
The laptop is a hand-me-down from my mom, who gave it to me not long before she split up with Dad. She told me she’d come back for me as soon as she could (I’m not holding my breath) but in the meantime we could stay in touch all the time by Skype or something. This almost never happens, but at least the laptop works.
Anyway, enough of that. I needed to work fast, because Dad would be home soon, and he always grumbles about me being on my laptop. So my plan was to work right up until the moment Pickleback gave me the signal.
Who is Pickleback? you ask.
Pickleback is our dog, and I swear he has superpowers. I’m totally serious. His super-ears can pick up the sound of Dad’s car even through several slabs of concrete. The moment Dad’s beat-up minivan pulls into the garage, Pickleback goes absolutely bonkers with excitement.
He stampedes through the apartment (which takes about two seconds) and waits by the door, tail wagging, booty shaking, ready to pounce on Dad the moment the door op
ens.
Yeah, Pickleback is a little nuts—but he’s an awesome alarm system. Once he goes tearing off, I have plenty of time to save my work, close my laptop, then start juggling tennis balls or whatever.
What’s that? Oh, the name. Yeah, Pickleback was sort of a compromise. Dad wanted to name him after some dumb quarterback or something. I wanted to name him Pickles after nature’s perfect food. (Pickles rule; don’t try to tell me otherwise. I’ll bet they hand out free pickles in Hawaii.) So we came up with something sort of in-between. Pickleback doesn’t seem to mind.
But then it was time for work. Pickleback, seeing that I was typing on the dumb plastic thing with all the keys, curled up on my floor and sighed. I opened my SEC-PRO files and started to type.…
Then something weird happened. A little box popped up on my screen. It was a friend request from someone.
CyberGirl03 wants to SlapTalk with you! ACCEPT/DECLINE
CyberGirl03? Who the heck was that? Then I remembered: SlapTalk is a messaging app that only works when you’re in close range with another SlapTalker. (I tried it out over the summer, only to realize my closest friend was 2,700 miles away.) That meant CyberGirl03 was nearby. Hmmm.
I clicked on Accept.
CyberGirl03: Hi.
BoringBart: Um… hi?
Hours seemed to pass. Days. Months. Flowers pushed their way up out of the ground and then withered away.…
CyberGirl03: You just moved in a few months ago, right?
BoringBart: Yep. Are you the girl on the balcony?
CyberGirl03: Maybe. Where do you come from?
BoringBart: Philadelphia.
CyberGirl03: No. I mean where do you come from every day, when you walk by?
BoringBart: Oh! School. So you ARE the girl on the balcony?
CyberGirl03: Possibly. And yeah, I figured you were coming home from school. But do you go to Rancho Verdugo Middle or the private one up the road?
BoringBart: Oh. Rancho Verdugo.
BoringBart: Though I’d rather Ver-DON’T-go.
I sucked in my breath. She’d either get my lame pun, or she wouldn’t. But a few seconds later she responded:
CyberGirl03: LOL. Good one, Boring Guy.
CyberGirl03: BTW, why is “BoringBart” your handle? You don’t seem boring to me.
BoringBart: Trust me, you’ll be falling asleep in no time.
CyberGirl03: LOL. I doubt that. I spend most of my time inside my apartment, so believe me, I know all about boring.
BoringBart: Why don’t you go to school?
CyberGirl03: I never said I didn’t go to school. I do cyberschool. You know, on my laptop?
BoringBart: Which explains YOUR handle.
CyberGirl03: Ding ding ding! We have a winner!
BoringBart: Well… I’d better get to work.
CyberGirl03: Homework, huh?
BoringBart: Sort of.
CyberGirl03: What do you mean, sort of? What other kind of work do you do?
Whoops! Already, I’d said too much. I couldn’t reveal SEC-PRO to a near-stranger. The beta version is barely even ready!
BoringBart: I mean, I sort of have a lot of homework.
CyberGirl03: So mysterious! Okay, Boring Bart. CU later.
DON’T YOU HAVE A BARN TO RAISE?
Cue: Pickleback, going bonkers. Woof woof woof woof.
Cue: Dad, entering the apartment.
Cue: Me, closing my laptop and shoving it under the covers on my bed.
“Bart, buddy—you home?”
I wanted to say, Um, where else would I be? But instead I emerged from my inner sanctum, trying to pretend like I haven’t been on my laptop for the past ninety minutes.
“It’s amazing outside,” Dad said. “You want to hit the pool for a while? Or maybe toss the ol’ ball around?”
All I could think was, In this heat? Are you crazy? Do you want me to spontaneously combust? But the truth is that I had something else I wanted to show my dad.
“Actually, I was thinking,” I said, trying to be as smooth as frozen yogurt, “maybe after dinner I could show you this cool game I found online. All you need is your phone, and you just walk around the apartment looking for…”
I stopped talking because of the expression on Dad’s face. He looked like I had just suggested that we spend the evening wearing hats made of lettuce while chanting in Klingon.
