“We don’t need saving,” Kevin insists. “Everything’s under control.”

  A big gap opens between the two teachers as Mr. Aidact marches purposefully out of the trees toward us. I check for an expression of worry or grim determination on his face, but he looks like he always looks—pleasant, relaxed, friendly.

  He strides up to the water’s edge and plows right into the rushing stream!

  I don’t know what I was expecting him to do, but it wasn’t that.

  A gasp escapes Rosalie. “Mr. Aidact—careful!”

  Soon the water is up to his knees, then his hips. The current pulls at him, trying to drag him down, but he doesn’t even notice it. Then he’s standing in front of us, dripping muddy water from the waist down.

  “It’s not my fault!” Kevin tells him. “These guys got me lost!”

  Mr. Aidact grabs Rosalie with one arm and me with the other, lifting us up so our feet dangle off the ground. Without a word, he turns around and splashes back through the river, depositing us on the opposite bank. Then he crosses again and does the same thing with Kevin and Oliver. At last, the five of us are on the right side of the stream, panting with exertion—except Mr. Aidact. Robots don’t pant.

  “No-o-o!” Perkins is still working his way down the hill, but he speeds up at the sight of Mr. Aidact carrying us across the water. “You can’t—I mean you shouldn’t—”

  “My pupils needed me,” Mr. Aidact replies.

  “But the Department of Education—” Just as he’s emerging from the trees, his swinging briefcase smacks against the last trunk, flips up, and strikes him dead center in the forehead. He drops like a stone and tumbles down the steep, muddy slope, landing with a splash in the stream. For a second, his pointy nose and glasses are above the rushing water, before the current closes over his face.

  “He’ll drown!” Rosalie shrills.

  But Mr. Aidact is already on the move. He wades back into the river and drags Mr. Perkins ashore. The engineer is completely drenched. Blood oozes from the spot on his forehead where the corner of the briefcase clobbered him. Speaking of the case, he’s still got it. His fingers are clamped onto the handle in a permanent grip.

  His eyelids flutter, and he looks up at Mr. Aidact and complains, “So cold . . .” before his eyes close again.

  Mr. Aidact doesn’t mess around. He throws Perkins’s limp body over his shoulder like it’s a sack of potatoes and starts up the hill. “Pupils—follow me!”

  Which we do. We’re too shocked not to. It was pretty lousy to be lost, soaked, and stuck on the wrong side of the river. But Mr. Perkins is really hurt. Even unconscious and half-drowned, he’s still got an iron grip on the briefcase. Mr. Aidact pries it away from him and hands it to me. “Look after this. It’s very important.”

  I feel like I’m being deputized by Superman himself. Mr. Aidact is a pretty big hero in my eyes right now. But the case weighs a ton, so it takes a lot to drag it up the slope. Oliver and I switch off, and between us, we manage to make it. When the welcome center appears over the rise, it’s a beautiful sight.

  The atrium is packed with kids from a few different tours, mingling, chattering, and sipping hot chocolate. That all comes to a sudden stop with Mr. Aidact’s foghorn announcement: “All Brightling pupils to the bus now! This is a legit emergency!”

  If it needs further explanation, the sight of the unconscious Perkins draped over the teacher’s shoulder pretty much says it all.

  It brings out the closest thing to a lively reaction anyone has ever seen from Mrs. Berg. “What’s going on?” she asks, taking in our soaked and bedraggled state. “What happened?”

  “The directions were wrong,” Kevin explains. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “I mean what happened to him?”

  “He got taken out by his own briefcase,” Oliver supplies.

  Still lugging his student teacher, Mr. Aidact races out the door and across the parking lot. The two classes follow—there’s something about carrying an unconscious guy that gives a person extra authority. When we board the bus, we find Perkins stretched out across a double seat at the front, still out cold. Oliver and I cram the briefcase into the leg space in front of him.

  The student teacher causes a pretty big sensation among the kids as they pile on, while Mrs. Berg tries desperately to perform another head count in order to make sure nobody gets left behind. Kevin is telling everybody the story of what happened to the student teacher. Only in his version, he was the hero who rescued Perkins from “the raging rapids.”

