My Life as a Coder

by Janet Tashjian

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  For Jackson

  THANK YOU??

  I doubt they’d ever teach this in science class, but there HAS to be some connection between how much fun you had on a long weekend and how excruciating it is to go back to school afterward.

  Matt and I spend Tuesday limping to our classrooms like wounded soldiers on a battlefield. He occasionally stops and doubles over. “I’m not gonna make it,” he cries. “Go on without me!”

  For the past few months, Matt and I have been obsessed with comedy. We follow a ton of comedians on Instagram, and for several nights we’ve stayed up past midnight laughing at their hilarious stories.

  Matt’s always been a jokester and I’m pretty good at concocting ridiculous schemes, so we’re convinced we’re destined to become the next famous comedy duo.

  When I finally get home from that grueling day back, I’m surprised my parents are already there. Dad’s been logging long hours storyboarding for the film he’s working on, and Mom must’ve had a shortened day because she’s in a T-shirt and leggings instead of her usual scrubs.

  They follow me into the kitchen as I walk in to grab a snack. The goofy smiles on both their faces make me uneasy. Before I can ask what’s going on, Dad speaks up.

  “We’ve got a surprise for you!” He points to a corrugated cardboard box on the kitchen table.

  I haven’t gotten any good grades lately and it’s nowhere near my birthday, so I’m curious to see what’s inside.

  Before I can open it, however, Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “You know how we’ve had conversations about the importance of learning new things?” she asks.

  Suddenly the prospect of this gift seems a lot less appealing. I nod and reach for the box once more but Mom stops me again.

  “Your brain is still developing, so it’s important to keep giving it new tasks,” Dad adds. “It’s called neuroplasticity.”

  Case closed; this present is definitely NOT something cool. I decide whatever it is can wait until after I’ve finished an entire bag of Goldfish.

  “I just walked in the door and you’re already talking about stuff I don’t understand.” I point to the box on the table and tell them whatever it is, I’m no longer interested.

  “That’s too bad,” Mom says, “because it’s something you’ve wanted for a long time.”

  Her comment has me intrigued. I wipe the Goldfish crumbs off the counter and sit down. I remember the conversation we had a few months ago when Carly took a class in Mandarin; my parents tried to talk me into taking it with her to “expand my brain” but I told them I’d like to get an A in my own language first before studying a new one.

  “We’ve been impressed with the computer science work Umberto’s been doing,” Mom continues. “It seems like you have been too.”

  “Umberto’s a brainiac,” I tell them. “I can beat him at video games and I’m good at finding the perfect meme for any situation, but he’s a thousand times better at actual programming.”

  “Well, maybe that’s because you’ve never tried.” Dad pushes the box toward me and I slowly open it.

  Inside is a laptop!

  “No way, my very own computer! Now I won’t have to borrow yours all the time.”

  When I press the power button, the screen immediately illuminates. AWESOME! It boots up in lightning speed, but I’m confused by the empty screen.

  “The desktop’s empty. Where are the games and applications?” I say.

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Dad says. “It’s only got a word processing application for schoolwork. The rest of the applications you’ll have to write yourself.”

  “WHAT?!” I shout. “I don’t know how to code!”

  “Yet!” Dad adds. “We got the email on the upcoming after-school programs. There’s a coding elective starting in a few weeks—that’s why we’re giving this to you now instead of waiting for your birthday.”

  My father may be the one talking, but this scheme to get me to do more work has Mom’s name all over it.

  “The whole point of an elective is that it’s something I choose,” I whine. “I was going to take the comedy after-school class, not computer programming!”

  “You can sign up for both.” Mom separates her hands like she’s showing off a giant bass she just caught. “It’s all about expanding your brain.”

  I thank them for the computer and head upstairs. As soon as I’m in my room, I’ll download all the games and applications I want. Who ever heard of creating and designing your own fun? What is this—the Middle Ages?

  On my bed I scoot next to my dog, Bodi, and open the laptop. I can’t complain, really. The design is sleek and the keyboard is comfortable. But when I try to access the Internet, I can’t find our home network anywhere.

  “You looking for the network?” Dad sticks his head into my room. “We thought it would help you stay focused if you weren’t distracted by the Internet, so we had the store take out the wireless card.”

  My parents have absolutely lost their minds. “WHAT GOOD IS A LAPTOP WITHOUT WI-FI??” I shout.

  “I guess you’ll find out,” Dad laughs as he heads down the hall.

  It’s official, my parents have gone berserk. I stare at my new laptop, a piece of technology as effective as a bag of rocks.

  A present that makes you work isn’t a present at all.

  WORST. GIFT. EVER.

