An hour later Norman and I were at the bus stop, waiting for the bus.
“I believe that Maman was pleased with breakfast,” the robot said, blinking.
“Yep,” I said. “Plus, I think she liked that you cleaned all the dishes and pots and pans. You’re better at that kind of thing than I am.”
“Ah, but it is not difficult to change your behavior, Matt. If you make a mess, you clean it up.”
“I guess,” I said, not too eager to give up my lazy side—it’s a big part of who I am. Plus, did I really want to be taking advice from a robot?
Oh great.
“Annie Bananas alert!” I warned Norman, as Annie ran to us like a starving monkey to a banana tree. When she arrived due to her not falling down a manhole—rats!—she tried to give Norman a kiss, but he pushed her away.
“My apologies, Miss Annie,” the robot said, “but Matt has advised me that due to complex social practices I was not previously aware of, we can only be non-kissing acquaintances.”
He offered his hand. Annie shook it, then punched me hard on the arm. Ow.
“What did you do to my Norman?” she hissed, toxic spit molecules flying my way. “You ruined everything!”
“All I did was tell Norman the truth about things like cooties and girl venom,” I said. That earned me another Annie punch. Ow.
That was when a mime—a guy in his thirties wearing white face paint and the usual outfit—slid up to us and started doing his routine, pushing up against an invisible wall. This is New York City. There is an ever-present risk of running into a mime.
I pretty much ignored the guy, and since mimes are really quiet that was easy to do. Only Annie seemed to be enjoying the show, clapping like a lunatic. Meanwhile, Norman elbowed me in the side and pointed to the mime. “Mechanical dysfunction?” he whispered. “Voltage irregularity?”
“Could be,” I whispered back.
The mime started pretending that he was pulling an invisible rope. How original! If he kept at it, I thought I might flag down a cop and report the guy as being suspicious as part of the “If you see something, say something” safety campaign. Hey, you never know, the mime could have been strapped with pretend explosives underneath his shirt. He could have silently gone ka-boom!
While I was smiling at my own thought—I do that sometimes—a second man in his thirties, wearing a dark suit and holding a video camera, came up to us and said, “How wonderful, a mime!” He started taping the mime’s performance, but then I noticed him aiming the camera at Norman and staying on him for several seconds. Hmm.
Do you remember the day you first realized that the scrambled eggs you were eating were, well, chicken gunk? And that the glass of milk you just guzzled down was meant for some calves, not you? And that sausage patty on your plate—well, you get the picture. And how you thought, while riding waves of oogliness, that maybe things weren’t really how they seemed, that quite possibly it was a freaky-bizarre world you were living in that people only pretended was a normal world, but you at long last had discovered its true freaky-bizarre nature? Or something like that! Well, I was starting to get that feeling, watching the mime and the guy with the camera, that things weren’t really how they seemed on the outside. But before that feeling could totally oogle me out the bus pulled up, and Annie, Norman, and I climbed aboard, leaving the mime and the dude with the camera behind.
Man, I hated being mimed so early in the morning. I almost wanted to go back to bed, wake up, and start over.
At school, Jeter, Annie, and I had to stand in front of Norman’s locker to block him from slipping inside and staying there until it was time to go home. But it worked, and Norman and I made it to homeroom just as the bell rang.
Homeroom is usually spent listening to announcements from Principal Jackson and catching up on homework we forgot to do. But when Ms. Purcell introduced Norman to the class and said he was from France, a ditzy girl named Wendy Callahan asked the robot to say something in French.
“Une souris qui n’a qu’un trou est vite attrapée,” Norman said. “A mouse that has only one mouse hole is quickly caught. That is a popular proverb in France. It means, as you Americans say, better safe than sorry.”
Some kids looked stunned and amazed, like Norman had just spoken Martian and translated what he said.
And then a chubby boy named Todd Grossman asked Norman to say something else in French, so Norman said it, and then more kids asked for French words and sayings, and before I knew it, it was time for our next class. Good thing I was caught up on my homework. It was way too noisy to get anything done.
In English, Norman spent the class translating Mr. Kelly’s words into French as he lectured about social themes in Huckleberry Finn and read from the book. Show-off!
When class was over, Mr. Kelly thanked Norman and patted him on the head in a “good dog” way. Well, that stank. I never get pats on the head from teachers, and have never come close to being a teacher’s pet. Grrr.
In social studies, Norman amazed the class by vocalizing his data file on World War I. That took nearly the entire class. “Wow, you’re smarter than our teacher,” a kid named Denny Sackett said. Several kids nodded. Our teacher, Ms. Finkel, didn’t look too happy.
In computer studies, Norman fixed Jenny Huffleman’s computer when it went berserk. Using a screwdriver he borrowed from the teacher, Norman took apart the PC, tightened this, adjusted that, blew dust off that thing, and voilà, it was working again. The class applauded, then Jenny gave Norman her phone number and e-mail address. “Call me, Norman,” she said, smiling big. Man! No girl ever gave me her phone number and e-mail address. Not that I’d want that stuff.
At least lunch period was next. It would be impossible for Norman to show off at lunch, right?
On the way to the cafeteria, Norman and I passed by his locker without him trying to sneak inside it. So I asked Norman if he was over his “box thing.”
“Matt,” he said, in his serious robot voice, “during computer class I was able to access a blueprint of our school building and saw that it is, essentially, one large rectangular box, with several smaller boxes inside it, such as classrooms, closets, and lockers. So in many ways I am still in a box during school hours—several boxes, actually—but ones I have to share with my classmates. It is not quite as suitable as solitary box confinement, but for now it will have to do.”
