Olivia Bean, Trivia Queen

by Donna Gephart

  Neil sounds like he’s talking to a little kid who’s come home bloody and bruised. My heart pounds like crazy. Is Mom hurt? Was she in a car accident?

  I resist the urge to charge downstairs. Instead, I strain to hear through the opening between my door and the doorframe.

  Mom is talking fast, but she’s blubbering at the same time, so there’s no way I can understand what she’s saying.

  I open my door an inch farther and hear Neil’s soft words. “It’ll be okay, Marion. We’ll figure this out. We’re a team now.”

  We’re not a team, I want to shout. You’re just a substitute player. Mom, Charlie and I are the team. You’re not even a lowly batboy on this team, mister!

  “Come on,” I hear Neil say. “Let’s get you a nice warm bath.” His voice gets louder. “You’ll feel better.”

  I hear Mom sniff and realize they’re at the bottom of the stairs.

  I leap into bed and pull the covers up to my chin.

  Right outside my bedroom door, I hear Mom crying softly and Neil saying, “It’ll be okay. I’m telling you, Marion, it’ll be okay.”

  “How can anything be okay”—Mom sniffs hard—“after twenty-four years?”

  Twenty-four years? What’s twenty-four years? Someone’s age? Twice as long as I’ve been alive?

  My questions don’t get answered because the bathwater runs and I can’t hear anything else they say.

  What will be okay? I clutch Phil to me. What’s wrong with Mom? What does any of it have to do with twenty-four years?

  I stay up a long time, worrying and straining to hear more clues.

  But after the bathroom door finally opens, Mom’s bedroom door opens and closes and I don’t hear another thing.

  In the morning, I throw on clothes and rush downstairs. The smell of buttery pancakes and maple syrup wafts from the kitchen. How can Mom be making pancakes when she was so upset last night?

  In the kitchen, Charlie’s at the table, running a Matchbox car over the lone pancake on his plate. He stops and looks at me. “Hi, Livi.”

  “Hey, Charlie,” I say, then turn my attention to the pancake-flipper standing by the griddle. “Neil?”

  He whirls around, spatula in hand like a talisman. There are deep wrinkles between his bushy eyebrows—a telltale sign of worry. “Hey, Olivia,” he says, forcing a smile. “Your mom’s still sleeping, so I made you and Charlie pancakes.”

  Mom’s usually up with us in the morning, even if it’s been a late meeting night and she can barely prop her eyelids open. She always packs Charlie’s lunch bag for kindergarten and gives me suggestions for what I should put in mine. I look at the counter and see our two lunch bags already prepared.

  I tilt my head at Neil. I want to ask what’s wrong with Mom, but Charlie’s playing with his cars, and I don’t want to upset him. So I take a plate with two pancakes from Neil and join Charlie at the table.

  “How come you get two?” Charlie whines.

  “You can have another one when you finish that one, champ,” Neil says.

  It makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise when Neil acts like he’s our dad. I almost give Charlie one of my pancakes, but I know he wouldn’t eat it anyway. Grandma Sylvia used to say Charlie eats like a bird, but that’s not right because most birds eat half their body weight every day. Charlie barely eats anything, unless it’s made from sugar and chocolate, of course.

  Charlie shrugs and goes back to rolling his toy car over his pancake.

  Neil brings his own plate over with one small pancake. He usually eats piles of food, along with coffee and juice. Not today.

  What’s going on? I want to scream, but I shove a bite of pancake into my mouth to keep myself quiet for Charlie’s sake.

  Neil must see the worry on my face because he touches my shoulder, looks right at me and nods, like everything’s okay. But this gesture actually makes me more nervous.

  Charlie doesn’t seem to notice anything.

  Since we really can’t talk about what happened last night in front of Charlie, I decide I’d better talk about the other thing.

  “Neil?”

  He looks up, surprised, like I yanked him from his thoughts. “Yes?”

  Charlie looks up, too.

  “Um, there’s this thing called Kids Week on Jeopardy!”

  “Yeah, where the kids compete,” Neil says. “I’ve seen that before.”

