Unbelievably Boring Bart Read online

  Well, it’s simple. I’ve been coding.

  You know—computer coding.

  And right now, I’m hearing a record needle slide off the edge of the LP. The set of drums tumbling down the stairs, and a final, pathetic cymbal crash. A million voices crying out, “That’s it? That’s the important work you’ve been doing?”

  Well… yeah.

  Look, I know it sounds boring. But trust me—this work is essential. Coding is what makes of all those “electronic devices” do stuff. In fact, everything you enjoy in this world is thanks to nerds like me who slam together numbers and letters and symbols.

  The Lerkians target our technology, so the only way to fight back is with even better technology. And after all these long (hot) months, there’s finally an app that will take them all down!

  Namely… um, the app on my smartphone. You know, the one I shared with CyberGirl03 earlier? The game I hoped my dad would check out (and good luck with that one)?

  Well, I’m constantly coding because… I created the app.

  WAIT WHAT

  Now, shhhhhh! Don’t tell anyone!

  I practically can hear you screaming at this page:

  What about the stuff about Lerkians and mind-control and weird exercises and alien invasions? Did you make all that up, too, hoping to hide the fact that you are completely boring in real life?

  Yes, the Lerkians are totally fake. They’re figments of my imagination. I wanted to create an augmented reality game set in my own apartment starring these creepy little creatures who would cause all kinds of mayhem.

  And then my dad kept harping on me about going outside, so I thought: Wait. Why not set the game outside, too? Imagine unleashing the Lerkians on all of Rancho Verdugo? Admit it: the place seriously had it coming.

  Actually, Dad was the one who inspired the game in the first place.

  CODING’S NOT SO BORING NOW, IS IT?

  I’ve been slowly building this game ever since Dad moved us here in the summer. What else did I have to do? So, every free moment I had, I was coding. On my phone at school? Coding. On my laptop in the evening? Coding. Brushing my teeth in the morning? I’m thinking about coding. Eating breakfast? Ditto.

  Even when I’m actually coding, I’m thinking about the coding I’m going to be doing tomorrow.

  From the day we arrived in hot, dusty Rancho Verdugo I’d been dreaming of creating my own virtual game. The people who make this stuff are my heroes. And honestly, it wasn’t that hard to pick up. Once you start playing around with a few lines of code, it’s hard to stop.

  And the next thing you know, you’re plotting an alien invasion. It just kinda happens.

  Yeah, okay—I’ll admit it. I was super-bummed about having to move to a new city and attend a new school. It’s not Dad’s fault—nobody’s fault, really. But it’s tough being pulled away from everything and everyone you know.

  So I thought: What if I create little creatures that cause things to go, well, haywire?

  Soon, I was wondering what kind of alien life form would thrive in this hostile environment, and, one hot August day, the image of a Lerkian popped into my head. All squishy and spindly, like a tumbleweed.

  I was inspired when Dad drove me past one of those inflatable blow-up guys—you know, with the waving arms and crazy hair—that they stick in front of shops to attract attention.

  What can I say? It was a way to keep my mind off the crummy realities of my new life. With every piece of code, I was taking my revenge on Rancho Verdidn’t Want to Move Here.

  Sadly, all this coding (and thinking about coding) is why everybody thinks I’m so boring. In reality, my brain is bursting with alien action and how to make it look as realistic as possible. You wouldn’t believe how much time (and noodle-power) that takes.

  So, boring? Please. On any given day, I’m the most exciting person in the room!

  But I could have never guessed what would happen next.

  THE DAY OF THE HECKLR

  If you were to ask someone about the moment when everything changed in Rancho Verdugo, they’d probably tell you it was one day in late October.

  A Tuesday, in fact. Lunch period.

  Two kids were in my cafeteria a few tables away, ignoring their food and looking at their phones (as kids do). To protect the innocent, let’s call these two gentlemen… oh, I don’t know… Clueless Chuck and Eagle-Eyed Eduardo.*

  (*Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, and not because these two goofballs once tripped me during gym.)

