My Life as a Coder Read online

  “Actually, there are some real similarities between cooking lunch and programming,” Ms. Felix continues. “In coding, you write an algorithm that is very much like a recipe you’d use in cooking. The instructions you follow in a recipe are similar to the step-by-step directions you’ll be writing for your computers.”

  I’m sure if I sat here long enough, I’d come up with a few connections between my laptop and a Sloppy Joe but I’m still trying to wrap my head around Ms. Felix as a computer guru. My dad always talks about how important it is to think outside the box—I guess this is an example of expanding the possibilities of how the world can work.

  “Since we’re talking about recipes, let’s start with creating an algorithm for chocolate chip cookies,” Ms. Felix says.

  “You brought some with you, right?” Umberto teases. He’s always been on the good side of all the lunch servers, a smart move if you’re interested in larger portions—and who isn’t?

  Ms. Felix draws a series of connected blocks on the board.

  When she’s done, the Smartboard is covered with a flowchart of all the steps except the most important one—EATING these imaginary cookies. I’m glad we don’t have more lunch servers teaching classes; if their methods are anything like Ms. Felix’s, I’d be hungry 24/7.

  I sneak a peek at the new girl in black. She’s taking notes at breakneck speed—am I missing something?

  Ms. Felix then whips through a PowerPoint presentation, which uses the coding of Fortnite as an example. Smart. It’s no comedy class, but maybe learning to program my new laptop won’t be as torturous as I thought.

  “Before we conclude this presentation,” Ms. Felix says, “you will all be writing your very first line of code.”

  Already? I turn to look at Umberto and mouth him a desperate “Help!”

  Ms. Felix goes to the next slide, which looks like a chart of the alphabet with a bunch of numbers next to each letter. The weird thing is, the only numbers are ones and zeros. I know I’m not the best reader, but this CAN’T be right.

  “This is binary code,” Ms. Felix announces. “It’s essentially the ABCs for computers. As you probably noticed, the only numbers used in binary are zeros and ones. The sequence in which they appear dictates a certain function; in this case, they represent a letter of the alphabet.”

  I start planning how to tell Mom and Dad I’ll be transferring into the comedy class with Matt. There’s NO WAY I’ll be able to memorize all these sequences.

  Ms. Felix picks up a marker and begins to write a long string of zeros and ones. “This is what my name looks like in binary,” she says when she’s finished. “Now, you try—with your own names, not mine.”

  It takes me longer than everyone else, but I plug all the smaller chunks of code together. D-e-r-e-k in binary looks like this:

  1000100 - 1100101 - 1110010 - 1100101 – 1101011

  Pretty cool if you’re a spy; I’m not quite sure how I’ll ever use this skill.

  “So here’s your assignment for next week,” Ms. Felix says.

  There’s a collective groan from the class.

  “There HAS to be homework—there’s too much material to cover in just a few months otherwise.” Ms. Felix calls me up to grab a stack of handouts and pass them out. “You’re going to build on the block programming—pun intended—by practicing with some online tutorials.” She then tells us to check out code.org and the-cs.org. “They are nonprofit organizations committed to bringing coding into schools, especially for girls and underrepresented populations.”

  On our way out, I have to bite my tongue not to ask Ms. Felix what’s on the menu for tomorrow’s lunch. Instead, I introduce myself to the girl who was sitting next to me.

  “By the way, I’m Derek.”

  “I know.” She points to my open notebook page with my name in binary. “I’m Jade,” she answers.

  She heads to the door and the conversation ends. I run to catch up to Umberto at his locker.

  “I didn’t think it was possible to like the lunch servers any more than I already did.” He grins. “I can’t believe Ms. Felix knows so much about coding!”

  I tell Umberto to calm down; Ms. Felix probably has a boyfriend.

  Umberto rolls his eyes and continues. “I use those websites all the time. They’re really good and also they’re free.”

  “I’m not going to be able to access ANY website on my new laptop—my parents got me one without a wireless card.”

  Umberto laughs. “Old-school, huh? Looks like you’re going to have to upgrade, my friend.”

  Hopefully my parents will buy the argument that I need a wireless card to complete my assignments. But Umberto’s enthusiasm makes me realize it’s been a while since I’ve been passionate about something. Skateboarding, gaming, cartooning are all things it took time to get good at; I haven’t thrown myself into something new for some time. I’m not sure I’ll feel that way about computer science, but I guess my parents are right—the only way to find out is to try.

  I just hope the subject matter isn’t completely over my head—like so many other things are.

  TIME TO GET TO WORK

  Thankfully my parents don’t protest about getting an “I need it for school” wireless card. Dad takes me to the nearest electronics store, where we ask the clerk for one that fits inside my computer. The woman takes the plastic-enclosed card from the rack behind her.

  “You want me to pop that in for you?” she asks.

  I answer yes at the same instant my dad answers no.

  “She knows what she’s doing—we don’t.” I lower my voice. “It will probably take her two seconds!”