  “Well.” I stab a piece of pancake. “They’re looking for contestants now.”

  Charlie blurts out, “Livi, you could do that. You could do a contest on Jeopardy!” He rockets out of his chair and hugs me, pressing his cheek against mine.

  When he goes back to his seat, I wipe sticky syrup off my cheek, wondering how he got syrup on his cheek without eating any of his pancake.

  “Thanks, Charlie. I want to be on it.”

  “So …,” Neil says, his bushy eyebrows raised.

  “Here’s the thing.” I put my fork down. “A parent has to register me. A parent. So—”

  “And you want to try out,” Neil says, nodding. “You want to try your hand at getting on Jeopardy!”

  “Well, yeah,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed and not sure why.

  Neil leaps out of his seat and hugs me, too. “Livi, I think that’s terrific. Good for you.”

  I’m stiff as a board while he hugs me.

  Neil sits back in his chair and saws into his puny pancake. “Olivia, if anyone can do this, you can.”

  “Last year I tried, but I never got called back. Maybe I didn’t do as well on the test as I thought. There was that pesky geography question and a couple other stumpers.” I shove a piece of pancake into my mouth. “Or I did okay on the test and they didn’t pick me because a lot of kids try out. A lot!”

  Neil stares at me, not eating, just focusing completely on what I’m saying. It’s weird; I can’t remember Dad ever doing that—giving me his full attention.

  I think about Mom crying last night, and I feel bad for talking about signing up for Jeopardy! when something is obviously upsetting her. I heard Mom cry once before. Once. After Dad left. And that was in her room, when she probably thought I couldn’t hear. So the fact that she was crying last night is a big deal.

  “You’ll win,” Charlie says.

  “Thanks, Beanpole,” I say.

  He shrugs and looks into my eyes. “You’ll win, Livi,” he says again, like he’s a pint-sized fortune-teller.

  I get a funny tingle down my spine.

  “Olivia,” Neil says, stuffing a piece of pancake into his mouth. “This sounds like a great idea. What do you have to do?”

  “Nothing. Just take a test online. Well, to start.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Neil says.

  “Sounds simple enough,” Charlie repeats, not looking up from the toy car rolling over his pancake.

  I gulp. “It’s just that I’m twelve now. That’s the oldest you can be.” I wish Mom were sitting here instead of Neil. “And I don’t want to miss my chance.”

  “Why would you miss it?” Neil asks.

  “Miss it. Kiss it. Fiss it,” Charlie sings. “Biss it. Wiss it. Hiss it.”

  Neil looks at Charlie and shakes his head. “A poet and doesn’t know it.”

  Charlie smiles. “I’m a poet, Livi.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Heard. Nerd. Derd. Ferd. Blerd,” Charlie says.

  “A parent has to register me,” I say. “The sooner the better.”

  “What’s the deadline?”

  My stomach twists. “The test is on November third and you can register practically right up until the test, but …”

  “Test. Messed. Nest. Best. West,” Charlie sings.

  “But?” Neil asks.

  “I’m a poet,” Charlie reminds us.

  “But I don’t want to wait,” I say. “I want to be registered right away. I don’t want to take any chances.”

  Neil nods. “Just tell your mom about it after school. I’m sure
she’ll—”

  “But she’ll be at work,” I say.

  Neil looks at his plate, clears his throat and runs a hand through his thick hair. He doesn’t say a word.

  I’m still thinking about what Neil didn’t say this morning when I walk down our front steps.

  Tucker explodes from his house and runs down the steps behind me. “Hey, Bean.”

  “Hey,” I say, remembering Tucker’s red umbrella yesterday and feeling grateful for the distraction from worrying about Mom.

  “Your mom register you for Kids Week yet?”

  Even though it’s cool outside, my cheeks grow warm. So much for getting a break from worrying about Mom! I want to tell Tucker it’s none of his business. But I remember he invited me over to watch Jeopardy! yesterday and called to tell me about registration, so I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  “She’d better do it soon,” he says, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder and walking beside me. “Don’t want to miss your last chance, right, Bean?”

