"The Superteacher Project" by Gordon Korman, Chapters 21–25


I’m not a real student teacher—that’s just a ruse to explain my presence in the building alongside the AIDACT unit as it grows into the teaching job it was designed for.

No, my complaint is with “Mr. Aidact” himself, who is turning into a petulant, self-centered adolescent just like the students around him.

An AIDACT unit is constructed of polymers, metals, and circuitry; it can’t shrink or grow.

That’s another thing about middle school. Preface anything with “I hate” and you’ll fit right in.

Thanks to the advanced circuitry in his nimble fingers, he’s equally adept with a video game controller or a pair of knitting needles.

The other teachers at Brightling were very quick to jump on the AIDACT bandwagon when they realized they could dump their unwanted duties and assignments onto him.

The optical technology in the unit’s eyes is capable of processing two million multiple-choice answers per second—although physically handling the test papers is a lot slower than that.

Kelly Tapper shoots me a resentful look. “He gets to be the fun teacher with his song lyrics and his trivia quizzes and his winning sports team. And who assigns homework and calls parents and gives failing grades? That’s us. No wonder we're not Teacher of the Year.”

It’s hard to hear much in the general din, but I distinctly pick up her words: “...go out to celebrate.”

The kid paws everything he can get his grubby little hands on, asking, “What does this do?” and “Why is this so shiny?” and “Can I keep this one?”

They’re still celebrating—except for Rosalie, who’s looking in consternation across the field.

I slam on the brakes and endure some angry honking from behind.

A miffed Mrs. Arnette shows up a few minutes later. “Oh, it’s you,” she says to me.

“Five more minutes,” he wheedles.

The indicator shoots straight up, takes the bell clean off with a resounding clang, and keeps on going until it knocks out a spray of ceiling tiles.

It’s the first inkling I get that this project might be in serious trouble.

As the afternoon goes on, I start to pick up on a strange undercurrent of conversation in the school.

It’s almost like there’s a gigantic game of Clue going on and the whole school is trying to identify the “killer”—like Mr. Zelcer in the conservatory with the lead pipe.

“Krumlich!” I rasp in true pain. “He must have overheard us! And he blabbed to the whole school!”

“You know what we need?” I decide. “A red herring.”
“How can you talk about fish at a time like this?”
“A red herring is a fake clue to distract people,” I explain.

“Kids used to sleep while Berg droned on in class. Now they hang on her every word.”

The alert is tolling in my ears.

She indicates the trail, which leads up and over a steep hill.

“Why would you say that?” Rosalie raves once Ainsley has disappeared into the trees of the opposite hill. “We are never going to find our way to the other side! For all we know, the next bridge is miles downstream! We’re cold! We’re wet! We’re filthy! And they have hot chocolate!"

We’re in a real dilemma. We could continue our search for a place to cross. But if Ainsley’s right, that would only take us farther away from the welcome center.

Before he can dial, we catch a flurry of motion starting down from the top of the hill.

Through the trees, we can make out the stalwart form of Mr. Aidact, hurrying down the path with a quick, sure-footed gait.

Through the trees, we can make out the stalwart form of Mr. Aidact, hurrying down the path with a quick, sure-footed gait.

Far behind him is a second figure, lurching in fits and starts, descending one step and slipping another two.

At last, the five of us are on the right side of the stream, panting with exertion—except Mr. Aidact.

The atrium is packed with kids from a few different tours, mingling, chattering, and sipping hot chocolate.

“What’s going on?” she asks, taking in our soaked and bedraggled state.

The student teacher causes a pretty big sensation among the kids as they pile on, while Mrs. Berg tries desperately to perform another head count in order to make sure nobody gets left behind.

The last thing I see before we all get kicked out by security is Mr. Perkins being loaded onto a gurney by hospital staff.

I’m leaving muddy footprints on the floor, and I feel bad for messing up a place that’s supposed to be clean and sterile.

I’m pondering what to do when a doctor breezes past me into the room.

She takes in my mud-smeared state and assumes I’m a patient.

“The hospital,” I reply tersely.

Her expression is all sympathy and compassion. She thinks I’m upset that she wants to start dating again!

“Because he's a robot!” I blurt at the top of my lungs.
“Honey, that’s an unkind thing to say. He may be a little standoffish—”