My Life as a Computer Cockroach (9 page)

HAVE A NICE DAY,

THE PRES.

All three of us stared at the screen a good minute. Finally, Opera asked a question that wasn't exactly on any of our minds: “I thought you said your parents had chips.”

I ignored him and turned to Wall Street. “If all the phone lines are down, how can the President e-mail us?”

She shrugged. “I guess when it comes to national emergencies, he's got ways.”

“But what does he mean when he says they'll respond
‘swiftly and appropriately'
?”

Wall Street took a deep breath and slowly answered. “I think the
swiftly
part means he'll be declaring war on us.”

I slowly nodded. “And the
appropriately
part?”

“It means they'll be bombing us to smithereens.”

I let out a long, low sigh and mumbled, “I just hate it when this type of stuff happens.”

As usual, Wall Street and I had like the longest debate over what to do. She wanted to keep trying to fix things by using Ol' Betsy's powers, and I just wanted to call it quits.

“Look,” I said, “this whole thing started by trying to cheat with our grades.”

“Which are still,” Wall Street happily pointed out, “what we changed them to.”

“What difference does that make now?!” I shouted.

“I'm just trying to look on the bright side.”

“The bright side? The bright side!? The President of the United States is about to declare war on my house, and you want me to look on the bright side?!”

“Actually,” Opera said as he began looking under my pillow, “I don't think the President can legally do that.”

“Why not?” I asked.

Now he was checking between my blankets. “To declare war on a foreign country, I think he has to get Congress to vote on it or something.”

“We're not a foreign country,” I said. Now he dropped to his knees and stuck his head under my bed. “Opera, what are you doing?”

“Don't you ever like eat popcorn and chips and stuff in bed?” he asked as he started rummaging around underneath. “You musta dropped crumbs around here somewhere. I mean everybody drops—ah, here we go.”

crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch

Even though it was faint, I could still hear the muffled munching of Opera finding something to eat under my bed.

“Hold it,” Wall Street said. “He might have something.”

“Of course, he has something,” I said. “Probably a stray corn chip or pretzel left over from—”

“No, no, no,” Wall Street said as she rose to her feet and crossed back to Ol' Betsy. “I mean about declaring war on us. If we're a foreign country, maybe the President can't declare war on us without getting Congress's permission by a majority vote!”

“But we're
not
a foreign country,” I repeated.

“Not yet,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. Once again she reached for Ol' Betsy.

“Wall Street!” I was on my feet racing toward her. But by the time I arrived, she'd already finished. I looked down at the screen and stared in disbelief:

Choco Chum, make Wally's home a separate country.

“Oh, no!” I groaned.

“Don't take it so hard,” Wall Street said. “Instead of a governor, you're now the President of an entire country.”

I buried my face in my hands. “No, no, no, no . . .”

But even as I spoke, Wall Street had gone back to her typing. I no longer had the courage to look, and when she finished I could only mumble, “What is it now?”

She was just about to answer when, suddenly, there was a huge

ROAR . . .

whoooosh

followed by another, and another, and another.

“What's that?” I cried as I raced to my window for a look.

I wished I hadn't. Because there—at the far end of my street—were a bunch of jet fighters coming in low and fast.

“We're under attack!” I cried. “They're about to bomb us!”

“No way!” Wall Street shouted.

“Yes, way!” I cried.

She shook her head and started to answer but it was impossible to hear over another sound that began pounding the air.

Whop, whop, whop, whop . . .

I craned my neck to look up through the window and saw a half-dozen helicopters dropping down from the sky.

“And helicopters!” I cried. “They're attacking with helicopters, too!”

“This is not an attack,” Wall Street shouted over the noise.

“What?!”

“This is not an attack!” She started for the door. “They haven't had time to declare war on us.”

“Then what is it?” I shouted.

“Follow me.”

“What?”

“Come on, I'll show you!” And with that she was gone.

Reluctantly, I followed. I threw a glance at Opera. His feet were still under the bed. I figured I'd leave him alone. After all, everyone's entitled to a last meal.

By the time I got down the stairs, Wall Street had opened the front door and was heading outside to join my family.

K-WHOOSH
K-WHOOSH
K-WHOOSH

As I approached the doorway, I saw that the jets weren't flying overhead to bomb us; instead, they were landing on the street in front of us!

K-WHOOSH
K-WHOOSH
K-WHOOSH

“What on earth . . . ?” I said to myself.

When I finally stepped outside, it was even crazier. The helicopters were

WHOP, WHOP, WHOP, WHOP

landing in my front yard.

