A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions

by Alan Lawrence Sitomer

  Again they stared at each other, eye to eye.

  “Then mind them tonight, Grover Park,” Miss Terrier said, “and good luck.”

  With that, Miss Terrier, her spine straight, her hair perfect, walked away, the two other judges following along closely behind.

  “What are you doing?” I said to Q. “Trying to get her mad at us before we even begin?”

  “I like her,” Q answered as the judges inspected the wrists of another team.

  “But it feels like she’s ready to disqualify us at any moment,” I said.

  “I know,” Q answered admiringly. “And she does it with such”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“style.”

  “You are weird,” I said.

  “Aardvark.”

  “Come on, girls,” Kiki said to her two coconuts. “It’s fire time.”

  “Fire time?” I asked as they began to walk away.

  “Yeah,” Kiki said, taking out her mascara. “Fire time. Probably not usually a big concern for you.”

  Brattany, lipstick in hand, smiled and got ready to inspect herself in a backstage mirror, while Sofes took out a hairbrush.

  Armed with beautification tools of the kind that I didn’t even own, the ThreePees wiggled off to make sure that they were, well…ThreePee enough for the cameras.

  “Can you believe them?” I asked, turning to Q. “I mean, the barrettes weren’t enough; now they need to—” I stopped in midsentence. “Are you running a fever?” I asked, noticing the sweat on Q’s brow.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “More than 101?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “More than 102?”

  “Yup.”

  “More than 103?” I asked, my alarm growing.

  “One-oh”—Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh—“five,” Q said. “But that’s only because I’m wearing this long-sleeved top.”

  My eyes practically popped out of my head. One-oh-five? I was so stunned I couldn’t move.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve gotten up to 107 before.”

  Just then, the house lights dimmed again, but this time they didn’t come back up to full brightness.

  “Oh, relax, Mama Maureen, it’s”—Cough, cough—“a manageable 101.8,” Q said. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re fine?” I said, taking in the greenness of her skin. “Let’s not exaggerate, okay?”

  “And here we go now,” a guy in a black T-shirt barked at the teams as he adjusted a pair of headphones. “When I call your school, move to your assigned positions on the stage.” He crossed over to the center of the big red curtain and listened for instructions from someone in a booth, probably in the rear of the auditorium. The ThreePees scurried back over, still tending to their looks.

  “How’s my lipstick?” Kiki asked Brattany, seeking a last-minute inspection.

  “Dominating. Mine?” Brattany asked. Kiki took a moment to look over her teammate’s lips, then adjusted a strand of her hair.

  “Fierce,” she said.

  “Hey, turn your phones off, you guys, turn your phones off,” Beanpole excitedly reminded us, waving her cellie. “Make sure they are powered all the way off, too. It’s instant disqualification.”

  All six of us powered down our cells.

  “Wait, like, um…” Sofes said. “Do I have to show my wrists every time I answer a question, or was that just a security measure like preventing terrorists from blowing up airports and stuff?”

  “Just keep your answers short, Sofes,” Kiki replied. “For the sake of all of us, keep your answers short tonight.”

  “Oh boy, here we go,” Beanpole said, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Good luck, everybody.”

  She turned to the other teams that were waiting to head through the curtain and go out onstage.

  “Good luck, you guys. Good luck. Have fun. Good luck.”

  She turned to Wynston Haimes. “Good luck.”

  “Kicking your butt will have nothing to do with luck tonight, sweetie,” Wynston replied. “Nothing at all.”

  The girls from Saint Dianne’s giggled.

  “Rawlston, table one!” the stage manager yelled, holding the curtain open. The first kid from the Rawlston Rough Riders, a boy with gleaming silver braces, took a deep breath and walked out onstage. Instantly he was bathed in a flood of white light.

  A burst of applause rose from the crowd. “Saint Dianne’s, table two!” cried the stage manager.

  “Ciao, Keeks,” Wynston said as she approached the curtain.