  “Then you’ll never learn how to maintain your own computer.” Dad slaps his credit card on the counter, and the woman rings us up.

  As she hands me the bag, the woman gives a little shrug that tells me she agrees with me, but Dad’s the one who’s paying.

  Back home, we google the steps of how to install a wireless card: Take out the laptop battery then the back cover, locate the slot, insert the card, configure the new software. When we turn the power back on and the home network appears, I do feel a TINY bit proud of my accomplishment.

  I thank Dad for his help, then run upstairs with my provisions.

  Laptop—check.

  Power bars—check.

  Lemonade—check.

  Homework playlist cued up—check.

  Bodi by my feet—check.

  After running through my list several times, even a professional procrastinator like me has to get to work. I take one last second to text my friends a bunch of “going off grid” and “it’s not you, it’s me” memes to make sure I’m not distracted. If I’m going to have a snowball’s chance at grasping this coding thing, I need to give it my undivided attention.

  The first tutorial on the code.org website has me creating a basic program for Angry Birds. It’s a game I used to play on our TV all the time until the grunting of the pigs drove Bodi so insane that Mom and Dad banished me from playing it in the family room.

  Kids like Umberto, who’ve been programming for years, actually WRITE code, but for today’s homework, we’re starting off using the block method, which literally looks like the Legos I played with as a kid. The commands are different shapes and colors and snap into place like building blocks. For a visual learner like me, it’s an easy way to embark on a new instructional voyage.

  I drag and drop the command blocks—move forward, turn left, turn right—then hit run. After a few false starts, my bird avatar finally bounces through the maze and explodes the pig. The familiar laughing sounds on-screen let me know I’ve succeeded in creating my first computer program.

  Nailed it!

  My initial instinct is to show off to my parents but I realize learning a new skill like coding isn’t a sprint—it’s a marathon. I’m going to need all the endurance I can summon, so I ingest two energy bars and move on to the next tutorial.

  By the time Dad sticks his head into my ro
om to tell me to get ready for bed, I’ve mastered every last Angry Bird assignment, including one where the bird has to maneuver through a labyrinth of crates filled with dynamite. That time—even with all the turns—I got to the pig on the first try. I hit run so Dad and I can watch the game together.

  “I knew you’d take to this quickly,” Dad says. “Programming that laptop is going to be a breeze.”

  It’s a real role reversal for me to be the one pumping the brakes, not Dad. “I’ve got a long way to go until I know what I’m doing,” I say. “It’s still so new.”

  “Small, consistent steps—that’s the key to success.” He tousles my hair and tells me to go brush my teeth.

  It’s been a long time since the word success was associated with work coming from me. I thank Dad for the compliment, find my pajamas in the pile of clothes on the floor, and go to bed.

  A HINT OF TROUBLE

  As my Grammy would say, I’ve got a “spring in my step” when I push through the front door of school the next morning. Not falling behind the pack—for once—gives me such a boost in confidence that I actually volunteer to answer a question in language arts class. Even though my answer is wrong—who knew The Giver was a dystopian novel?—I’m not deterred and answer questions in other classes too. I feel the way a student like Carly must feel every day.

  At lunch, it’s weird to see Ms. Felix dishing out Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes knowing she’s so good at computer science. When I mention it to Carly, she just shrugs.

  “Maybe working in the cafeteria is fun,” she says. “Maybe she wanted more flexible hours. Ambition isn’t the only factor when choosing a career.”

  I reach across the table and gently knock on Carly’s forehead. “Hello! What alien creature has taken over Carly Rodriquez’s brain?”

  Carly smiles. “I guess that didn’t sound much like me.”

  “You’re the most ambitious person I know. You used to finger paint to-do lists in kindergarten! I barely knew my alphabet back then.”

  I don’t just make Carly laugh; I actually get her to shoot chocolate milk out her nose, which I take as a huge comedy victory. She hurries to wipe herself off. “You made me ruin this shirt!” she says. “Chocolate never comes out!”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve gotten chocolate on every piece of clothing I’ve ever worn. Just wash it when you get home.” So much for having an audience that appreciates good comedic timing.

  Carly continues to fixate on the stain, which is hardly noticeable. “I can’t walk around like this all day. People will think I’m a slob!”

  It dawns on me that Carly isn’t going to shrug this off, so instead of telling her she’s wrong, I change tactics and try to calm her down. Without realizing it, I use the same soothing voice my mother uses with her canine patients.

  “It’s fine,” I tell Carly. “No one but you knows it’s there.”

  She throws down her sandwich, still fussing with her shirt.

  “Hey—you seem really tense. Is everything okay?”

  Carly then does something I’m completely unprepared for. She starts crying. I nearly jump across the table just to get her to stop. “Everything’s going to be fine! It’s no big deal!”

  “I feel so awful,” Carly says between sobs. “I’m such a loser.”