  “That’s everybody,” Mrs. Berg confirms finally.

  Mr. Aidact looks around. “Where’s the bus driver?”

  “He and a few other drivers went to a sandwich shop in town,” she replies. “I just called. They should be here in ten minutes.”

  In answer, Mr. Aidact sits down in the driver’s seat and pulls the lever that shuts the door. “We don’t have ten minutes.” He turns the key and the engine roars to life.

  “But”—Mrs. Berg drops her voice to a whisper—“You can’t drive a bus! You’re—you!”

  Oliver stands up. “Yes, he can! He can do anything!”

  Mr. Aidact tilts his head for several long seconds. At last he says, “I know everything there is to know about operating a motor vehicle.”

  It’s a little jerky at first, and the bus stalls out a couple of times as Mr. Aidact gets the hang of shifting gears. Pretty soon, though, he’s an expert, wheeling us onto the main highway back toward town. Oliver and I exchange a glance of understanding. We’re the only kids who can picture Mr. Aidact’s AI teaching itself to be an expert school bus driver, accessing maps and traffic laws from the internet.

  Mrs. Berg is standing on the entrance steps, clutching the rail for dear life. “Where are we going?”

  Another head tilt. “Mercy Hospital, four-forty-one Robinette Boulevard.”

  As Mr. Aidact becomes more comfortable behind the wheel, the bus picks up speed. A peek out the window confirms that the other cars are falling away behind us, and those in front are changing lanes to get out of our path. I breathe a silent prayer that we don’t get pulled over for speeding. Considering he just taught himself how to drive eight minutes ago, I doubt he has a license. What are we supposed to do if our teacher gets arrested?

  Mrs. Berg is thinking about that too. “Maybe we should slow down, Mr. Aidact.” If this keeps up, no one is going to believe she’s a robot anymore. There’s nothing monotonous about her voice now.

  Mr. Aidact steps harder on the gas. “Increased speed means an earlier time of arrival.”

  Normally, a bus ride is pretty loud, with everybody talking, laughing, arguing, and play fighting. Not this one. We’re the quietest two classes in the history of school. It would be wrong to say you can hear a pin drop, but we can definitely hear the honking of other vehicles as Mr. Aidact cuts through traffic. We’re all pretty relieved when we spot the blue-and-white H sign atop Mercy Hospital.

  Mr. Aidact pilots the bus up to Emergency and screeches to a halt in a cloud of burning rubber. Then he scoops up Mr. Perkins like a bride and carries him in through the sliding doors. Fifty-four seventh graders are hot on his heels, Oliver and Rosalie in the lead.

  Mrs. Berg tries to block the exit and keep us on the bus, but the crowd pushes right on past her.

  “Stay where you are!” she orders. “I can’t count you all!”

  But even with the extra passion she’s found today, her voice doesn’t have the power and authority to shut down two classes on a mission.

  We burst into Emergency, and the waiting room is instantly overwhelmed. Three nurses and a security guard rush to hold us back, and for a second, I wonder if we might plow right over them.

  “That’s our teacher!”

  “And our student teacher!”

  “It’s an orienteering injury!”

  “He got hit by a flying briefcase!”

  “It’s not my fault the directions were wrong!”

  The last thing I see before we all get kicked out by security is Mr. Perkins being loaded onto a gurney by hospital staff. Then he and Mr. Aidact disappear behind the heavy doors.

  24

  Rosalie Arnette

  I’m not sure exactly how I get past the waiting room and into the real hospital. One minute, I’m standing there with Oliver, and the next I’m backing up to let a wheelchair go by. I feel a rush of air as the heavy doors close behind me, and suddenly, I’m in and everybody else is out.

  I’m super aware that I don’t belong here in my soaked orienteering clothes, tracking mud from the knees down. But the place is so busy that nobody notices me. Doctors and nurses rush by; their eyes linger on me for a second or two. I’m probably somebody’s patient, but not theirs.

  I wander down a hall with numbered examination rooms on both sides. Mr. Aidact and Mr. Perkins must be in one of these, but how do I find the right one?