  “Eat glass, Wynston,” Kiki replied. Wynston smiled with her jewelry-store-perfect teeth and led her team to their designated table on the stage, the crowd’s energy growing more and more exuberant by the minute.

  “Moore, table three!” yelled the stage manager.

  With each team’s appearance onstage, there was a new round of cheers and applause. “Youngly, table four. Danes Charter, table five.”

  Beanpole reached over and squeezed my hand, then Q’s. “This is so fun,” she said, her perk-o-meter once again cranked to its highest setting.

  “Hey, why don’t you lead us out, Beanpole?” I said.

  “Me?” she replied.

  After all, it was only because of her that our team looked so good, anyway.

  “Why not?” I said. “I’m the captain. It’ll be my first and probably only order of business tonight.”

  “Grover Park, table six.”

  Beanpole, her blood now screaming through her veins, stepped forward and walked proudly through the curtain.

  But she missed the divide and got tangled up, caught like a fish in a net inside the long drapes. The guy in black rushed over before she could bring down the entire set of curtains, killing every contestant onstage, and pushed her through.

  Beanpole, extracted from the red drapes, sort of stumbled out, nearly tripping as she emerged.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m okay,” she said, her hair slightly messed up.

  Ready or not, I thought as I prepared to step into the lights. It’s showtime.

  I walked through the curtain.

  “Grover Park,

  Not stupid,

  Smart!

  Grover Park,

  Not stupid,

  Smart!

  G-o-o-o-o-o-o-o, Maureeen!!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” came the silky-smooth voice of the announcer, “welcome to tonight’s Region Eight Annual Academic Septathlon!”

  Our master of ceremonies was a tall, sort of dashing middle-aged guy in a black tuxedo. I thought that was classy. However, every time he opened his mouth, he sounded like a cheesy game-show host.

  “Hello, my name is Bingo Carter, and this very evening, tonight, right now, in just a few highly anticipated moments, we’re going to strut our brains for your viewing pleasure. The stakes couldn’t be higher, the tension couldn’t be thicker, and the drama couldn’t be more intensely intense.”

  “Intensely intense?” I said, turning to Q.

  “My eyebrow’s numb.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  “Wow,” I said. “This is intensely intense.”

  A banner hung over the edge of each table, identifying the teams by the names of their schools. And really, what could make a person more proud than representing the Grover Park Aardvarks on national television?

  Okay, it wasn’t national television. But it was being live-streamed over the Internet at the same time it was being broadcast on channel 723, our local community arts station.

  “Now, don’t forget to donate,” our host said to the cameras. “Fund-raising lines for Station 723 are open now. Tell them Bingo sent you.”

  Bingo’s smile shone as if he had just waxed his teeth.

  “Now, these teams have been studiously studying in order to prepare for the magical magic you are about to witness; the magical magic of”—music and sparkling lights whooshed through the auditorium as Bingo amped up the drama—“the Academic Seepppttt-athl
on!” he boomed.

  Strobe lights. A whirling spotlight. Pumping music. The special-effects guy must have pushed every button in the control booth.

  For the most part, I never really watched TV. Thought it was stupid. But being on TV?

  Way stupider.

  “And that right there is what’s known as the Circle of Inquiry,” Bingo explained, referencing the podium inside a silver ring in the center of the stage. On the podium were two pencils, blank paper, and a microphone. Also, there was a monitor sitting on the floor, tilted upward so that the student would be able to read and reread the question once it had been asked. Of course, the audience could see the question, because on each side of the stage was a giant projection screen that beamed out everything that the TV audience was able to see at home.

  Student pimples, bad haircuts, double chins (no names mentioned), the audience in the theater would be treated to it all.

  “Each contestant, when it’s their turn, will rise from their table, enter the Circle of Inquiry, and have forty-five seconds to answer one question,” Bingo explained to the viewers. “It’s a battle of brains. It’s a battle of wits. It’s a battle of battles!”

  A battle of battles? I glanced over at the judges sitting downstage to our right. Even Miss Terrier rolled her eyes at that one.

