Why Nerds Don't Make House Calls

I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m such a nerd. I don’t have taped up glasses or pencils stuffed in my shirt pocket. My marks aren’t great. I couldn’t program a computer in a million years. And I’d never go anywhere near the Chess Club.

I am kind of interested in science–because science is what makes Diet Coke explode when you add Mentos–but everyone always expects me to be some kind of super-brain.

Especially Mr. Swann. His face sours as he hands back my math test with a bright red C that could probably be seen from space.

“You should have studied harder, Aaron.” Mr. Swann’s voice oozes with disappointment.

I did study, but of course there’s no point telling him that.

“I’m sending a note home,” he says. “You’re a smart kid. Just imagine what you could do if you applied yourself.”

Applied myself? What was that supposed to mean? It sounded like he wanted me to start gluing myself to things like some kind of weird art project.

At home, I hand Mr. Swann’s note to Mom. She always expects me to do better too, but in an “I only want what’s best for you” kind of way. But she must have agreed with whatever Mr. Swann wrote, because at supper she has a new plan.

“I want you to help out Mrs. Newman,” she says.

“The crazy cat lady?”

Mom cringes, probably because she knows I’ve heard her describe Mrs. Newman that way as well. Everyone in the neighborhood has. “She’s not crazy,” Mom says. “She just loves cats. A lot. And she needs help to take care of them.”

I really don’t know what to say. Most of the kids at school already don’t hang around me, because they think I’m such a nerd. If word gets out that I’m spending time with the crazy cat lady, I’ll lose the few friends I do have! “What if I don’t want to?” I ask.

“Mr. Swann thinks more responsibility will be good for you, and I agree. Mrs. Newman needs help.”

“In more ways than one,” I mumble.

Mom slides a plate of pasta in front of me. “Maybe if she has people around, she won’t need as many pets.”

Gross thoughts about litter boxes and fur balls fill my head. “What am I supposed to do with seventeen cats?”

“And seven dogs,” Mom says. “And one parrot.”

I groan.

“Mrs. Newman called and asked for you specifically. I already told her you’d be by after dinner, so there’s no sense in arguing.”

I grumble. “You could have at least asked me first.” I pick at my food, trying to delay for as long as I can, but Mom just cancels dessert because I’m taking too long.

Mrs. Newman’s house isn’t creepy or rundown, but it does have two-foot-tall grass. Her windows are closed, like always, and her blinds are pulled down.

The first step up to the front porch squeaks and the porch boards creak as I step on them. I’m breathing faster and my heart is thumping when I knock. I really do not want to be there.

“Come in!”

It’s a strange voice, high pitched, but not really a woman’s voice. I don’t hear anything else. No barking. No meowing. Nothing.

I push the heavy door open onto a living room petting zoo. The musty smell fills my nose. Cats and dogs stroll, laze, and stretch all over the room. It looks like a lot more than the twenty-four animals I was told about. Plus, there are at least four budgies and five guinea pigs.

Two things are very wrong.

First, Mrs. Newman’s eyes are locked open and she isn’t moving at all.

Second, the animals aren’t really acting like animals.

Two cats are playing chess. Four dogs are playing poker. One cat is clicking through TV channels using the remote. Another dog is drawing blueprints. And a parrot is using a microscope on a slide of blue goop.

The cat closest to the door looks up from its paper. It glances at me and then turns to Mrs. Newman.

“Hey, Birdbrain. Your human is here.”

Mrs. Newman doesn’t move. Then I hear a click and a whir. Her left ear spins wildly before stopping with a clang. Then a piece of her skull folds down like a door. A small parakeet steps out from a hollow space filled with blinking lights and moving gears where Mrs. Newman’s brain should have been.

“You must be Aaron,” the bird says, in a proper British accent. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“For...what?”

The bird nods at Mrs. Newman. “Our robot is broken. We need you to fix it.”

My brain is already spinning from all the talking, reading, channel-surfing animals, not to mention the broken robotic cat lady. The fact that they all thought I was some kind of repairman really pushed me over the edge.

“He’s speechless,” says the cat beside me. “Or maybe he’s a broken robot, too.”

I blink my way out of my trance. “Sorry,” I say. “This isn’t what I expected.”

The cat rolls his big yellow eyes. “I told you, Birdbrain. Just because an animal has thumbs, that doesn’t make him any smarter than the rest of us.”

“Hush, Claw,” says Birdbrain. “I’m sure he’ll be able to figure this out. Aaron’s a nerd--everybody says so. He has to know about robots.”

“If he doesn’t…” Claw doesn’t finish his sentence. He drags one paw down the front of his newspaper, shredding it completely.

I swallow hard. “All right then. Let’s get to work.”