Ungifted by Gordon Korman Page A

that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He seemed anxious to put the past behind him—anxious enough to ignore the obvious signs that he wasn’t fitting in here. Had he been bullied? A lot of our students had suffered that at their old schools. But Donovan didn’t seem like the type.
    Chloe would not be put off. “Well, there must have been parties,” she reasoned. “You know, dances—that kind of thing.”
    â€œI think it’s a pathetic waste of time,” Abigail chimed in. “Can you imagine having nothing better to do than bounce around a school gym to bad music under cheap streamers and a cheesy rented disco ball? Don’t we all have better things to do?”
    â€œNo argument from me,” said Donovan.
    Nothing pleased Abigail less than being agreed with by Donovan.
    â€œHey, you guys—do something funny,” Noah waved at us from behind a flip video camera. “This is for YouTube.”
    The kids ignored him, but I felt it was important to support Noah’s new interest. For all his brilliance, Noah spent his life in a kind of cocoon. Pointing a flip cam at people was as close as he got to social interaction.
    â€œWhat about Tin Man?” I suggested. “He looks like a YouTube star to me.”
    Abigail was horrified. “That’s a terrible idea! We’d be showing the other teams exactly what we’re working on for the robotics meet!”
    I chuckled. “It’s supposed to be a friendly competition, Abigail, not a life-and-death struggle.”
    Never try to tell Abigail to take it easy.
    â€œThe results of that meet go on your permanent record,” she insisted. “There could be college admissions on the line, maybe even scholarships. If that’s not a life-and-death struggle, I don’t know what is! This could be the year we finally defeat Cold Spring Harbor and win it all! Do you want to risk that?”
    Eventually, we shouted her down. If Cold Spring Harbor found our little clip among six hundred years of video on YouTube, they deserved to beat us again. And anyway, some of the kids were already rolling Tin Man Metallica Squarepants out into the middle of the room.
    I had to admit, our latest creation was taking shape. No credit to me—everything had come from the kids. Abigail and Chloe provided the design, and Noah did all the programming. The boy had never watched YouTube, but he could think in computer code. Kevin was our welding and soldering expert. Jacey and Latrell built the body. And there, large as life on Tin Man’s “chest,” was Albert Einstein eating a banana, courtesy of Donovan. There were other graphics too—a cat with a Mohawk, the fiery eye of Sauron from the Lord of the Rings movies, the flag of Mozambique, and a bumper sticker that read OFFICE OF NEW YORK CITY RATCATCHER .
    Noah brandished the flip cam, and Abigail worked the joystick, sending our work in progress on its first trial run. The robot was capable of moving on its own, following a route marked by colored lines on the floor. But the most important rounds of the competition required a human driver.
    I watched carefully, taking special note of the wheels, which were a new type for us. Last year, Cold Spring Harbor had used Mecanum wheels, which gave them extra maneuverability. But on Tin Man, I couldn’t see much difference.
    â€œHold it.” I got down on all fours and examined the bearings to make sure the Mecanums had a full range of motion.
    â€œThe problem’s not the wheels,” put in Donovan. “It’s the driver.”
    Abigail glared at him. “What do you know about robotics?”
    â€œNothing,” he replied honestly. “But I can use a joystick. Don’t you guys play video games?”
    â€œI’d like to see you do better!”
    And with a casual shrug, he held out his hands for the controller. Eyes shooting sparks, Abigail relinquished it, and Donovan put Tin