  AT LEAST UMBERTO’S HAPPY

  At my locker the next morning, Matt thinks my new laptop without Wi-Fi or applications is the stupidest thing he’s ever seen. “They might as well have given you an abacus!” he says. “Talk about archaic!”

  Carly, of course, agrees with my parents and takes their point further by adding her two cents on brain plasticity. “That’s why people can recover after strokes or brain injuries,” she says. “Our brains are actually incredible machines.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I say. “All mine’s ever done is get me in trouble.”

  “You’re looking at this all wrong,” Umberto tells me. “You’re holding the key to the universe! You love the programs I’ve written. You can program that baby to do ANYTHING!”

  I wish his enthusiasm were contagious.

  “Yeah, let’s ALL sign up for the coding class,” Matt suggests. “Let’s sit there for an hour after school and realize there’s tons of stuff we still don’t know.”

  “Don’t be a numbskull,” Carly says. “Let’s hope you haven’t finished learning new things at twelve years old.” When she smiles, I spot a sliver of apple on one of the wires of her braces. I run my own tongue over my teeth and Carly takes the hint. She checks the mirror she always carries in her bag and removes the food before anyone—mostly Matt—can tease her about it.

  “Well, I’m signed up,” Umberto says. “Even if I already know some of the material, the class is free, so I’m takin
g it.”

  “What about comedy class?” Matt asks me. “You still in?”

  Carly pulls up the schedule on her phone. “I was thinking of signing up for the comedy class too,” she says.

  “Great,” Matt answers. “That class will definitely need audience members.”

  “I can be funny!” Carly says.

  Matt rolls his eyes. “Sure you can.”

  “The coding class and comedy workshop are both Thursday afternoons.” Carly looks over at me. “I guess you can only take one.”

  I shake my head and walk to first period. Isn’t school serious ENOUGH? Electives are supposed to be fun—not more academic drudgery. Which class should I take?

  Ms. McCoddle flashes maps on the Smartboard as we take our seats. We just finished studying the civilization of Ancient India, now it’s on to Mesopotamia. My mind can’t stop repeating Mesopotamia. Mesopotamia. Mesopotamia. Ms. McCoddle is talking about how the country no longer exists but was located in present-day Iraq. However, all I keep thinking about is how Mesopotamia would be a great name for a cartoon character who’s a slob.

  “One of the most important inventions of all time—the wheel—was created in Mesopotamia,” Ms. McCoddle continues. “Wheels were initially created to make pottery—it took three centuries before someone realized you could actually attach wheels to a chariot.”

  Three centuries is probably how long it’ll take me to figure out how to use my new laptop. Maybe I SHOULD take that coding elective. I doodle in the margins of my notebook—a Mesopotamian making stupid clay bowls not realizing he could be racing through town in a tricked-out wagon instead.

  The room suddenly feels quiet; I look up and notice half the class—including Ms. McCoddle—staring at me.

  “Derek, do you remember from the reading what kind of religion was practiced there?” Ms. McCoddle asks.

  First of all, the words remember and reading hardly ever go hand in hand when you’re talking about me. Reading is still my worst subject, no matter how hard I try. Second of all, I didn’t even know we HAD a reading assignment due today.

  I decide to follow my usual strategy: When in doubt, guess.

  “Uhm … Scientology?”

  When Ms. McCoddle closes her eyes, I realize my answer is a giant misfire.

  “Only in L.A.,” she says. Her comment explains nothing, yet kind of explains everything.

  “Mesopotamia was a polytheist society—who knows what that means?” Ms. McCoddle turns away from me as if I might contaminate this answer too.

  “It means they worshipped multiple gods, not just one,” Umberto answers.

  “Exactly,” Ms. McCoddle says.

  I slump in my seat and put my head down. If Umberto being right and me being wrong is how coding class is going to go too, I might as well throw in the towel now.

  FINGERS CROSSED

  For some unexplainable reason, there’s a ton of homework this week. A three-page paper on agricultural societies, a math worksheet on parallelograms, and an oral presentation for media studies. WHAT IS GOING ON?! The second I get home from school, I know what I have to do: Procrastinate. Procrastinate HARD.

  Dad’s working in his office downstairs, which means I can’t watch TV in the family room. Luckily, the world is at my fingertips because I have my phone.

  I climb onto my bed with a sleeve of Oreos and Bodi. I know chocolate can be harmful for dogs—duh—but no one’s ever said dogs can’t lick the creamy inside of an Oreo. I crumple up the wrapper and try to hit the ceiling. I watch a video of a raccoon sneaking into someone’s house through the doggy door. I make a tower out of all my sneakers, then knock it over with my backpack. I lie on my bed and rub Bodi’s belly.

  All of that takes less than fifteen minutes—what am I supposed to do NOW? (Don’t say homework.)