“A video game? Buddy, we just moved to one of the most beautiful places in the country. We should be outside in the fresh air as much as we can.”
Here’s the thing with Dad. I know he means well. And yeah, maybe he has a good point about going outside more often.
But I wish he’d meet me halfway.
I mean, as far as I know, the old man’s never, ever picked up a video game controller. Never steered a Mario Kart. Never even cleared a board of Pac-Man. I’m not going to accuse my dad of being a technophobe, but sometimes I think he’d be more comfortable if we all looked like this:
The weird thing is, I think my dad would be all about video games if he gave them a chance. I mean, he’s a sports fanatic, which means he’s into competition, right? I think he’d go crazy with a good MMORPG (massively multiplayer online role-playing game, in case you’re a wannabe farmer like my dad).
But the idea of video games boggles poor Dad’s mind. “You’re always on your electronic devices,” he’ll say. “Why don’t you do something physical? When I was your age…”
At which point I’ll cut him off, because I’ve heard the “When I was your age” speech enough times to repeat it backward. And in elvish!
I’ll often try to show him whatever game I’m playing, but Dad acts like he’s a vampire and I’ve just shown him a crucifix made of garlic cloves.
Meanwhile, I’m usually too polite to mention how much time my dad spends in front of the flat-screen watching men in puffy uniforms chase each other up and down a field with numbers on it.
I get it. People my dad’s age didn’t have cool things like cell phones and laptops when they were growing up. So they had to make the best of whatever they had lying around.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t totally like that, but I’m sure it’s close.
Anyway, my mission now is to avoid being burned alive. So I told my dad, “I have a lot of homework to catch up on, actually.”
“How about just a walk around the neighborhood, then? We’ve been here three months, and it feels like we haven’t had the chance to explore the neighborhood very much.”
Again, I wanted to shout: Go outside? In this roasting, soul-sucking heat? Are you kidding?
Instead I said, “The math alone is probably going to take me an hour or two.”
My dad looked disappointed, like I’d just told him he was grounded for a week. I had to throw him a bone.
“Maybe I can walk Pickleback with you later?” I asked. “You know, after dinner.” (And after the skin-blasting, soul-withering sun goes down, I almost added.)
“Sounds good, buddy. Go on, get to that math. Then we’re going outside.”
Outside, right.
No.
Wait a minute.
My dad had inadvertently sparked a mini-brainstorm for me. My brain started to spin so fast I could hear it humming inside my skull. Outside? Now that was a really interesting idea.…
The question was—could I pull it off?
THE END OF ANOTHER RIDICULOUSLY BORING DAY
That night was pretty much like every other night. I finished up my homework. We ate dinner. I put away the dinner dishes. Dad fed Pickleback, and we walked him. Then I told Dad I was pretty tired, and that I wanted to hit the hay to read for a while before falling asleep.
Now even though this has been our nightly routine ever since we moved to Rancho El Snooze-O, Dad always seems shocked I don’t want to stay up later.
“You sure, buddy? We could watch a few shows or something.”
“No, I just want to turn in early,” I told him, feeling guilty for fibbing. “Crazy
-busy day tomorrow.”
“Well, okay.”
When I turned to head back to my room, Dad’s old football instincts kicked in and he practically tackled me. I couldn’t help it. I started to giggle and squirm away.
“Ugh, what’s with all the PDA, Dad?”
“PD what?”
“PDA. Public Display of Affection.”
“Well, for one thing,” Dad said, “this is not public, so you don’t have to worry about me embarrassing you in front of your friends.”
As if I have any friends, I want to say, then remembered the Girl on the Balcony, aka CyberGirl03, who clearly didn’t have any. Suddenly I felt guilty about even thinking that wisecrack. (Boy, the guilt can pile up fast, can’t it?)
“And for another thing,” Dad continued, “my own dad never liked to hug us before we went off to bed. I always thought that was wrong. So now you’re stuck with me hugging you good night for the rest of your life.”
I smiled. “Even when I’m extremely old? Like, when I’m in my forties?”
Dad is in his forties. I said this to mess with him.
“Yes,” Dad said. “Even when I’m at the impossibly ancient age of fifty. Buddy, even when I’m ninety, I’m still going to want to hug you.”
I had no snappy comeback for that one. It was kind of nice to hear that Big, Bad Coach Bill Bean didn’t think I was too boring for a hug.
Then I was off to bed (sort of). Thanks to Dad’s accidental suggestion, I was going to be up pretty late, working on my laptop.
So there you have it. A typical day in the life of Bartholomew Bean, the Most Boring Middle Schooler in the Universe, right?
Boy, you couldn’t be more wrong.
Unbelievably Boring Bart Page 2