Okay then!
(Later I realized that Norman, the little devil, must have hacked into the main computers for the New York City Department of Education to see that blueprint. But it’s still not later yet.)
Usually it was just me and Jeter at our lunch table, but with Norman there it was packed with a dozen kids, including the terrible Annie Bananas. Other kids stopped by to ask Norman to say something in French, or for help with their homework.
So it is possible to show off during lunch. And Norman was sure eating up the attention. But you know what I wanted to do? I wanted to shout to the entire school, “Norman is a robot! Of course he’s smart and clever. He’s programmed to be smart and clever!”
But I held my tongue. I didn’t want to ruin Dad’s big experiment.
And then the amazing Norman earned more love and applause by balancing a pencil on his nose. Huh. I could probably do that.
On our way to math class, Norman and I ran into Blake Benton, probably the top bully in the sixth grade. How mean was Blake? Rumor had it he once beat up an NYU student just for looking at him funny.
“It’s the new kid from France and his idiot brother,” Blake said, snarling. “We don’t like French people here in America. Why don’t you both go live in France where you belong?”
I was actually kind of happy that not everyone had fallen in love with Norman. But I also wanted to avoid suffering one of Blake’s belly bams. They can take away your air for a full minute.
I tried to step past Blake, but he pushed my shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going, Matt the rat?” he asked.
Before I could think of a smart answer, or a dumb one, Norman said to Blake, “Pardonne-moi, my aggressive classmate, but if you do not desist in your antisocial behavior, I will be forced to respond appropriately.”
Blake snickered. “Oh yeah? What are you going to do, slap me like a girl? Like a French girl?”
“Non,” said Norman. “I will just do this.” In a blurry flurry he demonstrated a dozen judo and karate moves, rolls, flips, kicks, and hand chops. Wow! I didn’t know he could do that stuff. The kids who had gathered to see a fight looked impressed. I was too. Norman was like a black belt karate dude, but speeded up. A robot Jackie Chan!
Blake suddenly looked pale. “I’m late for class,” he said, hurrying away. A few kids laughed at Blake and cheered for Norman. As we headed to math, I thanked the robot for saving me from a belly bam.
“Happy to help, mon frère,” Norman said. “Like you say in America, I have your backside.”
“It’s back, not backside,” I said to Norman. “A backside is a butt.”
Norman turned beet red with embarrassment. It was just his programming.
In math, Norman quickly answered every math problem Ms. Porter and the kids tossed at him. 387,671 × 56 × 2,114 = no problem for Norman.
“Wow, you’re as fast as my calculator,” said a red-haired girl named Dahlia Simpson.
That’s because he is a calculator, I almost said. But I didn’t.
In gym, Norman stunned and amazed everyone by expertly doing somersaults, flying over the horse, and performing like an Olympian on the uneven bars, balance beam, and rings.
What a show-off! Between you and me I almost wanted Norman to fall, on the beam or the bars or the rings. Anything! I didn’t want him to get hurt or lose an eyeball again, I just wanted him to not be so darn perfect. Was that bad?
In the locker room, I was starting to undress for a quick shower when I saw Norman sitting on a bench in his clothes, looking worried.
“Matt?” he said. “I am concerned that I am not fully waterproof, that exposure to pulsating water might cause said water to penetrate my protective shell and cause major damage to my processors and electrical system.”
In my head I saw Norman sparking out in the shower room. Funny! I mean, tragique. So I went to Mr. Watts in his little office and asked if it was okay that Norman skipped taking a shower. “He has a bad water allergy,” I said.
“Never heard of it,” Mr. Watts said, “but it sounds like something they would have in France. Sure, if Norman wants to skip his shower, that’s A-OK with me.”
Great. But why did I suspect that if I asked Mr. Watts if it was okay for me to skip my shower, he would have said something like, “What are you, a sissy girl? Get in the shower, Rambeau!”
Totally unfair.
In study period . . . Actually, nothing weird happened during study period.
In science class, Mr. Chambers put Norman, “Our resident genius, I’ve been told,” in charge of the lesson. Mr. Chambers has always been lazy, but I guess he was turning it up a notch. Or would it be down a notch?
Norman, standing at the head of the class, opened the science textbook Mr. Chambers handed him and lectured about the wonders of chromosomes and DNA for nearly forty minutes. Except for some brainy words I didn’t know, it was kind of interesting. But it’s weird, isn’t it, how things as small as chromosomes can decide so much about who you are. I guess the same is true with Norman, but it’s computer code making him who he is instead of the other kind of code. The real kind.
Finally school was done, and Norman and I were heading to our lockers to put away our books and grab our jackets.
I was thinking okay, Norman had a big day, did some amazing things, but in another day or two it would wear off, and kids would start to get bored and would treat him like any other brainy nerd.
But when we arrived at our lockers, a few kids started chanting, “Norman . . . Norman . . . Norman . . .” And then more kids joined in. Soon there were like a hundred kids chanting my brother’s name.
“Merci, classmates,” said Norman, smiling and waving. “You have been so very kind to me. Because of this outpouring of kindness I almost forgot about the terrible vent monster!” Some kids look puzzled, but then Norman did a standing-in-place backflip, and they cheered and hooted.
If I tried a standing-in-place backflip, I’d break my head. Sigh.