My Life as a Computer Cockroach (6 page)

“What!?” I shouted.

“If you're the police chief then you can get everybody to listen you. You might even be able to get Coach out of jail.”

“That's loony tunes!” I cried. “No way am I going to the city jail all by myself and pretend to be the police chief.”

Wall Street saw my point and began to nod. “You're right,” she agreed, “you shouldn't have to go in there by yourself.” She reached back to the keyboard and typed:

Choco Chum, make Wall Street the police chief's secretary and
. . .

She paused to think for a moment (which made me even more nervous) until her face suddenly lit up:

. . . make Opera the jail's new dietitian!

“What's that?” Opera asked.

“You know,” she said, “like a cook.”

“Wall Street,” I protested, “don't be ridicu—”

But that was all I got out before she reached down and hit “ENTER.”

I stared at Ol' Betsy helplessly. There must have been a hundred things I wanted to say all at the same time. Unfortunately, the only thing that came out was the tried-and-true:

“Uh-oh . . .”

Opera nodded, belched, and added, “Times two.”

The next day was New Year's Eve. Since the following day was a holiday—and since Coach Kilroy wasn't around—his survival workshop had been canceled. This fit in perfectly with Wall Street's plan . . . something about three very frightened kids putting on their best clothes, heading down to the city jail, and pretending to be the police chief, his secretary, and the new jail dietitian. Of course, it would never work (the only thing more dangerous than my clumsiness was Wall Street's plans), but we had to do something.

“This is crazy,” I mumbled for the hundredth time as we got off the bus and headed up the courthouse steps.

“You worry too much,” Wall Street said as we entered the doors. “Just keep Ol' Betsy there nice and handy in case we get into trouble.”

I nodded as I pulled Ol' Betsy a little closer under my arm.

“Where are the snack machines?” Opera asked as we stepped into the lobby. (Hey, everybody's got their priorities.)

Up ahead was a guard sitting behind a security window. I leaned over to Wall Street and whispered, “He'll never let us in.”

“Just go past like you know what you're doing.”

“But . . .”

“Don't worry,” Wall Street said. “Ol' Betsy hasn't let us down yet. If Choco Chum says you're the new police chief, then you're the new police chief.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“And don't forget Coach Kilroy. The poor guy is totally innocent.”

“But . . . but . . . but . . .”

So there I was, doing my motorboat imitation until the guard behind the window asked, “You kids want something?”

He looked at me. My palms grew damp.

He looked harder. My forehead grew wet.

He looked even harder. Perspiration streamed down my face. Talk about police brutality. If I sweated any more they'd mistake me for an indoor fountain.

Fortunately, Wall Street came to my rescue. “Police Chief McDoogle reporting for his first day of work,” she said in her deepest, most grown-up voice.

The guard gave us a slight smile. “Right.”

“I'm serious,” Wall Street said. “This is Chief McDoogle, I'm his secretary, and this here is the jail's new cook.”

The slight smile grew to a slight grin.

“I'm not joking,” Wall Street insisted. “If you don't believe us, just check the records.”

“Why don't you children run along now and play somewhere else.”

“If you would just—”

“Go on now, before I lose my patience.”

Suddenly, with the world's biggest scowl, Wall Street turned to me and said, “Chief McDoogle, I suggest you take down this man's badge number and immediately put him on report.”

The guard's smile drooped slightly. Wall Street turned back to him. “The chief's a merciful man. If you'll just look at your records, I'm sure he'll go easy on you.”

With a heavy sigh the guard reached for the computer keyboard. “Look, kiddies,” he said as he began to type. “I don't know what sort of game you're playing, but—” Suddenly, he stopped. “That's funny.”

Wall Street and I exchanged glances.

He looked up at me. “What's the name again?”

And always being the quick thinker that I am, I responded, “Uh . . . duh . . . hmm . . .”

“McDoogle,” Wall Street said. (I told you she was the smart one.) “Wally McDoogle.”

He stared at the screen, hit a few more keys, and shook his head in amazement.

Wall Street and I fidgeted nervously.

Finally, he spoke. “I don't understand it, but . . . you're right. It says right here, ‘Police Chief Wally McDoogle.' Now when did that happen?”

“It was sort of a last-minute appointment,” Wall Street said.

“But you're just kids.”

Wall Street motioned toward the monitor. “Computers don't lie.”

He glanced back to the screen, hit a few more keys, and nodded. Then he looked back at me and asked, “You got any I.D.?”

Since my last answer worked so well, I tried it again. “Uh . . . duh . . . hmm . . .”

Once again, Wall Street came to my rescue. “I.D.?” she asked.

“Yeah, you know, something to prove he's”—he looked back at the screen—“
Wally McDoogle.
Maybe a passport, or a driver's license, anything.”

My mind raced a thousand miles an hour. The only problem was it raced a thousand miles an hour in circles, which is the same as racing nowhere at all. It seemed no matter how hard I tried, I just kept coming back to the same tried-and-true answer: “Uh . . . duh . . . hmm . . .”

“Is that really necessary?” Wall Street asked.

