“It should be,” I agree sadly, “but it isn’t.”

  “We have a plan to help Mr. Aidact escape before the Department of Education guys get to him,” Oliver goes on. “Are you with us?”

  “Yeah!” he exclaims in a belligerent tone. “What kind of jerk do you think I am? Mr. Aidact is the best teacher I ever had! No way am I going to let anybody do salvage on him!”

  “Good,” I say. “We need you in the audience at the girls’ field hockey championship game. Memorial Field. Saturday—ten a.m.”

  “Didn’t they cancel that?”

  “That’s what we want our parents to think,” Oliver confides. “But Mr. Aidact set it up again with the league. The girls are going to play. Rosalie confirmed it with every single Bobcat.”

  Stinky is mystified. “How does me watching field hockey help Mr. Aidact?”

  “When the game is over, we’ll all rush the field,” Oliver informs him. “And Mr. Aidact will slip away in the confusion.”

  “And he’s going to do it?” Stinky marvels. “It doesn’t sound very teacher-like.”

  “He has no choice,” I assure him. “It’s a matter of life and—salvage.”

  “Figures.” Mia Spinelli hands the photocopied email back to me. “You get a month of detentions for a few late slips, but the government is stripping people for spare parts, and that’s fine.”

  “So you’ll help us?” I prompt.

  She nods. “Mr. Aidact really listened to me. Out of everybody in this town, he’s the most human. Not like Darryl. Someone should break him down for spare parts.”

  “Tell all your friends,” Oliver puts in. “We need a big crowd for a big distraction. But no parents. This is kids only. Nobody over fourteen is allowed to know about it. And remember: game time is nine a.m. sharp.”

  She thanks us and promises to be there.

  I’m confused about something. “Why’d you say nine a.m.? The game doesn’t start until ten.”

  He shrugs. “It’s Mia. If I tell her ten, she won’t get there till after lunch.”

  That’s how we spend the rest of the week, spreading the word about the plot against Mr. Aidact. As funny as everyone feels about the robot thing, nobody thinks it’s okay for the Department of Education to shut him off and dismantle him like he’s trash.

  “At first, kids overreacted because their parents did,” Oliver comments as we make our way home on Thursday. “But as soon as they calm down, they see how awful this is.”

  I nod. “We’re more comfortable with technology. You should see my dad when there’s a Windows update on his computer. It’s like World War Three.” My house comes into view as we round the corner. “I feel like we’ve talked to half the school, and they talked to the other half. But it’s impossible to know for sure if we’re going to get the kind of crowd we need. What if nobody shows up and Mr. Aidact gets caught?”

  “We did everything we could,” Oliver soothes.

  “What about Krumlich?” I remind him. “We never brought him into this. When it comes to broadcasting a message, he’s the champion.”

  He shakes his head vigorously. “There are two ways this plan can go wrong. One is a lousy turnout, and the other is if too many parents clue in. Telling Kevin is like going on Radio Free Europe. He’ll blab to everyone, and pretty soon it’ll reach the Bobcats’ families. If it’s game off, it’s escape off too.”

  Friday is the last chance to make sure that all the bases are covered for tomorrow. I know my Oliver Alert should be wailing like a banshee, but I can’t worry about that. This is too important. We have to spend all day reaching out to people we might have missed. If we’re going to save Mr. Aidact, everybody counts.

  Darryl corners me in the boys’ room. “Mia gave me all the details. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Mia?” I echo. “I thought things were—complicated between you guys.”

  He looks surprised. “How? We barely know each other. Actually, I was kind of thinking of asking her out. You know, after we save Mr. Aidact.”

  Just before third period, Avalon pulls Oliver and me down to the Barker offices. “I had an idea,” she tells us proudly. “I’m printing up flyers to pass out at the game tomorrow. Then, when it’s time for Mr. Aidact to disappear, we can all throw them up in the air.”

  “Perfect,” Oliver approves. “Everyone’s attention will be drawn up to the papers swirling in the wind. And when they look down again, Mr. Aidact will be gone.”