  Eduardo said to Chuck, “Have you seen this heckle thing?”

  “What?”

  “This new game. Hecklr or something. It’s a free download. Somebody sent it to me. It says I’m supposed to scan the room or something.”

  “Quit bugging me. I’m in the middle of an important SlapTalk.”

  “Whoa! This is the coolest!” Eduardo exclaimed, looking at his screen while pointing his phone at Chuck. “There’s one right on top of your head!”

  Now this got ol’ Clueless Chuck’s attention. “Wait, what? Is there something on my hair?” (Dude likes his hair to be just so.)

  “Hahahahaha! It’s taking apart your phone!”

  Now people were starting to gawk at Chuck and Eduardo, wondering what the fuss was all about. All they saw was Eduardo holding his phone up to Chuck, and poor Chuck patting his head, wondering if someone had spilled some fettuccine Alfredo on his golden locks.

  I was looking at them, too, kind of stunned. I was pretty sure I knew what Eduardo saw on his screen. And it would be something like this:

  After a few minutes, other kids were looking over Eduardo’s shoulder to see what kind of game he was playing.

  Word spread quickly through the cafeteria: It’s a sci-fi augmented reality game called Hecklr. Not only does it sound cool, but it’s a completely free download. And it works on pretty much any smartphone with a built-in camera manufactured after, say, 1887 (or whenever smartphones were invented).

  I was freaking out. More than a little. How did Eduardo find the link to the app? Did someone tip him off?

  I mean… that was my game!

  Though I have to admit, it was kind of fun to watch everybody at lunch period take out their phones and start downloading like crazy. They were pointing their phones at each other, at the walls, at the cafeteria ladies (who are not impressed, not by a long shot), and giggling like mad.

  So I did the same thing, downloading a copy of my own game to my own beloved phone. (Hey, I have to make sure it’s working right!)

  The app asked me for a username (whoops, forgot I added that feature), so I went with the only one that made sense: “UBoringBart02.”

  The 02 is for my birth month, which is February. The U is for the word “Unbelievably.” It felt appropriate, somehow.

  And with the selection of a password… the adventure began!

  THEY’RE HEEEERE… AND THERRRRRE… AND PRETTY MUCH EVERYWHERE

  The cafeteria was already full of players, so I stepped into the hallway. The bell was still a few minutes away from ringing, so for the moment all was quiet.

  Except…

  I held up my smartphone and there they were!

  Two Lerkians, clinging to the ceiling and pulling apart the fixtures. Sparks popped and rained down on the linoleum floor. Through my phone’s speakers I could hear a creepy little laugh. It was in their alien language, which means it’s basically unpronounceable by human beings. But if I had to give it my best guess, it would sound something like:

  XEE-XEE-XEE!!! XEE-XEE-XEE!!! XEE-XEE-XEE!!!

  When I lowered my phone, the two Lerkians disappeared IRL (that would be “in real life,” in case you’re an Amish farmer… or my dad). You could only see them—and hear their weird little giggle—through the display of the game.

  XEE-XEE-XEE!!! XEE-XEE-XEE!!! XEE-XEE-XEE!!!

  And everyone else playing the game right then was experiencing the same thing. When they held up their phon
es and looked at the world through the built-in cameras, they could see the Lerkians attacking pretty much anything that uses electricity.

  Computers. Watches. Neon signs. Earphones. Security cameras. Video game consoles. Cars. TVs. Entire skyscrapers, people. Anything that uses modern technology is prey to these wiry little creepazoids.

  Seeing the Lerkians is great and all. But what the heck are we supposed to do about them? Or are we doomed to a world without anything that runs on electricity?

  Nope.

  Once you’ve got a Lerkian (or two) in your sights, you tap a button to lock on to them. For a few seconds, they won’t be able to move. Not even one single little wire.

  And then you type in a verbal warning in a little text box on your screen.

