My Life as a Computer Cockroach Read Online Free PDF Page B

up by making Coach look completely guilty.”
    I could only stare at the screen and groan. “This is terrible.”
    â€œTell me about it.”
    â€œSo what do we do?” I asked.
    â€œWe gotta go down to the jail and clear it up.”
    â€œNo way,” I cried. “They’re not going to listen to a bunch of kids.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Wall Street said.
    â€œBELCH!” Opera agreed.
    â€œSo what do we do?” I demanded.
    â€œJust give me a second,” Wall Street answered.
    Opera and I exchanged uneasy glances. Of the three of us, Wall Street was definitely the brains. Unfortunately, her brains often involved our bruises. Still, we were the ones responsible for this mess, and we were the ones that had to do some—
    â€œI got it!” she shouted. “You say they won’t listen to a bunch of kids, right?”
    Opera and I both nodded. “Right.”
    â€œBut what if we were more than just kids? What if the three of us held important offices?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I asked nervously.
    â€œHere, I’ll show you.” She moved in front of the screen and started typing:
    Choco Chum, make Wally the new police chief.
    â€œWhat!?” I shouted.
    â€œIf you’re the police chief then you can get everybody to listen you. You might even be able to get Coach out of jail.”
    â€œThat’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!
    â€œWhat’s that?” Opera asked.
    â€œYou know,” she said, “like a cook.”
    â€œWall 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:
    â€œUh-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.
    â€œThis is crazy,” I mumbled for the hundredth time as we got off the bus and headed up the courthouse steps.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œWhere 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.”
    â€œJust go past like you know what you’re doing.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œBut . . . but . . .”
    â€œAnd don’t forget