  “I came up with a great slogan.” From the stack churning out of the laser printer, she holds up the top page. The message is in bright teal blue, the team color. It reads:

  COACH AIDACT IS UNREAL

  Oliver is beside himself. “I love it! I love it so much!”

  “I thought of putting his picture on there,” Avalon explains, “but I didn’t want it to turn out to be a wanted poster.”

  Lunch is the only time we can speak to Mr. Aidact without his student teacher nosing around. It’s doubly important today, since we have to finalize our plans and make sure everybody’s on the same page.

  At our usual table, we wait for him to notice us and come by. Instead, he continues his patrol of the cafeteria. Kids are still ignoring him, even though most of them know about the plans for his big escape tomorrow. Furtive glances dart his way, but nobody speaks to him. The lunchroom is every bit as quiet as it’s been since word got out that our new teacher is a robot.

  Oliver has a different concern. “Why doesn’t he come over and talk to us? Doesn’t he want to make sure that tomorrow’s still on?”

  I’m horrified. “You don’t think he forgot, do you?”

  “The guy’s a walking, talking hard drive! How could he forget?” As Mr. Aidact passes by us, Oliver gets a hand on the fabric of the teacher’s sleeve and tugs him gently over to our table.

  “What can I do for you pupils?” the teacher asks genially.

  I can’t hold back. “Don’t you remember the plan?”

  In answer, Mr. Aidact begins to recite the details. “I go to Memorial Field at nine thirty. My team will be there. We play the game—”

  “Fine—you remember,” Oliver cuts him off. “But what if something goes wrong? For instance, what if Mr. Perkins gives you a hard time?”

  “Oh, he won’t,” is the reply. “He’s happy that the game is going to be played.”

  “Something’s fishy,” I tell Oliver. “Perkins is never happy about anything. Not a field hockey game. Probably not even winning the lottery. The guy’s a total crab.”

  “There’s one thing you have to do for me,” Mr. Aidact tells us. “There is a GPS tracker located in a small port on my back. I can’t reach it myself. Before the game, you’ll have to remove it. Otherwise, wherever I go, they’ll be able to find me.”

  Oliver and I exchange worried glances. We’re just beginning to understand how complex this whole operation is going to be, and how easily it could fall apart.

  “You’ve got it, Mr. Aidact,” Oliver promises. “And if we strike oil in there, we’ll split the profits with you, fifty-fifty.”

  “There are no fossil fuels anywhere in my body,” the teacher replies seriously. “I am a zero-emissions unit, powered entirely by solar cells.” He moves on to the next table.

  “Good thing he told us about that tracker chip,” I comment. “Mr. Aidact’s pretty sharp.”

  “I guess,” Oliver concedes. “But you’ll notice I was right about him. No sense of humor. If he’s the most advanced technology in the world, we’ve got a long way to go before they build a funny robot.”

  As the afternoon drags on, I find it harder and harder to pay attention in class. Just the idea of what we’ll be trying to do tomorrow—and what will happen to Mr. Aidact if we fail—presses down on me like a weight. I keep thinking about the GPS chip and wondering how many details like that we might not know about. Any one of them could sink the whole plan.

  Even Oliver seems stressed—and it takes a lot to worry Oliver. There are too many things that can go wrong.

  Right before dismissal, Principal Candiotti comes on the PA system. “Good afternoon. Before we break for the weekend, I’d like to offer congratulations to our very own Bobcats girls’ field hockey team. Tomorrow would have been our shot at the state championship, but for various reasons, we have to forfeit. Girls, I don’t want you to think for one second that you’re not champions. That’s partly my fault. I never should have made such a fuss about the championship trophy that was stolen. A trophy doesn’t make you a champion. It’s just a trinket. What makes you a champion is what’s in your heart. Bobcats, you will always be our champions.

  “I’d also like to offer my thanks to Mr. Aidact, who turned out to be a coach like no other.” She pauses, and just for a second, I swear I hear her voice crack. “We’re thinking of you.”

