“I said today was fine.”
I spent that night’s dinner deflecting my parents’ questions left and right. No, I hadn’t made any friends. Yes, orientation took forever. No, I wasn’t sure what the other kids were like. And yes, for the fiftieth time, I said today was fine.
But I didn’t say a word about Fresh Meet Friday or the mysterious marshmallow smell and high-pitched whistle that led me to punch the biggest kid in school without having control over my fist.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s the beginning of the year, and there are plenty of other new kids who probably feel the same way you do.” That’s my mom, always trying to turn a bad situation into a positive one. “Right, Martin?”
“Mmm.” I didn’t expect anything helpful from Dad, who wasn’t at the table. He was behind our refrigerator, punching commands into a computer attached to the back of it.
“Will you sit down and talk to your son? He needs you right now,” she commanded.
“It’ll be one sec, I promise. I just want to set Morimoto up for dessert, and we can talk over ice cream.”
My dad’s an inventor. He was one of those child prodigies who built computers when he was seven. A few months ago, he had a major breakthrough. He invented the first universal voice translator and sold it to the biggest software company in the world. He named me Alexander Graham Ptuiac—the “P” is silent—after his favorite inventor.
That’s when my parents informed me that we were moving to a rich suburb and that I’d attend one of the most expensive private schools in the country (they didn’t say it quite that way, but I Googled it).
Dad finished working on the computer and moved the fridge back into place. The kitchen appeared ordinary, but a set of machines complete with gears, claws, assembly lines, and countless miles of wires were built into the wall behind all the appliances. They started at the fridge and ended where the “washer/dryer” stood near the kitchen table.
He’d been working on Morimoto for years—an automatic chef.
He named his creation after a famous Japanese chef, something my mother called “ambitious,” probably because he still had to fix the countless errors in the system that screwed up our meals.
“I can cook, you know,” Mom said as he came back to the table.
Dad wiped his hands on his red and black plaid shirt and adjusted his rimless glasses. He waved her off. “Karen, if I’m going to sell Morimoto, it has to be perfect.”
She sighed as Dad looked over at the wall of machinery. “Morimoto, three vanilla ice cream sundaes, please.”
I could hear the whirring and clicking as the claws reached into the freezer and refrigerator to take out the ingredients. Hopefully, when the lid of the “dryer” popped open to reveal a serving platter, the sundaes presented on it would be perfect. Considering we’d just thrown away a bowl filled with nothing but the burnt skins of four potatoes, I didn’t have much confidence. But I was happy to see something distract my parents from asking anything more about my weird first day of school.
Pop! The door opened, and the three of us jumped in our seats. Out came the tray and Mom handed us the three sundaes as Dad called out, “Thank you!” Somehow, he thought treating Morimoto like a human being would help it perform better. Then, he looked at the sundaes. Sure enough, two scoops of ice cream sat on each dish, but they were plopped on top of the whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and what was likely a Maraschino cherry on the bottom.
“He got it backwards. Dang,” he said.
I wasn’t even hungry anymore. “It’s okay, I’ll pass.”
Dad looked at me over his glasses and raised his eyebrows as the corners of his mouth turned up. He threw down his napkin and got up hastily. “I was going to wait until your birthday in February, but I think you need an early present.” He opened the back door and walked out. I looked at Mom, who motioned me to follow him.
Mom and I trailed him out to our spacious backyard. He held a device in his hands and pressed a button. I heard the garage door open and the sound of wheels screeching as whatever it was rolled out to where we stood. The waning light of dusk bounced off the gleaming surface as a machine as tall as I was stopped right in front of me.
It was a robot that sort of looked like a football player in a suit of steel armor. Beneath the enormous football helmet on its head was a pair of red, unblinking eyes staring back at me. A screen on its chest read, “Happy birthday, Alex!” It had arms and hands covered with yellow gardening gloves. I looked down at its feet to see the same kind of treads as a tank.
“I know it’s been rough moving and leaving your friends behind, and I know I don’t have any athletic skill, so I made you this. Tell it to throw you a pass,” Dad said.
I held out my hands as if ready to catch. “Throw it here.” Nothing happened. I tried something different—calling out in a cadence as if I was a quarterback. “Red 80 … set-HUT!”
The robot’s screen shut off and its chest opened up—and a football shot straight at me. The speed surprised me as it went right through my hands and knocked me down. Mom and Dad laughed. “Try throwing it a pass.”
I walked back a few yards and pretended a center snapped me the ball. I took a three-step drop and threw a wobbly pass that sailed a bit high. Instantly, its arms reached out and caught it. “You need more velocity, kid. Don’t throw so much off your back foot,” the robot reported in a familiar voice. I immediately knew who it was—Dad had programmed it to sound like legendary quarterback Peyton Manning, my favorite player.
Before I could respond, it tossed the ball right back to me, only this time I was ready. I started to laugh along with my dad. I gave him a hug. “Thanks, Dad. This is great.”
“Let me know if it attacks you,” he said. He wasn’t joking. He’d created all sorts of gadgets over the years for birthday and holiday presents, but most of them either didn’t work or ended up dive-bombing my head. Or, like Morimoto, they did things a little backwards.
I stayed outside for the next two hours, throwing pass after pass at the robot, which wheeled around on its treads and caught everything I tossed.
Back in my hometown, which I thought of as my real home, my friends and I used to watch football every Sunday at someone’s house and play Madden until we couldn’t move our thumbs anymore. We’d play touch football at the local park until sunset and talk about which players we were like. My parents were always worried about me getting injured, so I wasn’t allowed to try out for the local Pop Warner team. But like every kid, I still dreamed of being Peyton in the fourth quarter, throwing a laser beam pass to my star receiver for the Super Bowl-winning score.
My arm felt sore as I threw my final pass of the night. The robot caught it on the run and called out, “You’re on your way, champ.”
For the first time since we moved, I smiled.