  So I typed:

  Hey! You two get off that ceiling right this very instant!

  The Lerkians just stared back at me through the screen. (Did I mention they’re super-creepy when they look you in the eye?) I made the classic newbie mistake: I wasn’t insulting them creatively.

  As long as you don’t use the kind of “creative” language that would get your uncle kicked out of the house during Thanksgiving. You know what I mean. Let’s be grown-ups here; we’re alien-fighting, after all!

  So I tried something else:

  Yo, spaghetti faces! I’m your worst nightmare!

  The Lerkians turned to gawk at each other, then they did a little scaredy-pants dance, and finally they scurried away as fast as their whip-like legs (arms?) could carry them.

  STOP THEM BEFORE THEY STOP US!

  After school, during my usual hot slog through the arid wastelands of Rancho El Heck No, I came upon an amazing sight:

  Five of my classmates were gathered around a big neon sign for JOEY G’S BACK TO THE 50S DINER. They pointed their phones up at the sign as if it were an alien artifact and they were space explorers sent out to analyze it.

  Meanwhile, there were some midafternoon customers at tables out front, snacking on french fries and sodas and staring at the middle schoolers gathered under the neon sign.

  “Something wrong?” one of the customers asked.

  “Can’t you see them?” one of the students responded. “There have to be at least a dozen up there.”

  “A dozen what?”

  “A dozen of them.”

  “Them? Them who?”

  Meanwhile, I lifted my own phone to the neon sign and… wow. They weren’t kidding. It was a crazy infestation of Lerkians, who clung to the sign like a bunch of ants who have discovered a splotch of ice cream on the sidewalk.

  WOO-HOO ICE CREEEEEEEAAAMMMMM!

  (At least, that’s what I imagine ants would say after stumbling upon a mountain of fudge ripple.)

  But these Lerkians, man, they really seemed to love their neon.

  “They’re not responding to my threats,” one of the students said.

  “Not to mine, either. Maybe I’m not being funny enough?”

  “So, what are we supposed to do?”

  A customer looked at my classmates. Then up at the sign. Then back at my classmates. He blinked. “Are you kids feelin’ all right?” Everybody ignored him.

  I coughed. Everyone—classmates, customers—turned in my direction. Oops. I guess I’d better say something.

  “Um, hey,” I stammered. My skin suddenly felt cold, even though I was standing beneath the punishing heat of the Rancho Verdugo sun. “I heard that if a bunch of players focus on a single Lerkian at a time, and then shout at the same time, it might scare all of them away.”

  “Who’d you hear that from?” one of the students demanded.

  “Hey, who cares?” said another. “It’s worth a try.”

  “The one in the middle, on top of the G. Focus on that one.”

  “Okay, cool.”

  “Got ’im!”

  “Me, too.”

  “Give him everything you’ve got!”

  All my classmates were typing furiously, hurling noiseless PG-rated insults at this little Lerkian, who started to shiver and shake. Why is everybody picking on me?

  Sure enough, the Lerkians all began to scatter, heading for less hostile ground. The group effort worked! Shockingly! I mean, ask any student for the two most dreaded words in the middle school language and they pretty much have to be:

  GROUP PROJECT

  (I just sent a shiver down your spine, didn’t I?)

  But in this case, the group project was a huge hit. Everyone gave each other high fives. The poor customers of Joey G’s Back to the 50s Diner, however, were completely baffled. Have all the kids in this city lost their minds at the same time?

  That’s actually not too far from the truth.

  MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH(O)…

  Within a week, Hecklr mania had spread like crazy, much to my complete surprise.

  Heck (see what I did there?), I created this game to amuse myself. When my dad started complaining that I didn’t do enough outdoor activities, I designed the game so you could play it outdoors. In fact, you could play it anywhere within Rancho Verdugo city limits that had something powered by electricity.

  But fat luck getting Coach Bean to look at a screen.