  31

  Rosalie Arnette

  The teal and white of my uniform twirls behind the window of our dryer. It looks kind of like an exotic bird—but that’s only because my eyes are rolling back in my head. This is the third time I’ve dozed off already—and that’s just during the drying cycle. It’s six a.m., and I’ve already been up for an hour, after a night where I barely slept at all. Instead of tossing and turning, why not wash my uniform so I can look good for Coach Aidact’s last game?

  Because that’s what it is. It’s the final game of the season, the match that will determine the state championship. And when it’s done, one way or another, Mr. Aidact will be leaving.

  About saving Mr. Aidact: We have to! Oh, I get that he’s a robot and government property and all that. I don’t care. He’s a person, not a thing! And just because the idea comes from Oliver and Nathan doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Those two pinheads are wrong about everything else, but not this. That’s why all the Bobcats agreed to sneak out this morning and play this game so we can help Mr. Aidact escape. He believed in us when we were less than nothing. And now we believe in him having a future—and that’s a lot more important than field hockey.

  I’ve never been so nervous in my life, and it has nothing to do with the game. Who cares about being state champions—except maybe Mrs. Candiotti? I’m scared because we all know what a long shot the escape is going to be. It’s a life-and-death situation. If the Department of Education turns off Mr. Aidact, they’re ending a life.

  By the time Mom gets up around eight, the uniform is clean and dry and packed away in my gym bag. It, along with my cleats and field hockey stick, is hidden in the garage. Every Saturday at nine, Mom gets on Zoom with my aunt Jenny in Florida for a marathon yak session that lasts two hours minimum. Once that’s underway, I text Mom that I’m going over to Leticia’s to work on a school project. It’s impossible—Leticia’s an eighth grader, so we can’t have any classes together. But I choose Leticia because her mother’s not a member of the PTA, so Mom won’t be able to find me.

  Brightling isn’t huge, but it’s still a three-quarter-mile walk from my house to Memorial Field, which is right downtown. It’s December now, and pretty chilly. I hug my fleece around me, but once the game starts, there’ll be no protection from this biting wind.

  I meet Darcy and Ainsley on the way, and the three of us run into Cassidy and Leticia.

  I’m relieved. “I was afraid it was going to be just me this morning,” I admit. “I thought everybody else might chicken out. Our parents are so dead set against Mr. Aidact.”

  “That’s tough,” Cassidy says with determination. “I wouldn’t have cared if my folks put in a barbed-wire fence. Nothing was going to stop me from showing up for Coach.”

  There are grunts of agreement all around.

  We pick up a few more team members on the walk, and by the time we approach the field, all the Bobcats are either marching with us or in view, coming by foot or bike.

  The field is deserted except for a lone figure standing on the home team bench, perfectly straight and still as a statue. We break into a run, cheering and punching at the air. Nobody’s been to practice in more than a week, so he must have been wondering if we were going to show up at all.

  Spying our approach, he jumps down and sprints to intercept us, crossing the field in a matter of seconds. It occurs to me that this is a five-hundred-plus-pound piece of machinery about to wipe us out before we can even put on cleats. But he stops short, and we swarm him. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see anybody.

  The first thing I notice is that Mr. Perkins is nowhere to be found. I almost burst out: Run, Mr. Aidact! Go now, while there’s no one to stop you! Forget the game! Forget us! Save yourself!

  I remember what Oliver and Nathan said—that he could have taken off any time this week. But he wouldn’t go because his Bobcats had one more game to play.

  My heart swells, and I blurt, “We missed you, Mr. Aidact!”

  And then we’re all saying it, from the lowliest seventh graders right on up to team captain Cassidy.

  “I noted the absence of you pupils as well.” He adds, “It’s cold today, so keep moving to stay warm.”

  We head for the field house to get changed.

  32

  Oliver Zahn

  We watch as the twenty-dollar bill is sucked into the ticket machine. There’s a clunking sound, and the bill comes right out again. The message on the screen reads: REJECTED. The amount paid stays at zero.

  I flatten it against my chest, trying to smooth out all the crinkles. Then I reinsert it.

  REJECTED.

  “It’s broken,” Nathan complains.

  “No, it isn’t,” I insist. “These machines are really finicky. The bills have to be perfectly flat.”

