Olivia Bean, Trivia Queen

by Donna Gephart

  “Hi, Olivia,” Neil says, carrying two mugs into the kitchen.

  “Hi,” I say, holding back a flood of questions.

  Neil places the mugs in the sink next to the empty SpaghettiOs can. Then he puts his big, hairy hand on my shoulder, which worries me so much that I forget to jerk away to remind him he’s not my dad. “Look, Olivia, your mom still doesn’t feel good.”

  “What’s wrong?” I pull back just enough that Neil drops his hand.

  Neil rubs his beard before answering. “She’ll be fine. Absolutely fine, but she needs a little more time to—”

  “Time for what?”

  “She asked me to tell you she needs a little more time by herself. That’s all. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, even though it’s not.

  I bite my bottom lip and watch Neil gather two bananas, a package of graham crackers, two plastic cups and a pitcher of water from the fridge. I listen to the sounds of him walking up the stairs and the bedroom door opening and then closing.

  That’s when it hits me. Mom isn’t spending time alone. She’s with Neil. After Dad left, when Mom felt upset or sick, she’d come to me and ask for a hug. Me. Not Neil.

  I leave the empty SpaghettiOs can in the sink and trudge upstairs, glaring at Mom’s door before retreating to my room. I plop onto my bed, hug Phil to me and open a trivia book, but don’t look at the words. I want to knock on Mom’s door, but Neil’s in there with her, and I have a feeling it’s not the right thing to do.

  I force myself to read trivia and then do homework. Mom’s bedroom door still doesn’t open, so I change into pajamas and turn out my light.

  I stay up a long time, lying there with only light from the hall seeping in, listening for sounds or voices, but I don’t hear anything. Someone goes to the bathroom, but that’s it. That’s all I hear the whole night.

  While I’m lying in bed, I remember something that doesn’t make me feel better. And even though it’s late, I’m sure I’ll never fall asleep.

  It’s Wednesday. Dad’s night to call. And he never did.

  I guess I fall asleep eventually, because when I open my eyes, sun streams into my room, bouncing off bright yellow walls. I need to quit waiting for someone else to do it and paint my room a less obnoxious color.

  But thinking about the color of my walls will have to wait. I have more important things to obsess about right now.

  First I have to find out what’s going on with Mom and make sure she’s okay. Then I need to get her to register me for Kids Week.

  I roll out of bed and shuffle into the hall, hoping things will be back to normal, but Mom’s bedroom door is still closed and it’s too quiet.

  I peek into Charlie’s room and can’t believe he’s not up yet. Mom usually has him up and moving before I even open my eyes.

  I shake Charlie awake, pick out some clothes for him and tell him to hurry so he doesn’t miss his bus. Then I run down to the kitchen to fix us both a bowl of cereal and cut up the last banana to put on top, like Mom does. Then I pack Charlie’s lunch and mine—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with nothing else, because no one bothered to go to the market.

  I don’t like having to do all this work. It’s Mom’s job. Or Neil’s. Not mine.

  I still have to get ready for school myself. And I have a right to know what’s going on.

  While I’m fishing in the drawer for spoons for our cereal, I get an idea about signing up for Jeopardy! “Hurry, Charlie!”

  He motors into the kitchen.

  “Your pants are on backward,” I say.

  He looks down, nods and wiggles out of them. “Pants are hard sometimes, Livi,” he says as he struggles to put them on the right way.

  “Lots of things are hard sometimes,” I say.

  After I rush through my cereal and try to hurry Charlie—impossible—I leave the dirty bowls in the sink because I shouldn’t have to do everything. I get Charlie to the bus, then come home, grab my measly lunch and backpack, lock the front door and wish I understood what Mom has been doing in her room all this time.

  Tucker doesn’t burst from his house like usual, and I realize it’s because I’m late. I have to jog the whole way to school, my backpack slamming against my back with every step. To take my mind off everything, I think about how I’ll execute my Jeopardy! plan.

  During lunch, I go to the media center and ask Ms. Marchetto if I can use the computer.

  “Of course, Olivia,” she says. She’s used to me coming in to read almanacs, Guinness World Records books and science magazines.

  Ms. Marchetto points me to terminal number five.

  It takes exactly three seconds to learn that the Jeopardy! site is blocked by the school’s filter. The Jeopardy! site? I’ve seen Matt Dresher play some violent game on there once, and I can’t access the Jeopardy! site? Brilliant filter!

  I turn off the computer, grab my backpack, thank Ms. Marchetto and trudge back to the lunchroom to sit at a table by myself—can’t deal with Brooke, Carly and Julia today—and worry about not getting registered. I was going to do it on the school computer. Even though it says a parent is supposed to register you, I figure they’d never know if I did it myself. At least, I hoped they wouldn’t.

  Well, that plan’s shot. I’ll have to wait for Mom. Please be okay.

  I make up my mind that if Mom’s not out of her bedroom when I get home, I’m going in.

  Except for DJ curled on the couch, no one’s in the living room when I get home, and the TV isn’t on.

  “Hello?” I call.

  “Hi, Livi,” Charlie yells from upstairs.

  “Is Mom home?” I ask, grabbing the banister, knowing she must be home because Charlie wouldn’t be here alone. DJ leaps off the couch, rubs his whiskered cheek against my pant leg, sneezes and darts toward the kitchen. I drop my backpack and start up the stairs.

  “Yup,” Charlie calls. “She’s sleeping. Do. Not. Disturb.”

