“Stevie’s dad must be one smart cookie.” Yogi scratched his head. “Apple? Isn’t that the company that makes those fancy computers for school?” 

“Exactly!” Bones said, nearly dropping his foot-long cone in his excitement. “That’s what these are, Yogi. They’re computers that fit in your hand. Except this one one can zip people back and forth in time, and it’s the only one of its kind.” 

Yogi’s smile faded. “Boys, I know I sound like a broken record, but—” 

“Why do people say that, ‘broken record”?” I said. I had heard other adults say it, too, and I didn’t get it. 

“Lump, that’s how they play music in 1978,” Bones said. We were talking about oldies music—of course he knew the answer. “They use records. They don’t have Spotify or iTunes. And if there’s a scratch in a record, the same words play over and over. So”—he lifted his sky-high cone into the air like a grand finale—“you’re like a broken record. Right, Yogi?” 

Page 114