Red, yellow, green, purple.

I pressed my finger pads onto the coffee table, leaving four perfect ovals on its shiny surface. Each touch formed short-lived puddles of color on the nearly reflective black touchscreen.

The ripples calmed me. By communicating with the bracelets at my wrists, Ms. Honey could sense my need for soothing, repetitive exercises.

The grownups in suits surrounded me, their hands on their hips. One chortled. "This is just a kid's toy."

"Watch," my mother breathed. "And wait."

Text in soft, looping handwriting floated from one side of the table to the other. Also, a window in the upper lefthand corner displayed a woman with flipped brown hair and pink cardigan. Tillie, your elevated heart rate and shortness of breath suggest mental discomfort. Might I offer you an extension on your essay deadline?

A keyboard appeared. I typed, That won't be necessary, Ms. Honey.

Another suit hovering over my shoulder asked, "Does it talk?"

"With headphones or speakers," my mother reassured him. "And you can customize Ms. Honey's voice pitch, appearance, gender—even her vernacular adapts to the cultural background of the user."

More words floated across the top. Someone else nearby wishes to enter our classroom.

I had been so focused on Ms. Honey's serene, moon-shaped face I hadn't spotted a suit across the room snap on two of the bracelets, one around each wrist.

"How does it work?" he asked, frowning.

"Clap your bracelets together," my mother explained. "Then, touch one of the bracelets to any bare surface."

"Any surface?" He leered at her.

My mother gestured to all the features of the lounge, a central gathering place in the investor's suite. "Try it."

The suit, expressing his skepticism with a raised eyebrow, tapped the bracelet against a wall. Immediately, the wall turned the same reflective black as the imitation touch screen on my coffee table, except his classroom workspace was at least eleven feet high and five feet across.

A life-sized projection of Ms. Honey stood in front of the suit, clipboard in hand. Her words appeared as comic-book-style text bubbles above her moving mouth. Good afternoon. It is a pleasure to meet you. Do you have pre-existing test scores to share with me, or should we begin some exercises to determine your skill levels?

I watched the exchange with wary eyes as my fingers continued summoning rainbow puddles.

"She's capable of personalizing all instruction," my mother intoned. "She can distribute individualized lessons in all basic subjects, like reading, math, and science. Her databases also contain curricula for extracurricular activities, including orchestra, robotics, and seventeen languages."

The suits wrung their hands together. Licked their lips, gnashed their fangs.

My mother placed a headset around my new classmate's mushy ears. "Talk to her," she encouraged.

"Uhh, hi, Ms. Honey." He chuckled, above it all.

Greetings. How should I refer to you during our time together?

"Julian Francis, CEO. And that's Mr. Francis to you." He adjusted his power stance in front of the digital, demure educator.

Ms. Honey radiated her programmed warmth. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Francis. Would you like to meet your classmate?

"Who, the squirt?" He turned his pinched face to me. I avoided his gaze by tinkering with a similar calming protocol. "Yeah, sure."

"Once they are connected," my mother said, "they can engage in shared activities."

The suits tried to conceal the dollar signs popping out of their eyes. "This technology could eliminate the need for teachers. Replace brick-and-mortar schools. Let's talk numbers."

A message from Mr. Francis flitted across my screen, still in the default Arial font. WHAT'S YOUR NAME, KID?

The heat of excitement blasted away my anxiety. I had hoped Mr. Francis would initiate conversation. I could reclaim control of this situation, but only if he took my bait. Tillie, I typed back, as it should clearly state in your chat box.

AREN'T YOU A SNIPPY ONE?

I smirked. He had fallen right into the trap. Ms. Honey's last field test could begin. I replied, Do not despise clever people, Mr. Francis.

DOES YOUR TECHIE MOM HAVE TIME TO DISCIPLINE YOU? MAYBE NOT. MAYBE MS. HONEY IS YOUR ONLY MOM.

Ms. Honey had been programmed to allow a certain level of individual communication among her students. She watched over our exchange with her pleasant, neutral gaze.

I had to push further to be sure. My fingers blurred across the keyboard. The human brain is an amazing thing. I think it's a lot better than a lump of metal.

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? YOU'RE JUST A KID.

Mr. Francis hadn't called me any names. He hadn't cursed at me. Yet, Ms. Honey had completely missed the nuance of context. Mr. Francis was bullying me, and she hadn't seen it.

My reply came with the confidence of final realization. And you're playing with mysterious forces you know nothing about.

At that moment, my mom placed her hand on my shoulder. "Tillie, these men have a question for you."

Looking up from the user interface, I stared at each of the suits in turn, confident and unafraid. "Yes?"

"They want to know if we accept."

The suits sputtered. "You're letting the kid speak for you?" one asked, aghast.

Neither of us bothered to explain. If they hadn't figured it out by now, that was their fault.

My mother showed me a figure on a napkin. Enough money to buy back our house. More than we could have ever dreamed. I searched my mother's face for acceptance and forgiveness. She gave me a slight nod.

I rose from my chair. "We do not."

"But why?" they demanded. "We could make billions. You could make billions."

As my mother gathered my things, I turned to the suits. "Paired with the right educator, Ms. Honey could revolutionize education. But you forgot that people comprise the beating heart of a learning community. No program, not even Ms. Honey, can replace the empathy of a teacher."

*Love to Roald Dahl for the inspiration.