  “She’ll do it,” I say, wishing he’d stop talking because it makes me think about last night and how Mom was crying. What could it be? The way Neil was silent after I mentioned Mom being at work, I wonder if it has something to do with that.

  When we get to the end of our street, Matt Dresher walks toward us from the side street. I shrink into myself and slow my pace. Great! Just what I need now.

  “Hey, Thomas!” Matt calls.

  I allow myself to fall several steps behind Tucker. Please don’t notice me. Maybe I could run ahead. Maybe—

  “Bean!” Matt shouts, nodding toward me.

  I nod slightly and walk faster—way faster—pulling ahead of Tucker and Matt. Behind me, Matt calls, “Hey, Olivia Bean, Hula Hoop Queen.”

  I cringe.

  “Come back here, Olivia Bean, Hula Hoop Queen. I want to see your great hula hoop routine.” He laughs a loud, obnoxious laugh.

  I keep walking fast. While I hear Matt laughing, I picture him thrusting his hips from side to side, pretending to be hula hooping, like he usually does when he sees me. Tucker does the stupid motion too. And sometimes he also—

  Tucker bursts out with his obnoxious, horselike laugh. He sounds like he’s choking. I wish he were! What’s so funny, Tucker Thomas? How could you be so nice to me yesterday and so mean to me today?

  I glance back and see Tucker doubled over with laughter. Matt is pointing at me and holding his stomach because he’s laughing so hard. I can’t believe Tucker, who was so sweet to me yesterday, is laughing with such gusto about my unfortunate hula hoop incident.

  Now I remember why I can’t stand that boy!

  I huff to school, the sounds of their laughter fading behind me. But I can still hear Tucker’s horse-like guffaw in my mind. The unfortunate hula hoop incident was not funny. Why can’t Tucker understand that I don’t want to be reminded of it? And why does something about the incident keep nagging at me, even though I can’t figure out what it is?

  I shake those thoughts from my mind and walk as fast as I can without actually running. I have more important things to think about than Tucker Thomas and Matt Dresher. I need to think about registering for the Kids Week test. I also need to remember to make Carly a card; her birthday is tomorrow. Brooke and Julia will probably get her really nice presents with store-bought cards, but Mom said we can’t afford to give presents unless I’m going to a birthday party. And Carly’s not having a party this year. Instead, her parents are taking her to Disney World. Lucky butt! Disney World would be way more fun than worrying about registering for the Jeopardy! test and wondering what’s going on with Mom.

  What is going on with Mom?

  At school, I avoid Tucker.

  I don’t even look at him during lunch when I walk right past his table. As usual, I sit with Carly, Brooke and Julia, even though instead of including me, they talk with each other about some club they’ve joined, where they learn a foreign language and then, at the end of the year, travel to a country where that language is spoken.

  “Do you know anything about Bolivia, Olivia?” Carly asks.

  “Ha, that rhymes,” Julia says.

  “Yeah, it does,” Carly says, sitting taller, like she’s proud of herself for rhyming something with my name.

  Brooke bumps against Carly with her shoulder. “You’re not a poet and we all know it.”

  Julia laughs so hard she sprays the table with cookie crumbs.

  I’m a little grossed out and have no idea what’s funny, so I answer Carly’s question about Bolivia. “I don’t really know anything about Bolivia,” I say, nibbling on the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Neil put in my lunch bag. “I’m bad at geography.”

  Julia shakes her head. “Olivia, you know everything.”

  “About everything!” Brooke adds.

  “Not everything,” I say. I don’t want anyone to think I’m showing off. That’s why I lied and said I don’t know anything about Bolivia. It’s a relatively poor landlocked country in South America that the Andes Mountains run through. Just because my brain works like an encyclopedia doesn’t mean I have to sound like one.

  Why would they want to go to Bolivia? They’ve never mentioned wanting to go there before. If they’re going to spend all that money to travel somewhere, they should go someplace that matters to them.

  The only place I care about traveling to is Culver City, California. That place really matters to me for two reasons. Jeopardy! is filmed there and it’s right near Dad. And Nikki.

  Nikki.