  It’s a little after nine a.m., and we’re in the Brightling bus station, buying a one-way ticket on the eleven forty-five express to Denver, Colorado. When the championship game is over, there won’t be a spare minute for waiting at the ticket window. The timing will be crucial. Mr. Aidact needs to head straight for the bus and be gone.

  “Why can’t we just put it on my mom’s credit card?” Nathan wheedles. “We can use the cash to pay her back.”

  “Great,” I approve. “Have fun explaining to her why you spent a hundred bucks on a bus ticket. Plus credit cards are traceable. Do you want the government to figure out where Mr. Aidact is?”

  Nathan gulps and produces a second twenty. “Try this one.”

  The machine swallows it right up.

  The cash comes from everybody’s lunch money, donated to Mr. Aidact’s escape fund over the course of the week. By the end, we’re stuffing quarters and even nickels into the machine, but we make it to the magic number of $102.50. The machine coughs up the ticket: DENVER, CO. The passenger name reads: Nathan Oliver.

  Nathan points. “Why Nathan Oliver?”

  I shrug. “I couldn’t put Aidact. That’s what the government will be looking for. Consider it a little tribute to the guys that made this escape possible.” I stick the ticket in my pocket.

  “I hope it is possible,” Nathan mumbles anxiously. “Right now it feels like a billion things have to go right for us to pull this off.”

  The station is just four blocks from Memorial Field. This is the distance Mr. Aidact has to cover to make it from the game to the bus. It doesn’t seem that far—until you remember that the enemy is the United States government.

  No—better not to think about that. This has to work.

  As we enter the parking lot, Nathan grabs my arm and breathes, “Look!”

  It’s Perkins. Not unexpected—when you’ve got Mr. Aidact, his “student teacher” is never far away. But Perkins is standing with three big guys next to an unmarked cube van.

  “That must be them,” I whisper. “That team of engineers that’s going to take Mr. Aidact away.”

  “Are we too late?” Nathan asks, his voice full of dread. “Is Mr. Aidact in the truck already?”

  I scan the field. “No—there he is, running the girls through warm-ups. They’re probably planning to grab him the minute the game ends.”

  Nathan slams his fist into his palm. “Not if we have anything to say about it!”

  As we enter the field, I notice that the stands are already pretty full with kids wearing our team colors of teal and white. A lot of the students we recruited to come today are actually showing up—proof of just how much the robot teacher has come to mean to everybody. We’ll need enough people to storm the field at the end of the game, so Mr. Aidact can get away in the confusion.

  The place is filling even as we watch. Avalon stands at the main gate, handing out her MR. AIDACT IS UNREAL flyers to anyone who’ll take them, even fans of the other team. I’m happy to note that some of our supporters are carrying large rolled-up posters. Nathan and I exchange a fist bump. Those will be another part of our plan later on.

  Our opponents are the Sheridan Middle School Seahawks, the team we tied in the first game. Both schools have been undefeated since then, so the winner today will be state champions.

  The two teams’ fan bases couldn’t be more different. The Seahawks’ supporters are mostly adults—parents and staff members. They seem surprised at our big turnout—especially since it’s 100 percent kids. Our teachers and parents have no idea this game is even being played. Rule number one: if you can’t slip away unnoticed, don’t come.

  Mr. Aidact is with Leticia and a couple of the backs, working on defending penalty corners, when we approach.

  “Good morning, pupils,” he greets us.

  “All right, Mr. Aidact,” I say. “We’re ready to help you with that little back problem.”

  Rosalie frowns. “He can’t get a backache—can he?”

  Mr. Aidact follows us into the field house, and we slip into the storage closet between the two locker rooms. The “back problem” is code for the GPS chip we have to get rid of so no one will be able to track him after he makes his escape.

  Nathan shines his phone’s flashlight while I pry open a small compartment between Mr. Aidact’s shoulder blades using the nail file on my key chain. Even though we already witnessed it that day through the Submarine Commander periscope, don’t let anyone ever tell you that it isn’t plenty weird to be poking inside a trapdoor on your teacher—especially when there’s nothing but wires and circuits in there.