The guard nodded. “Just because he says he's Wally McDoogle doesn't mean he's—”

Suddenly, I had it. “My milk ticket!” I blurted out.

Everyone just sort of stared at me. Well, everyone but Wall Street, who was already shaking her head in silent wonder at my stupidity.

“No, I'm serious,” I said as I pulled the school cafeteria milk ticket out of my pocket. “It's got my signature and everything.” I held the beat-up piece of paper to the glass for the guard. “See . . . right there, ‘Wally McDoogle.'”

He carefully scrutinized it. “What are all those red drops on it?” he asked. “They look like blood.”

“Oh”—I grinned—“that's where I accidentally stabbed myself with a ballpoint pen.”

“He's never been good with pointy objects,” Wall Street explained.

The guard could only stare at it. Then he stared at the computer screen. Then he stared at me. My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid he could hear it. Then, shaking his head, he reached for a button. The door buzzed, and we pushed it open. A moment later, all three of us were inside the city jailhouse.

“The offices are on the third floor . . .
Chief McDoogle.
I'll be calling up there to have someone meet you and straighten this out.”

“Thank you,” I croaked. And then, wanting to sound more official, I added, “You can bet there'll be a big promotion in this for you.”

Before the guard could answer, Wall Street grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the elevator. “Don't overdo it,” she whispered.

“Overdo it?” I asked. “You just had us break into the city jail pretending to be public officials, and you tell
me
not to overdo it!”

“Let's hurry!” Opera said as he pushed the elevator button. (Having spotted no vending machines it was obvious he wanted to get to the third floor, to see if his luck was any better.)

How had it happened? How, by using Ol' Betsy to cheat just a little, had we gotten into such a jam? Unfortunately, I was already beginning to understand that cheating is a lot like lying. The Bible makes it pretty clear that there's no such thing as a “little lie” (if you don't believe me, check out
My Life As Dinosaur Dental Floss
). The same is true with a little cheating. Cheating is cheating. And, just like lying, it's wrong in a major uh-oh, I-guess-I-won't-be-trying-that-again kind of way.

“Wall Street?” I croaked.

“Yeah?”

“Now what do we do?”

“What we've always done,” she said as the elevator doors finally opened and we stepped inside. “What's that?”

She waited until the doors closed and we were trapped inside before giving her answer; one I could have lived another millennium without hearing: “We fake it.”

Chapter
6
Faking It

Once we were outside the police chief's office, his secretary stopped us. The good news was that the real police chief was at some fancy breakfast making some fancy New Year's speech with a bunch of fancy people. The bad news was that Wall Street had actually managed to talk his secretary into
not
throwing us out.

“Just look at your computer,” Wall Street kept saying. “Just look at your computer.”

When the woman finally did look at the computer, she scowled hard at her screen. “It must be some sort of glitch,” she said. “There must be a bug in our system.”

“Then check out the other systems,” Wall Street said. “Check the mayor's system. Check the governor's. Check every computer in the state! They'll all say the same thing: Wally McDoogle is the new chief of police!”

“Well, I'll just do that, young lady,” the secretary said.

And when she did, she was even more surprised. It was exactly as Wall Street had predicted. Every single computer gave the same information: Wally McDoogle was the new police chief . . . Wall Street was his new secretary . . . and Opera was the new dietitian. Although she wasn't happy about the situation, the secretary agreed to give us a spare office and let Opera go down to the kitchen— at least until she sorted things out. That was her plan.

Unfortunately, ours would be a little different. While I sat back to survey my office, Wall Street left to start her detective work. A few minutes later she barged into my new office with a stack of papers just slightly taller than the World Trade Center. As she plopped them down on my desk, I asked, “What are these?”

“They're the forms you need to sign so Coach Kilroy can go free.”

“I can't do that!”

“Of course you can. You're the police chief, remember?”

I shook my head. “Wall Street, we've got to stop this. We've got to tell them this is all a lie. We've got to tell them there's some mixed-up microchip in my computer and that we—”

“You're going to tell Coach Kilroy that
you're
the reason he got arrested?”

“Well, uh . . .”

“That
you
manufactured all that evidence against him?”

“Uh . . . duh . . .” I was back to using my brilliant debating skills again.

“That
you're
the reason he's in jail?”

“Uh . . . duh . . . hmm . . .”

“And then,” she continued, “when everything's all cleared up, and you finally get out of prison for impersonating an officer, you're going to go back to finish P.E. and face whatever torture Coach Kilroy has been planning for you all that time?”

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

And then, taking my famous McDoogle stand for courage, I grabbed the pen and asked, “Where do I sign?” But I'd barely written my name on the paper when an alarm sounded.

“What's that?!” I shouted.

“I don't know!” Wall Street yelled.

We raced out into the hallway to join the secretary. “What's going on?” I cried.

“The prisoners are rioting!” the secretary shouted.

“Why?”

“For lunch somebody cooked them a greasy potato chip casserole smothered in salt and topped with even greasier corn chips!”

My suspicions rose.

“That's disgusting!” Wall Street shouted over the alarm.