Page 7 - Eighth Grade vs. the Machines

“Heeeeere, Jackie, Jackie,” Becka calls out, sweeping
her laser rifle’s scope back and forth across the lobby.
A red dot whizzes around the room.
She’s getting closer. Becka’s like a foot taller than me.
And from my hiding place, I can see the top of her hair,

which she’s dyed pitch black.
Click. A five-foot-long creation materializes. I gently
position it behind me, leaning against the column. Take
my communicator ring off my finger and find a voice
recording to play. Set a timer for five seconds and slide it
underneath the mass of disguised nanorobots.
Becka crosses the lobby, pointing her blaster at the
back of what I made with the Pencil. “Are you really
just hiding in a corner? That’s kind of pathetic, even

for you.”
“Rude,” I grumble, making a quiet run for it—
around the column, toward the elevators.
My ring blurts out the recording: “This is Jack! Sorry
my family brought on the apocalypse! Leave a message
at the beep!”
And Becka goes, “Gotcha now!”

Except I’m already across the lobby. I press the but-
ton, press the button, press the button—come on!—and
finally, one elevator opens with a loud ding!
Becka whiplashes her head around, shouting, “What
the . . . argh!”

She grabs my nanobot creation—a giant foam doll—
and throws it to the ground.

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