The School for Whatnots: Chapter 47–Epilogue

There wasn’t so much as a crack he could press his fingers into in hopes of prying the wall away.

Those cabinets should be indestructible. But if there’s a breach, then, then...everything falls apart.

“That wasn’t a tornado,” she told Max, who looked every bit as disheveled as Josie felt.

“Max, did you cheat off me in third-grade science?” Josie asked incredulously.

The videos changed, swirling into a kaleidoscope of awful memories: Video-Josie pushing Video-Max off a swing. Video-Max spilling finger paint on her favorite sweater.

The cabinets instantly went blank. Their innards showed again: wires, cables, motherboards, randomly blinking lights. They were, once again, nothing but a bunch of servers.

Ivy looked like she always did: neat and tidy, sweet and a little shy. Except...maybe her demeanor wasn’t quite as dreamy as usual?

But Ivy met Max’s gaze directly now—so much bolder than usual. This was so jarring that Max had to remind himself, She’s just a whatnot!

He suppressed a shiver at the memory.

But it was hard to feel anything but fear, listening to the ominous marching coming closer and closer and closer.

Her voice was almost a whisper, as if she could barely muster the courage to make herself heard over the sound of the marching.

Bullies who are perfectly designed, laser-focused, unrelenting...and determined to completely destroy their victims.

Her head jerked side to side, as if she was losing her more sophisticated programming.

As if fear had overwhelmed her circuitry so badly, she could function only in her most primitive mode.

The android rules about psychological pain, emotional pain—those are full of loopholes. Because you humans, you’re so vulnerable. A single word can slice like a knife. A single glance can burn.

Ivy was the one who looked up. Something passed over her face—sympathy. And then... resolve.

Ashley clenched her teeth and shook her head emphatically: No, she hadn’t known.

The six kids together—or five kids and however you wanted to count Lola—began tentatively walking forward.

“In fact, I texted our fifth-grade teacher from my helicopter when I was coming here, because I wanted to check out your story, and she said she always assumed you were the rich kid, and I was one of the whatnots! Because supposedly my parents requested that she wouldn’t know for sure either, so I wouldn’t get used to ‘favoritism.’”

“She tries to tell the truth!”
Ashley flashed him a scornful look.
“‘Trying’ to tell the truth isn’t the same as actually telling the truth,” she said, turning another corner in the maze.

Your tedious questions are so boring!

Poverty and hope have spurred many an innovation in human history. Hence the expression about necessity being the feminine parental unit of invention.

So she had to make some real android whatnots as prototypes.

But they were really only decoys right from the start. Maybe FMG thought it was best for all different types of kids to get together, to be in a classroom as equals. And the only way she could get rich parents like hers—or mine—to allow that, was by setting up this elaborate scam.

“Provocative notion,” she said, nodding sagely.

“Provocative notion,” she said, nodding sagely.

But your starting premise is flawed. Frances Miranda Gonzagaga did not start out rich or poor.

Instead, they all froze in place, each one of them a vision of reverence. They looked like loyal subjects from some history video, awaiting the arrival of a king or queen.

“Josie, I think you won!” Max exulted.

“Go ahead,” Lucinda said brusquely.

Or, because he was his father’s son, he could envision stacks of official-looking certificates that would entitle Josie to all sorts of stocks and bonds, giving her the rights to profits from dozens of important companies.

What can I say? Not my finest moment. I’m a narrator; you’d think I could be a little more eloquent.

She just seemed lost afterward, peering around in a baffled way.

Painstakingly, she lifted her head from the pillow and gazed directly at one child after another.

She reached down and pulled out a sheaf of papers and a heavy, old-fashioned pen.

True friends become friends because they genuinely like each other.

For the first time, she got patents on all her brilliant work, and turned around and shared her expertise with others.

That launched a million articles about “The Mystery Genius of Al,” and lots of speculation about who she really was and how she’d come out of nowhere to upend the technology world.

I wasn’t there to take care of Josie—or rather, not exclusively. We made a pact to take care of each other.

“The grown-ups are arriving,” she announced, watching parents stream in through the opulent gates and summon one kid after another from the pool.