Norman shrugged, which caused a creaking sound. I wondered where Dad kept the WD-40 or the bike chain oil. I had no idea, really.

So I jumped up and helped Norman stand—he’s a few inches shorter than I am. The robot seemed to be testing his feet, rolling them, to see if they would hold him upright.

“Are you ready to strut your stuff ?” I said.

“Comment?” Norman said, but I was pretty sure he heard me and understood what I said. He was stalling, I figured, asking questions as a way of avoiding doing something he didn’t want to do. I’ve used that tactic. It buys me time, but eventually I end up doing the thing I was trying to avoid.

We might as well get this over with, I thought. “Walk!” I ordered the robot.

“Oui.” Norman looked over at his shipping crate like he’d rather be inside it than outside, grabbed my left hand, and took a shaky step forward with his right foot, and then a shaky step forward with his left foot.

“C’est bien?” he asked, his voice modulator raising his voice up a notch, not quite girly but getting there. “How am I doing?”

“Not too bad,” I said. “But try it without my help.”

I let go of Norman’s hand. He took a step, teetered, and fell on his face. Splat!

“Aie!” the robot called out, kicking his legs like he was trying to get to his feet that way.

Hilarious! No way was kicking his feet going to make him stand up. That won’t work, dummy! I almost busted some gut tubes, I was laughing so hard.

So I’m not a perfect kid. Get over it.