Every time a new person stepped on the bus, someone nearby explained what was happening, and soon everyone had downloaded the update and the bloop-bloop-bloops began flying as screens flashed red. People tapped their phones together and watched as their leaderboards changed before their eyes.
Allie’s leaderboard was half-full before the bus even left the roundabout, and so was Zoe’s. The energy level inside was sky-high as everyone passed their phones around—just like they’d done earlier that week—laughing and joking as they tapped them together and admired their new leaderboards. Nobody appeared to care that the woo-hoo sound was gone or that the ClickPics feature had been disabled.
“You did it,” Zoe said.
Allie was beaming as she relaxed back into the seat.
She closed her eyes and listened to the bloops. She smiled when she heard people yelling, “Yes!” and shouting out their ranking. People hugged and high-fived. And it all felt fun again.
She looked around, thinking about how strange it was that thirty-two kids in three different grades, who were trapped on a bus for forty-five minutes, twice each day, usually rode in silence, barely speaking to each other, but now, they were all becoming friends—and it was all because of Click’d.
It was the kind of story the judges would want to hear.
Allie stood and started taking pictures, eager to try to capture the energy of the moment so she could weave it into her presentation as soon as she got home.
But then she heard a voice from the back of the bus. “What happened?”
“Uh-oh,” another voice said.
Allie looked down at her phone. Click’d had crashed.
“Launch it again!” Allie called out.
She navigated over to the main screen and touched her fingertip to the icon. Click’d launched and her profile filled the screen. It stayed like that for a few seconds. She waited for a sound. Or a vibration. Anything.
All the phones were silent again. No bloops. No flashing screens. No picture clues. No leaderboard.
Allie tapped the icon again. Her profile opened. But when she opened the leaderboard tab, the whole thing crashed again.
“No.” She stared at the screen. She shut down her phone and started it up again. She launched Click’d again. That time, it didn’t even open her profile before it crashed.
Allie wanted to scream. Or cry. Or hit something hard. She pictured herself doing all three at the same time as soon as she got home.
“It’s okay,” Zoe said reassuringly. “You can fix it. The leaderboards are full now and you’ve got thirty-two users.”
But Allie couldn’t speak. When the bus stopped at her corner, she still hadn’t said a word. Before she stood up, Zoe took her face in her hands and squeezed her cheeks. “Look at me. You’re going to go inside, run your tests, or whatever it is you do, and figure it out, okay?”
Allie tried to smile, but she couldn’t. Zoe was squeezing her face too hard.
“Text me as soon as you fix it,” Zoe said, and she let her hands drop.
Allie stood and walked down the aisle in a haze. As she passed Marcus, he said, “Hey, I’m sorry, Three.”
Allie blew out a breath. “Me too, Six.”
Allie’s mom tapped her fingernails against the table. “Please make your phone stop,” she said.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
It had been like that ever since she left school that afternoon. One text after another, each one saying pretty much the same thing:
Did you know Click’d isn’t working?!?
I keep clicking the icon but nothing happens!
Are you fixing it?
When will it be up again???
Allie pushed her chair away from the table and walked into the kitchen with Bo on her heels. She turned her phone off before she set it on the counter. She didn’t want to hear it or see it. She just wanted everyone to leave her alone.
She returned to her chair and took a slice of pepperoni pizza from the box in the center of the table. Bo settled back into his usual spot right under her feet, and Allie dug her toes into his soft fur. She wished she could hide under the table, too. It seemed quiet down there.
“You okay?” her dad asked.
Allie shook her head.
“You might feel better if you talk to us about it,” he added.
“I don’t need to talk about it.” Allie took a big bite and washed it down with her milk. “But you know what I do need?” she asked sarcastically. “A working app. Do either of you happen to have one of those?”
Her parents were silent.
Maybe I don’t need a working app, Allie thought. Maybe I don’t deserve to be there after all.
Click’d had been a total failure. It had caused fights all over the school, embarrassed people in ways she’d never be able to apologize for, and it almost ruined her friendship with Emma.
She had no business being in the Games for Good competition. Clearly, Click’d wasn’t good.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” her mom asked.
Allie took another bite and chewed while she thought about it. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m going to spend the next few hours trying to figure out why it’s crashing, and…” She trailed off. She didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Maybe you’re closer than you think?” Her dad tried to sound positive. “You fixed the big stuff, right? It was working on the bus. You just have some stability issues, that’s all.” He made it sound like it was so easy, but Allie knew it wasn’t.
She stared at her food. She knew she needed to go back to her room, back to that desk, and back to those never-ending lines of code, but she was so tired of looking at them. She just wanted to sit in front of the TV, eating popcorn and watching a movie like the three of them did every Friday night.
Popcorn. That reminded her of her week in the lab. She thought about Nathan and got angry all over again.
“Do you have a plan B? Just in case?” Allie’s mom asked.
“There’s no plan B,” Allie said. If she couldn’t keep Click’d from crashing, she would have to withdraw from the competition. “No working code, nothing to enter.”
“Well, that’s only half-true,” her mom said. “You’re supposed to be demo-ing in the pavilion all day, too. You have to show up.”
Ugh. Not the pavilion again, she thought.
“No way. If I can’t fix Click’d, the Games for Good Pavilion will have to have one empty kiosk.” She pushed her pizza away. “I’m not going. Not a chance.” Just thinking about being on that exhibit floor without a fully functional, amazing-looking app made her feel nauseated.
“Well, even if you can’t be in the competition, you still need to be in the pavilion.”
Allie let out a sarcastic laugh. “What am I supposed to do, Mom? Stand there while people stare at a screenshot of a broken app? People are coming to the conference to see games. I can’t be there if I don’t have one to show them.”
“But you have a game to talk about,” her dad suggested.
“No one cares about that,” Allie said.
The room fell silent. Nobody said anything for almost a full minute. Allie was about to go back to her room when her dad spoke up.
“You know that demo you did at CodeGirls Camp last weekend?”
Allie rolled her eyes. “Yeah.”