  If she were here now, she’d share her Tastykakes with me, and I’d share my baby carrots and apple slices with her. We’d talk about important things, like breaking a world record together or running in a marathon or how we’ll become totally famous when we grow up and move into an apartment together in New York City. We’d plan our next epic sleepover, which would definitely involve pizza, with loads of toppings, and Monopoly. I haven’t been invited to one sleepover since Nikki left.

  Carly pulls eight bottles of nail polish from her purse. Eight! “This one is Tiger-Eye Orange and this one is Shimmer Like a Star Silver and …”

  I yawn and glance over at Tucker but turn my head the moment he notices me.

  Why can’t that boy be nice to me all the time and forget about the unfortunate hula hoop incident once and for all? The last thing I need now is for that whole Olivia Bean, Hula Hoop Queen thing to erupt again at school. It took until after winter break in sixth grade for kids to forget about it and pick on someone else—Clarisse Matthesen, to be precise, because she left for winter break with perfectly clear skin but returned with a face full of acne. I owe Clarisse a huge debt of gratitude. She was nice enough to draw attention away from me. And someday, Clarisse’s acne will clear up and she’ll have lovely skin, but the memory of my unfortunate hula hoop incident will live on in kids’ memories forever.

  When the final bell rings, I dash out of school like a cheetah, the world’s fastest land animal.

  “Wait up, Bean!” Tucker calls as I rush toward home.

  I do not wait. I hunch my shoulders and hope he’s not with Matt Dresher.

  “Bean!” Tucker calls again, sounding out of breath.

  I don’t stop. I break into a jog, my backpack pounding against my spine with each step.

  “Bean!”

  I jog faster because I don’t have time for Tucker’s teasing today. I’ve got to get home and call Mom to ask when she can register me for the test. And I need to find out why she was crying last night. Please let her be okay!

  At our door, I notice Tucker is all the way at the end of the block. I’m glad I was able to outrun him.

  Unfamiliar voices come from inside our house. I turn my key and push open the door, expecting to see a bunch of people sitting in the living room. My heart pounds from jogging … and worry.

  But it’s only Charlie, watching TV—that’s where the voices came from. But that’s weird because Charlie is supposed to be in aftercare at sc
hool. It’s Wednesday. Mom always works till five-thirty on Wednesdays and Fridays, then picks Charlie up from aftercare.

  And Mom never lets him watch TV during the school week.

  “Hi, Charlie.”

  He raises one hand without turning from the screen. “Hi, Livi. This is good.”

  He’s watching some violent cartoon. “It doesn’t look good,” I say, knowing Mom wouldn’t want him watching this.

  “It is,” he says, still not looking up.

  “Why are you home and where’s Mom?”

  Charlie shrugs, not turning from the screen.

  “Earth to Charlie,” I mutter, dropping my backpack and walking upstairs.

  Mom’s bedroom door is closed. But the bathroom door swings open, and Neil walks out. Neil? He’s definitely supposed to be at work. What’s going on?

  Neil startles when he sees me, then puts a finger to his lips and whispers, “Your mom’s sleeping, Olivia. She doesn’t feel good.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sure she’ll be out soon. No worries.” Neil opens the bedroom door and disappears inside.

  I stand in the hallway, wondering what to do while listening to Charlie’s stupid cartoon downstairs. No worries? Mom was crying last night. Today, she and Neil are not at work, and Charlie is watching TV on a school day.

  I’m worried!

  Neil was wrong.

  Mom doesn’t come out soon.

  Charlie ends up watching TV the rest of the day, except for when I make him come into the kitchen and give him SpaghettiOs and a sliced apple for dinner. I let him watch Jeopardy! with me, then get him ready for bed and tuck him in.

  “Where’s Mom?” Charlie asks.

  “She went to bed early,” I say. “She doesn’t feel good.” I tuck the blanket up to his chin, hoping he doesn’t ask any more questions.

  He doesn’t.

  “Don’t forget the hall light,” he calls.

  “I never forget the hall light.”

  While I’m in the kitchen, washing the couple dishes from dinner, I hear a door open upstairs and someone walk downstairs. I hold my breath, hoping it’s Mom.