  Mr. Perkins is a crabby guy who knows nothing about field hockey, but I sure hope he’s okay.

  “There’s no fracture,” comes a voice from room 6. “I’ll just tape you up and send you on your way.”

  I peek in the doorway, but the patient is a lady with a swollen ankle.

  I’m leaving muddy footprints on the floor, and I feel bad for messing up a place that’s supposed to be clean and sterile. That’s when I realize that the prints up ahead can’t be mine. I haven’t gone that far yet. They must have come from somebody else with muddy shoes.

  Of course! Mr. Aidact.

  I follow the mud spots. They lead up the hall and directly into room 11.

  Carefully, I peer in through the doorway. Mr. Perkins is sitting upright on the exam table. He’s wrapped in blankets, and there’s a thick bandage on his forehead, but his eyes are open, he’s speaking, and he looks fine. Mr. Aidact is standing opposite him in that weird way he has—absolutely unmoving, still as a statue.

  Should I go in? Probably not. I’m not supposed to be here at all.

  I’m pondering what to do when a doctor breezes past me into the room. “It seems to be a slight concussion—”

  As he approaches the patient, Mr. Aidact backs out of the way, accidentally stepping onto the electronic scale.

  My eyes are riveted on the readout. Either the scale is broken, or my teacher weighs 576 pounds!

  Shocked, I stagger back, almost as if somebody shoved me. I manage a couple of steps and collide with a nurse, who keeps me upright while also juggling a tray of stainless steel instruments.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  She takes in my mud-smeared state and assumes I’m a patient. “What room are you in?”

  “No room,” I try to explain. “My teacher—I mean my student teacher—”

  She takes my arm and steers me toward the exit. “Out of here. Now.”

  I stumble along, racking my brain for excuses, but only one thought registers with me: 576 pounds . . . 576 pounds . . . Mr. Aidact weighs 576 pounds. . . .

  Then I’m in the waiting room and the heavy doors are shutting behind me. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see Mrs. Berg loading up the bus again, and she’s frantic about something. I run outside.

  “Fifty-three!” she’s exclaiming in agitation. “There were fifty-four of us at Hickenlooper! Who’s missing?”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Berg,” I call. “It’s just me. But we can’t go yet. Mr. Aidact and Mr. Perkins are still inside. Good news—Mr. Perkins is okay.”

  Ainsley catches me up. Our driver had to Uber here so he can bring us back to school. We’re not waiting for Mr. Perkins and Mr. Aidact. Principal Candiotti is coming for them with her car.

  I practically fall into the empty seat across the aisle from Oliver and Nathan.

  “Long day?” Oliver asks with a sympathetic grin.

  “Our teacher weighs five hundred and seventy-six pounds!” I burst out.

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, it just hits me. The buzz about a robot teacher—it’s true! But it isn’t Mrs. Berg or any of the others! It’s Mr. Aidact!

  I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. It’s been right in front of my eyes. His instant knowledge of absolutely everything. The fact that nobody’s ever seen him eat or drink and that he doesn’t move a muscle when he stands still, like he’s turned himself off or something. His strength—he hit a hockey ball off the field house that traveled three hundred yards through the air and still had the power to break a windshield. And his “student teacher”—I think of the strange metal instruments inside the giant briefcase. Those must be robot-fixing tools!

  “Mr. Aidact is a robot,” I barely whisper.

  And what’s their reaction: Shock? Amazement? Disbelief?

  “Shhh,” Oliver hisses.

  “You knew?” I exclaim, struggling to keep my voice low. “How could you know?”

  “We spied on him,” Nathan admits. “He has—panels. He looks like a computer inside.”

  “He’s a Department of Education project,” Oliver adds. “Project AIDACT—it stands for Artificially Intelligent Designated Android Classroom Teacher. We found the whole plan on this old website. They told the faculty but nobody else.”

  “And you just sat on this little piece of information,” I accuse. “You didn’t think anybody else might need to know. He’s my teacher too—and my coach!”