  How is this possible? Carly is the most accomplished kid I know. “Carly, if you’re a loser, what does that make me? The most monumental idiot in the history of the world?”

  She doesn’t even crack a smile, just wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sure the last thing you want to do during your valuable free time is to get me to stop crying.”

  Even though she’s 100 percent correct, I pat her on the back and tell her that’s what friends are for.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.” She brushes the crumbs off the table as if they’re contaminated.

  A nagging thought bubbles up from deep inside me—this isn’t girl stuff Carly’s going through, is it? That embarrassing puberty material we learned about in health class? If it is, I’ll have to fake-choke on my mashed potatoes and get out of here. PRONTO.

  I’m eternally grateful when Umberto slides up to the table and tells us how Dave in his science class bought a box of crickets from the pet store, then let them loose in the ceiling tiles above Ms. Miller’s desk. Umberto acts out the chirping and classroom chaos with so much energy that he cheers up Carly in two seconds flat. Which means I don’t have to pretend to choke on my lunch—also a good thing.

  Thinking about that puberty junk from health class makes me wonder if I’m going to start acting weird soon too. I can’t speak for Carly but I’m not sure if I can handle life getting any more complicated than it already is.

  WHO DIS?

  I’m walking Bodi before dinner when a text pops up with a number I’ve never seen before. I’m curious where the link inside the text bubble will lead but I know enough about the negative side of technology to realize I shouldn’t click on a link if I don’t know where it originated. I tuck the phone back into my pocket and lead Bodi toward the dog park.

  Letting Bodi off-leash in the fenced-in park is one of my favorite parts of the day. Even though he’s older, he still chases squirrels with the gusto of a pup. I drape Bodi’s leash on the chain-link fence, lean back, and watch my dog run with abandon.

  A series of dings go off in my pocket. Five more texts with links. I finally give in and type out a response communicating that I don’t know who this is.

  One second later, I receive a selfie from Jade—the girl from coding class. I ask her how she got my cell number since I don’t remember giving it to her.

  She texts back that finding someone’s number takes two seconds.

  WHAT? Is this new girl a hacker?

  JUST CLICK THE LINK, she texts back.

  After a few moments of internal debate, I take my chances and click.

  Up pops a video that looks like it was shot on a webcam in what I’m guessing is Jade’s room. The view is of her laptop and an incredibly fast-paced video game involving a group of pirate kittens using daggers and swords in what appears to be a feline mutiny. The action and graphics remind me of when Matt and I tested the game Arctic Ninja a while ago. There is absolutely no way Jade wrote the code for this new game!

  I check to see if Bodi’s okay, then furiously text Jade back. Of course I coded it, she responds. You think I’d waste my time playing a game someone else created?

  I keep the fact that I’ve proudly wasted tons of time playing games other people created to myself.

  Compared to Jade’s game, the work I did on Angry Birds yesterday feels amateur at best. My fear of being over my head in this class has totally come true. Why did she have to show off like that? And how exactly did she get my cell number?

  I whistle for Bodi, then fasten the leash to his collar. In a second, this went from being the best part of my day to the worst.

  Thanks, Jade.

  WHAT IS THAT?

  The last thing I ever want to do on a Friday night is homework, but Jade has me terrified so I strap in for another long night. First, I stop into Mom’s office to let her know I’ll be working through dinner. I make sure to sound extra dedicated in the hopes that she’ll give me what I REALLY want—dinner in my room on that little bed tray she uses whenever one of us is sick. (No self-respecting coder ever got called downstairs by his mother for dinner.)

  As the kid of a veterinarian, I know to drop Bodi off in the house before heading into Mom’s office. Bodi’s a docile dog, but the last thing Mom wants is an animal showdown in her waiting room. It’s always fun to walk into her office; I’ve seen everything from cats wearing diapers to people who insist on lining their dog crate with family photos so their pet won’t be lonely while they board. But I’m flabbergasted when I walk into the waiting room after hours today and see the tiniest horse I’ve ever seen.

  “I’ve seen Great Danes bigger
than that pony!” I tell my mother.

  Mom smiles. “It’s not a pony—it’s a miniature horse. Her name is Maggie.”

  “She’s not even three feet tall!” I’ve been around animals my whole life, but it feels totally weird to be taller than a HORSE.

  I’m extra gentle when I stroke Maggie’s mane, using the same soothing voice I use when meeting any new animal. I ask Mom why Maggie’s here.

  “Remember how Frank was trained to be a service animal?” she begins.

  How could I possibly forget about Frank? He was a capuchin but I always thought of him as a tiny, furry brother. He lived with us until my YouTube antics made the organization we got him from revoke our status as his foster family. Thinking about Frank warms me up inside; remembering my screwup makes me cringe.

  “Well, Maggie’s also a service animal,” Mom continues. “She’s part of an organization in Calabasas that takes miniature horses into the community for therapy.”

  “Don’t they get squished when people ride them?”