  “And now, let the magical magic begin!”

  More strobe lights, pumping music, and whirling colors flooded the auditorium. Personally, I think the guy in the control booth must have gulped down too many espresso shots before he had come to work today. This guy was clearly caffeinated.

  “Remember, phone lines are now open for donations,” Bingo informed the audience. “Just call the toll-free number at the bottom of your screen, because, after all, what would life be without Station 723?”

  Bingo’s smile sparkled under the lights. For some reason, looking at him made me think of two words.

  Restraining order.

  “For the first question of the night, tradition dictates that we begin with our defending champions and then jump back in order. And so, from Saint Dianne’s, you’ve seen them before.…” A roar rose from a section of the crowd, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight shined on table number two. The girls from Saint Dianne’s, dressed in their smartly cut skirts and well-tailored jackets, smiled for the cameras as if they’d practiced this moment a thousand times before.

  “Send your first contestant down, it’s time to do the Seeppptttathlon!”

  Wynston Haimes, smiling like Miss America, high-stepped her way to the Circle of Inquiry with all the poise of a senator.

  Bingo held up his note card and read the first question.

  “The category is science.

  “The trachea is part of the ___________________ system.

  digestive

  nervous

  cardiovascular

  respiratory

  anthropological”

  Of course, Wynston nailed it. “D,” she replied. “Respiratory.”

  “BINGO!” said Bingo. The audience cheered, and Wynston, smooth and refined, glided back to her seat.

  Just like that, the game was on.

  It was funny how the audience seemed to melt away almost immediately as soon as the questions started flying. Of course, with all the cameras and stuff, we couldn’t forget we were on TV, but also, since the lights were so bright in our eyes, we really couldn’t see the audience, either; we could just sort of feel them out there, which made focusing in on the questions a lot easier. Plus, I wanted to forget about the audience, anyway. With my hole-filling dad, my Darth Vader vice principal, my super-aggro brother, and all the strangers in the crowd who probably just saw me as the plump girl, I figured the sooner I put the audience out of my mind the better. Being onstage wasn’t distracting; it actually let me focus and forget.

  Things moved quickly as each of the students before us in round one got their answers correct. Truth is, I could have answered any of them, too. It seemed that the first round was loaded with easy stuff to build up our confidence.

  I glanced up at the big, bright digital scoreboard.

  “And last but not least, a team we haven’t seen here in a while, the Grover Park Bulldogs.”

  Bulldogs?

  “Say something,” Brattany whispered.

  “Yeah, you’re the captain,” Kiki added, an edge in her voice. Beanpole, Q, and Sofes looked at me.

  I leaned into the microphone on our table. “Um, Aardvarks.”

  “Excuse me?” Bingo said, caught off guard.

  “We’re the Aardvarks,” I said. “Not Bulldogs.”

  “Oh.” Bingo looked at his note card. I could practically read his mind: Must be a typo. “Well, okay, little Aardvarks, why don’t you show us what you’ve got? Who’s going to be the first to bravely brave the Circle of Inquiry?”

  Beanpole, having drawn the spot of number one back when we chose our team’s order of appearance, headed for center stage. And she didn’t fall, trip, slip, or collide with anything on her way there, either. Right then I should have known this was a sign that something was wrong.

  “A day on Saturn takes about ten Earth hours. Which fact would best explain this short day?

  Saturn is less dense than Earth.

  Saturn is much farther from the Sun than Earth.

  Saturn rotates more rapidly than Earth.

  Saturn’s orbit has greater eccentricity than Earth’s.

  Saturn’s planetary temperature exceptionally fluctuates.”

  An easy question, I thought.

  “B,” Beanpole replied. “The answer is B.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, little Aardvark,” Bingo said. “The correct answer is C.”

  A groan rose from the audience at the first missed question of the night. The digital scoreboard flashed the new scores:

  “Nice going,” Kiki said as Beanpole moped back to our table.

  “I can’t believe you bombed on such an easy one,” Brattany added, with a shake of her head.