  Matt must also be procrastinating because he starts texting me memes, GIFs, and videos one after another. Not responding would be rude, so I text back a string of my own favorites for him to enjoy. Making time for friends is important, right?

  Still feeling amicable, I text Carly too. She probably finished her homework on the bus and is already relaxing, giving herself a manicure or something. So I’m surprised when she texts me back a row of grimacing emojis. And even more surprised when she calls instead of texts.

  “Look, Carly, I’ll have to call you back. Some of us are busy procrastinating.”

  “I haven’t gotten any work done today!” she begins. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Nothing’s wrong with you,” I answer. “You’re finally acting NORMAL.”

  “I don’t feel normal,” she continues. “I feel so anxious all the time.”

  I don’t want to bring it up, but I wonder if these new feelings have anything to do with the wildfires and evacuation we had a few months ago. Carly was so concerned about natural disasters and rescue animals that she barely slept. She’s not worried about another tragedy, is she?

  Carly and I talk for a few more minutes. I try to calm her down by mentioning Princess Poufy, the extravagant Pomeranian we had to take care of during the fires, but eventually she gets upset that she’s wasting time on the phone instead of being productive. We hang up to do our homework—or at least that’s what we tell each other.

  To be honest, Carly has seemed a little off lately. When we did the module called Mental, Emotional, and Social Health in Ms. Miller’s class a few weeks ago, I had a twinge of recognition when we discussed the symptoms of depression. Carly’s always taken things more seriously than the rest of my friends, but lately she’s blaming herself for mistakes instead of just trying to move on. It also seems like she’s having trouble concentrating and has been especially sensitive. She actually said she felt worthless when she got a B-minus on her English paper, a grade I would KILL for. I’m not overly worried about Carly—just a bit concerned.

  Mom sticks her head into my room to see how my homework’s coming. I lie and tell her I’m almost done.

  “Excited for coding class tomorrow?” she asks.

  “I’ll be the stupidest person there,” I answer.

  “So it’ll be familiar territory, right?”

  Just as I’m about to get mad at her for being insensitive, I realize she’s kidding and shoot her a fake laugh instead.

  “You’re creative,” she says. “You might take to it naturally.” She tilts her head and smiles. “One thing’s for sure—you won’t know until you try.”

  Yes, she’s my mom and HAS to say stuff like that, but she really seems to believe I might be good at this whole programming thing. She’s pretty smart, so I guess it’s POSSIBLE she might be right. Her faith in my ability to master something new almost makes me want to get cracking on my homework.

  Almost.

  WAIT, WHAT?

  The good news is I ace my math homework; the bad news is my report on agricultural societies only ends up being one page—even after I double-space it and use a larger font. Ms. McCoddle’s not too pleased when she eyes my skimpy paper. I guess in hindsight, I should’ve started my homework earlier instead of watching comedy videos.

  When I finally get to coding class at the end of the day, I’m surprised at how full the room is. Umberto’s already there, notebook and pen raring to go. My plan was to sit next to him, but the only empty seat is in the first row.

  Umberto gives me a grin and a thumbs-up. I roll my eyes and shuffle to the front. This is going to be a VERY long fifty minutes.

  I plop beside a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s wearing black jeans, a black AC/DC T-shirt, and boots—even though it’s eighty degrees outside. Her wrist is covered with the plastic bands you get at hospitals.

  I gesture toward her arm. “You go to the emergency room a lot?”

  She looks at me like I just asked the dumbest question of all time. “It’s a fashion statement.”

  “I didn’t know they sold designer hospital bracelets.”

  “I live near the hospital—people throw
them away as soon as they get outside.”

  “So … you go through the trash can outside the hospital? Isn’t that a biohazard risk?” Who IS this girl?

  “I add LED lights to the bands, then program them to blink randomly.” She shakes her wrist and a string of lights flash on and off.

  Before I can tell her how cool that is, a voice booms from the doorway. “Welcome to coding class!”

  It takes me a few seconds to place where the voice is coming from.

  “Hi, Ms. Felix!” Umberto waves.

  Odd, the only Ms. Felix I know is the lunch server …

  Sure enough, the woman walking to the front of the room is the person who serves us tater tots. Without her apron and hairnet, she looks like a regular grandmother. What is she doing teaching programming?

  “For those of you who are surprised to see me without a spatula in my hand, I have a degree in computer science and do consulting on the side. Just like you, I have a life outside this school.”

  A few kids laugh, but I’m too discombobulated to join in. It’s like that time the door to the teachers’ lounge was open and I spotted Ms. McCoddle scrolling through her phone while eating a Big Mac. Am I the only one who doesn’t want to see the behind-the-scenes lives of teachers? Or lunch servers?