  The coaching—how could I miss it? A guy with zero experience somehow turns a collection of amateurs who don’t know which end of the stick to hold into a team competing for a state championship. Every time he switched our positions, he turned out to be 100 percent right, always maximizing each girl’s talents with the job she had to do. Every new attack he designed worked like a charm—almost like he could see it playing out in his mind. Because he could! His mind isn’t a mind; it’s a computer!

  “The Department of Education is trying to keep it secret,” Oliver explains. “We didn’t want to go up against them. Besides, would you have believed us if we told you?”

  He’s got a point. Something like this is almost impossible to swallow even when I’ve seen hard evidence. I never could have accepted it from a couple of clowns like Oliver and Nathan.

  “You still could have warned me,” I say resentfully. “If he stepped on my foot, he would have shattered every single one of my toes.”

  “We never knew how much he weighs,” Oliver admits. “Although now that you mention it, I saw the Prius running a little lopsided with Mr. Aidact in the passenger seat.”

  All the way back to Brightling, my mind feels like a bag of microwave popcorn—ideas heating up, exploding, filling my brain to bursting. Mr. Aidact isn’t human. My teacher; my coach—a machine. A fancy, sophisticated one, but a machine just the same.

  Every time he calls me Rosalie, he’s using the name that he learned through his artificial intelligence. He doesn’t know me; facial recognition software compares my image to others in his database. I replay every interaction I’ve ever had with him, dating back to the first day of school, when he caught Oliver’s spitball. None of it was real. All those weeks—a lie. You build up a relationship with a teacher. And mine turns out to be an un-person.

  It hurts the most with the Bobcats. We’re all so close to the coach—at least we thought we were. When he took over, we were just a bunch of clueless nobodies. I only signed on to pad my résumé. He built us into a real team. What was all that—a computer algorithm? When he got thrown out of our first game and had to watch from the roof of our bus in the parking lot—did his programming make him do that? When he celebrates with us, fights at our side, suffers along with every bruised knee and twisted ankle, is it all because some chip somewhere is telling him what to “feel”?

  Of course it is. Machines can’t “feel” anything. Mr. Aidact isn’t any more human than a dishwasher or a microwave oven. He’s convincing. I’ll give him that. The Department of Education built a very believable robot. He sure fooled me. He fooled everybody. But once you know, you can never go back.

  How are the other girls going to react when this news reaches them? The team is undefeated. We’re on an eleven-game winning streak after that opening-game tie. In two weeks, we play the Seahawks again in the championship game. We’re that close to replacing the trophy that was stolen on Halloween. What will happen to the Bobcats when everybody learns the truth?

  We’re the same players. Cassidy bagging goals; Leticia defending our net; the rest of us doing our jobs and getting better every week. But everything will be different now. It was against the Sheridan Seahawks that we dug ourselves out of a 6–0 hole because Coach Aidact brought us back with the sheer force of his heart. Or so we thought.

  When the news gets around that he doesn’t have a heart, what then?

  When we finally pull up in front of Brightling, Nathan asks in a small voice, “Are you going to tell anybody?”

  I’m tempted to say yes purely as an in-your-face to those guys. If there’s anybody at Brightling who doesn’t deserve loyalty from me, it has to be Oliver and Nathan. But do I want to be like Kevin, spilling the beans about everything because I’m incapable of keeping the slightest secret?

  I shake my head in resignation. “It doesn’t matter. If we figured it out, other people will too. A five-hundred-seventy-six-pound teacher is hard to hide.”

  The rain has stopped, and I’m actually looking forward to the walk home. Maybe it’ll give me a chance to clear my head. But when I get off the bus, there’s Mom.

  “Hi, honey,” she greets me. “How was orienteering?”

  “It was a disaster,” I inform her.

  “That’s nice.” She’s not listening, watching the people behind me filing down the bus steps.

  Just as I suspected: she’s hoping to “run into” Mr. Aidact.

  That’s the worst part of all this! It’s awful enough that my teacher is a robot, but my mother has a crush on the guy!

  “I see Mrs. Berg,” Mom observes, “but didn’t Mr. Aidact go too? Where is he?”

  “The hospital,” I reply tersely.

  “The hospital? Is he hurt?”