  I uploaded the game to the internet so that CyberGirl03 could give it a try. I thought it would make her laugh, and maybe less bored during the day.

  Now it seems like everybody at my middle school is hunting for Lerkians—including some teachers. No, I’m being completely serious. Now when Dad drops me off in front of the school every morning, I see at least two teachers (Hello, Mr. Southward, hey there, Miss Rice) pointing their phones at the big electric RANCHO VERDUGO MIDDLE SCHOOL sign.

  I wonder what my teachers say to the little alien creepazoids to make them go away. Is it the same kinds of things they say to us students?

  I can imagine Coach Pluck trying to whip the Lerkians into shape.

  But the mania has spread far beyond the walls of my school. People all over the city are wandering the streets, phones in their hands laughing and pointing. It’s like a zombie invasion, minus the zombies!

  Sometimes, traffic grinds to a halt as players with their cell phones wander into the street in an attempt to stop the Lerkians from committing another dastardly deed. And the people who have to pull their cars over? Well, they don’t really mind, because it gives them an excuse to take a break and stop another Lerkian!

  Now, I can imagine how scary this must seem to people who haven’t heard about Hecklr. They must think the general population has gone out of its mind. Maybe somebody dumped some kind of mind-control superdrug into the drinking water! Maybe aliens are actually invading!

  And I’m guessing that one or two of these concerned citizens called the local TV news stations, because suddenly there are reporters and cameras on the streets, interviewing random Hecklr players.

  “Excuse me, miss—Tom Giacchino, Action News. Are you currently playing Hecklr?”

  “OMG—there’s one on your camera! Don’t you see it?”

  “Are you being serious, miss? I don’t see anything.”

  “Here, look through my phone!”

  “Gah! You’re right! How do I get rid of it?”

  Meanwhile, the camera guy starts freaking out. “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

  And then viewers at home are treated to shaky-cam footage of Tom Giacchino as he tries to insult the Lerkian enough so that it will leave his poor camera guy alone.

  Stuff like this is just born to go viral. And guess what: it does.

  Within a few days, everybody seemed to know about Rancho Verdugo, California, the capital of Hecklr mania. For some mysterious (ahem) reason, the Lerkians are really focused on this small town just outside of sunny Los Angeles.

  Soon, people were asking why the game didn’t work in other parts of the country. Did the company behind Hecklr do a “soft” roll-out to see how the game would do in a tiny little sunbaked place like Rancho Verdugo?

  And if that was the case, when woul
d it be available in New York City? Topeka, Kansas? Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania? Truth or Consequences, New Mexico?

  And more importantly—who was behind this game? No company seemed to be taking credit for it, which drove people bonkers. What the heck was going on?

  (Heh heh heh.)

  Tourists started pouring into Rancho Verdugo just to play Hecklr. I’m not kidding! They were spending buckets of money just to fly here and chase around little wiry aliens on their smartphones.

  And as for me? Well, I never felt happier.

  In those early days of Hecklr mania, I would walk around the streets of my adopted city, thrilled to see everyone playing my game.

  But I never, ever reveal my secret.

  SHHHHH

  Right about now you might be asking yourself:

  WHY?

  Why wouldn’t I want to take credit for this game? I mean, for all the good I’ve done for Rancho Verdugo’s tourist industry, they should throw a parade and hand me the key to the city, right?

  Heck, they probably make me mayor of this boiling desert town!

  But I didn’t create Hecklr to get famous. Please! If the truth were to come out, life as I know it would be over. I’d be forced to do interviews, set up all kinds of boring business stuff, hang out with celebrities… ugh. Who’d want to put up with that? I’d have to move way and hide somewhere far away… like Hawaii.

  (Hey, maybe that’s not such a bad idea!)

  Okay, in all seriousness: I’m a little on the shy side. That’s why coding rules. You don’t have to talk to anybody! Ever! Except for the few super-important people in your life. I don’t need a billion friends. I’d just like have… one? Two maybe?