I'd barely joined Wall Street and my family when the door to the first helicopter slid open and out stepped a general-type guy with a gazillion medals on his chest. He quickly walked toward us, scanning each of us up and down. “Which one of you is Wally McDoogle?” he barked.

My family, being the loving, supportive type they are, all stepped back and pointed. “He is!”

The General turned and marched straight toward me.

I knew it was over. I knew it was curtains. I knew I had better straighten out my cheating problem with God before I met Him face-to-face . . . because, by the looks of things, that meeting was about to happen.

“President McDoogle?” the General shouted. He raised his hand . . . probably to beat me or shoot me or whatever they do to foreign dictators.

I closed my eyes and nodded, expecting the worst.

“General Pending reporting as ordered, sir.”

I opened my eyes. The General was saluting me.

“Wh-at?” I asked.

“General Patton Pending with the troops you requested, sir.”

I cut a look at Wall Street, who was grinning ear to ear. “What did you write on Ol' Betsy?” I asked. “What's Choco Chum done now?”

She said nothing.

“Wall Street?”

Her grin grew bigger.

“Wall Street!”

And bigger some more.

“Wall Street, answer me!”

Finally she spoke, but I wished she hadn't. “What good is it being president of a country,” she said, “if you don't have an army to defend that country?”

Chapter
9
This Means War!

“Wall Street!” I cried.

“Don't worry”—she grinned—“the General and I, we've got it covered.”

“Got it covered?” I yelled. “Got it covered! The United States of America is about to declare war on us, and you've got it covered?!”

“Sir, please . . .” The General crossed to my side and lowered his voice. “As commander in chief, it's important that you don't let the troops think you're panicking.”

“But I
am
panicking!”

“Listen”—he glanced from side to side then back to me—“if you just leave everything to me, I guarantee it will all work out.”

I held his gaze. He did his best to crank up a smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

“Trust me”—(more of his grimace smile)—“I'm a professional.”

“Well . . .” I took a deep, uneasy breath. “I don't know what other choice we have, so I guess it might be okay if—”

Before I could finish, he spun around and shouted, “All right, men, secure this house and make it headquarters.”

Suddenly, a hundred soldiers leaped out of the helicopters and raced toward our house.

“Now, hold it just a minute!” Dad shouted. He held out his hands, trying to stop them. “You can't just land in the middle of our front yard and expect—”

“Immobilize him!” the General barked.

Instantly, a dozen soldiers threw Dad to the ground, slammed a dozen booted feet on top of his chest, and pointed a dozen rifles at him.

“On second thought”—Dad nervously cleared his throat—“please make yourselves at home.”

“Release him!” the General ordered. Then, as the soldiers obeyed and turned to race up the steps, the General kneeled down to Dad and whispered, “I'll be keeping a special eye on you, mister.”

“General . . . Mister General?” I raced up to him. He spun around. “Yes, sir?”

“You say you're going to fix things. How exactly are you going to do that?”

“Well, sir, it's rather complicated. I'm sure someone in your position wouldn't be interested in—”

“Try him,” Mom said as she joined me.

The General gave her a stern look, but she held his glare and wouldn't back down. When he finally realized who he was up against (nobody crosses Mom and gets away with it), he turned and looked over the neighborhood . . . a neighborhood where people were exiting their houses and running for safety as fast as possible. “War is a game,” he said overdramatically. “And, like any other game, there are certain rules, certain guidelines, certain principles . . .”

“Meaning?” Mom asked.

“Meaning . . .” He turned back to her and continued, “The best defense is always an offense.” With those simple words, he turned and started up the steps.

“But . . .” I raced to his side. “What does that have to do with the United States declaring war on us?”

He sighed wearily and slowed to a stop. “What it means is, the only way to defend ourselves from the U.S. declaring war on us . . . is to declare war on them first.”

“What?”

Like a gentle father, he reached down and patted me on the shoulder. “Don't worry about a thing, sir. We'll take care of the details.”

“Details!?”

Suddenly, loud grating sounds echoed up and down the street. We spun around to see all the manhole covers on the road being lifted up from below. A moment later frogmen in wet suits and scuba gear began climbing out.

“Ah, good.” The General smiled. “The navy's finally here.”

“The navy?” I cried.

“Yes, it was a bit difficult for them since the nearest ocean is two thousand miles away, but they have a great fleet of submarines, and you have a great sewer system. Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I have a war to win.” With that he turned and entered the house.

“Wallace!” It was Dad. To say he was in a lousy mood might be an understatement. To say he was so mad he was about to blow a heart gasket . . . well, you'd be getting close.