Page 8 - Eighth Grade vs. the Machines

“Are you kidding me?!” she shrieks, kicking the doll
for good measure. There’s a pop and a long wheezing
sound, like a balloon fizzing air through a tiny hole.
“You used your nanobot replica?! That’s cheating!”
I smile. Pencil Program: DECOY JACK. It’s a perfect

copy—same light hair, same freckly skin, same awk-
wardly large bug-eyes. The program is even designed to
scan me and come out dressed in whatever clothes I’m
wearing. Which today—with the new, “relaxed” dress
code—means jeans and a plaid button-down.
We have a light speed engine. We’ve traveled
through time and space and fought aliens bent on galac-
tic domination. And still, Principal Lochner defines the
line between civilization and chaos as “collared shirts.”

Becka shoots rapid-fire pulses at me. I duck just in
time, and the elevator doors close. But not before I cup
my hands against my mouth and yell, “It’s not cheating!”
Because it’s not! There’re only like six rules
to this whole game. All’s fair in Jetpack Lasertag
Capture-the-Flag.
The elevator doors open again, and I yawn to pop my

ears. It’s bright up here—all windows and sunshine. I’m
alone except for a powered-down robot that sits behind
an information booth. The robot wears a baseball cap
that reads: EXPRESS FERRIES EVERY FIFTEEN
MINUTES TO BROOKLYN, FAR ROCKAWAY,
AND THE MOON. I hop over waiting-line ropes and
dash past the booth, following arrows pointing me to the

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