Augmented Reality by Victor Appleton (most recommended books .TXT) 📕

was just overconfident, but I tried something I hadn’t done before: I poured pancake batter with my left robot arm while simultaneously removing a cooked pancake with my right. And then I wished I hadn’t. I tilted the plastic pitcher in my left claw too far, spilling batter onto the floor.

“Uh-oh,” I muttered as I instinctively jerked my left arm. Even more goo sloshed out of the pitcher. I tried to back the robot base away from the mess, but the treads spun and slipped in the batter. Before I knew it, my view of the kitchen radically changed as my robot toppled to the ground.

“Oh man,” I said as I pulled off my glasses and dropped the controllers. I ran to the kitchen to see the mess I’d made in person. My father stood there shaking his head, a glob of pancake batter splashed across his shirt and pants.

“What’s that you always say?” I asked with half a smile. “Back to the drawing board?”

My father chuckled as he grabbed a kitchen towel and wiped at the batter on his shirt. “It would seem so.”

As my dad went upstairs to change, I cleaned up the mess. There was just enough un-spilled batter left for me to finish cooking dinner—the old-fashioned way.

I was flipping the last pancake as Dad came back downstairs. He poked his head around the corner of the dining room. “Is it safe to come in now?”

I laughed as I placed the not-so-tall stack of pancakes on the table. “Yeah. And sorry about that.”

My father waved away my apology. “These things happen,” he said as he took his seat. “Failure is all part of learning and moving forward.”

That was the cool thing about being a second-generation inventor. My father was very understanding when one of my projects went haywire. He has told me plenty of times that he wouldn’t be where he was today if he hadn’t learned from the occasional failed invention.

As we ate, I explained my robot design, and he helped me troubleshoot what could’ve gone wrong. As always, he had some great suggestions on how to tighten up the robot’s movements.

“Are you going to show off your robot in the upcoming Olympics?” he asked.

“You heard about that, huh?” I asked between bites.

“Of course,” my dad said. “Holly Jensen works for me, after all. Plus, she was very excited to tell me about both of her ideas.”

“The reality show thing?” I asked. “You’re okay with that?”

My father shrugged. “I don’t see why not, as long as classes aren’t disrupted, and I can’t see Mr. Davenport letting that happen.” He looked at me over the rims of his glasses. “Let me guess.… You’re not so happy about it.” He closed his eyes and put a finger to his temple. “I’m getting a vision,” he said, swaying in his seat. “It’s getting clearer.… You’re—you’re worried about being the focus of that show because of your name.”

I rolled my eyes. “How did you guess?”

“Oh, I’ve heard this story before,” he replied. “Look, Tom. You can’t change who you are. But have you ever thought that the harder you try to make things not about you, the more you’re making things all about you?”

I opened my mouth to object but caught myself. My dad had a point. Maybe I was making too big a deal out of the whole attention thing. If the other kids at school wanted to be a part of a new reality show, why should I grumble about it?

“You’re probably right,” I finally said. “I know that Noah is sick of hearing me complain about not wanting special treatment. He always says he wouldn’t feel the same way if it were him in my place.”

My dad pointed his fork at me. “There you go. Maybe this show will give him a turn to be in the spotlight.”

“Oh yeah,” I said with a smile. “I think it will.” Then I told Dad about how Ms. Jensen wanted to feature Noah’s augmented reality app.

“Sounds good to me. From what you’ve told me, his app brings the whole school together, involving everyone.” He finished his last bite of pancake. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s what the Swift Academy is all about.”

4

The Production Introduction

THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL, the Swift Academy students were all about getting on camera. As I entered through the front doors, I saw tons of students crowded around, chattering excitedly. Moving closer, I could make out a young man and woman, each with a video camera, recording the mob. Two other men held large microphones over the assembled students, and another man with a thick beard pointed at different people, instructing the camera operators where to shoot. Meanwhile, my classmates were mugging for the cameras. From my angle, it looked more like a zombie movie than a reality show.

I edged away from the group, making my way toward my locker.

“All right, people,” Mr. Davenport said as he squeezed through the crowd. “Time to go to class.” His face and bald head were flushed with anger.

His instruction was answered with moans of disappointment, but even so, the students quickly dispersed.

“Mr. Stewart,” said Mr. Davenport as he approached the bearded man. “I was assured this wasn’t going to be a disruption.”

Mr. Stewart chuckled. “Please call me Joey. This always happens at first. The kids needed to get it out of their systems, and we’ll be able to use the footage down the line.”

“Okay… Joey,” said Mr. Davenport. “I’m trying to run a school here and—”

Joey Stewart put a hand on the principal’s shoulder. “Ronald… Ron. Can I call you Ron?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “How about Sean and I go back to your office and get some shots of you at your desk.” He held out his other hand, fingers spread wide. “The captain at the helm, that sort of thing.”

Mr. Davenport nervously ran a hand over what little hair he had left. “Well, I suppose that would be all right.”

“Good,”