  Beanpole looked at me, tears almost ready to fall from her eyes. “But I knew it,” she said. “I just, I don’t know, got nervous.”

  “It’s okay,” I told her.

  “It’s not okay,” she replied. “I choked. I let us down.”

  “Listen to me, Beanpole,” I said in a firm tone, noticing that Beanpole was about to go into the tank big-time. “There are a lot of questions yet to come. You studied hard, you’re really smart, and we need you tonight, so let it go. You missed one. Big deal. We’re all going to miss some before this thing is over,” I said, glaring at Kiki and Brattany.

  “Like heck, yeah, we are,” Sofes confirmed, trying to be encouraging.

  “No need to feel so proud about it,” Kiki told her.

  “Beanpole?” I said. “You with me?”

  Beanpole raised her eyes. They were filled with woe-is-me sadness. But then the strangest thing happened. Her expression began to change. I watched as the dull look of self-pity shifted into a steely gaze of fiery determination.

  “I’m with you, Captain,” she confirmed crisply. “I guess I just forgot about my little bag of whomp-’em powder.” Beanpole slapped an imaginary satchel as if she were carrying a mystical sack of magic Septathlon dust. “Next time, they’re gonna taste some nerdvark pride.”

  “Okay, so, like, that’s a little dorky for me to go with you on that one, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.” And clearly, she was, because the next time out—and the time after that—when it was Beanpole’s turn, she aced it. Sure, our team missed the first question, but after three rounds of competition, we weren’t getting obliterated at all. In fact, we found ourselves in a tie for third place.

  Saint Dianne’s, of course, was practically a preprogrammed answer machine.

  “Bingo!”

  “Bingo!”

  “Bingo!”

  It seemed like every time they went to the Circle of Inquiry, Bingo said, “Bingo!” It wasn’t long before they were running away with f
irst place.

  To everyone in the auditorium, it seemed as though the private-school girls with the SD crest on their smartly cut navy blue uniforms were going to easily cruise to the championship.

  Until…

  After a fifteen-minute intermission, a pee (I took two of them), and a chance to stretch our legs—a time during which Bingo must have made his fund-raising pitch of “Where would we be without Station 723?” to the camera a thousand times—the action resumed, and it was more of the same.

  Saint Dianne’s was creaming us. The real battle, as we could all see, was for second place. At least if you made it that far, you made it into the Ivy Zone, which was kind of like a superquiz round where the top two teams went head to head at fifteen points per question to see who’d be the grand champion. However, Saint Dianne’s had built up such a large lead that even at fifteen points per question, it was almost impossible for another team to catch up.

  Then Wynston’s calculator died. Right in the middle of the Circle of Inquiry, while she was solving a math question.

  She shook the machine a few times, but nothing happened.

  “Batteries,” she said, hoisting her calculator into the air for the judges to see. The potbellied judge nodded to her understandingly, and then Wynston went to her team’s table, where she borrowed a calculator from a teammate and returned to the Circle of Inquiry.

  “Seven sixteenths of a mile,” Wynston said.

  “Bingo!” said Bingo.

  The next contestant, a boy from Moore, got ready to head to the Circle of Inquiry as Wynston returned to her seat.

  Q nudged me.

  “What?”

  “You’re the captain.…Speak.”

  “About what?” I said. “And by the way,” I remarked, taking note of her complexion, “you’re as green as a lizard.”

  “The calculator,” Q replied, ignoring my comment. “The”—Cough-cough—“calculator.”

  “What about it? Her batteries died.” It annoyed me much more than I wanted to admit that Q was sweating and turning colors and looking as if she were about to morph into a zombie right in front of me. I mean, sure, I appreciated the fact that she had nailed five out of six of the questions she’d been asked—and she really was carrying our entire team. It didn’t make any sense. I mean, hello, you’ve proven your point, now go home, cuddle up with your oxygenating hemoglobin thingamadoodle, and get into bed before you croak on live TV.