  “Do not …?”

  “Disturb!” he yells at the top of his voice.

  “All-righty then,” I say, tiptoeing the rest of the way up and pressing my ear against Mom’s bedroom door. I hear nothing but soft breathing. I’d planned to storm in there to find out what’s going on, but that doesn’t seem like a good idea now that I’m actually here. I decide to let Mom sleep and I go into Charlie’s room instead. He’s got Matchbox cars and trucks in piles on the floor.

  “Hi, Livi.”

  “Hi, Charlie. Did Mom say anything?”

  Charlie shakes his head. “She picked me up, then said she’s going to take a nap. ‘Do. Not. Disturb.’ ”

  “Did she look okay?”

  “Her eyes were puffy and pink.”

  Maybe Mom has pinkeye and doesn’t want us near her because it’s contagious.

  “Want to play with me, Livi?”

  “Not right now,” I say, and back out of Charlie’s room.

  Downstairs, I dump DJ off the kitchen counter, grab a glass of water and realize it’s a good sign that Mom picked up Charlie. It means she’s feeling well enough to get out of bed and drive. But I wonder when she’s going to come out of her room. And register me for Jeopardy! I’ll feel so much better when I actually see her.

  In the meantime, if Mom’s napping and can’t register me, I know someone who can. The rules say a parent has to register you.

  I pick up the phone.

  Dad’s a parent.

  Charlie walks into the kitchen and tugs on the bottom of my shirt before I have a chance to punch in Dad’s number. “Play with me, Livi,” he says. “I’m boring.”

  “You mean you’re bored?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says, yanking on my shirt. “Play. With. Me!”

  I pry his fingers from my shirt, wave the phone at him and say, “Not right now.”

  Charlie’s shoulders bob and he blinks. I put the phone down. I can tell Charlie’s about to cry, and I can’t ask Dad about Jeopardy! with Charlie crying.

  “Hey, bud,” I say.
“Guess who I’m calling?”

  Charlie shrugs and looks away.

  I tug on the belt loop of his pants. “Come on, Charlie,” I say. “Guess.”

  He tilts his head, looks at me and says, “Tucker Thomas?”

  “What?”

  “You know, Tucker Thomas.”

  “I know Tucker Thomas,” I say, touching the note in my pocket that Tucker handed me when we passed each other in the hall this morning.

  Olivia Bean, Hula Hoop Queen—

  Why don’t you smile?

  Just for a while?

  It makes your face look less mean.

  “Tucker Thomas is a poop!” I say.

  Charlie giggles. “Tucker Thomas is a poop.”

  “Yeah,” I say, scrunching up Tucker’s note and throwing it into the trash can. “A big, smelly poop.”

  Charlie dances around the kitchen, singing, “Tucker Thomas is a poop, poop, poopity poop.”

  “Hey, maybe you should take your show on the road,” I say, which makes me think of Dad. If only Charlie would stop singing about Tucker Thomas being a poop, poop, poopity poop, I could call Dad and ask him. I grab Charlie’s skinny wrist, not to hurt him, just to get his attention, and turn him around so that he’s looking at me. “I’m calling Dad.”

  Charlie’s eyes light up. “Dad? I want to talk to him. He didn’t call yesterday when he was supposed to.”

  I reel back. “You knew that?”

  Charlie nods. “He’s supposed to call on Wednesdays.”

  “Right you are, little man.” My heart squeezes and I feel a surge of rage toward Dad. “Yeah, he forgot.” Again.

  “Dad is a poop,” Charlie says.

  I laugh so hard, I need to wipe my nose with a napkin. “Yeah,” I say. “Sometimes he is.”

  Charlie crosses his skinny arms across his chest, looking satisfied with himself.

  “Well,” I say. “I need to ask Dad something important, but when I’m done talking to him, I’ll give the phone to you. Okay?”

  Charlie nods so hard I think his head will drop to the floor. “ ’Kay, Livi.” He yanks on my shirt again. “Hey,” he says, as though he just got this great idea. “Maybe Dad will come for a visit soon. Maybe he’ll take us to Disney World again. Wouldn’t that be so cool?”

  “You remember that?” I ask. “You were really little.”

  Charlie nods. “I threw up on the teacup ride.”

  I laugh. “You did throw up on the teacup ride. Dad spun the wheel too much and made you dizzy.”

  “Yeah, and some people came and cleaned it up, and then—”

  “And then, when you felt better, Dad bought you a banana split with three scoops of ice cream.”

  Charlie nods. “Even though Mom told him it was a bad idea.”

  “Even though,” I echo.

  Charlie licks his lips. “I ate the whole thing.”

  “And you threw up again.”

  Charlie giggles. “That was fun. Livi?”

  “Yeah, Charlie?”

  “Rats can’t vomit.”

  “Oh,” I say, taken aback by that little gem of trivia. “I’m calling Dad now.”

  Charlie plops onto the floor, cross-legged. “I’m ready.”

  I punch in Dad’s number, hoping Stella doesn’t answer. I wouldn’t mind hearing Nikki’s voice, even though last time I called she wasn’t nice. I miss talking to her. If things were normal now and we were still friends, she’d probably tell me not to worry about Mom. She’d say Mom is one tough lady and she’ll be fine. And she’d help me study for the Jeopardy! test by quizzing me during lunch and after school. Nikki would probably even laugh about Charlie throwing up at Disney World because she sat next to him at the ice cream parlor, and some of it splashed onto her sneakers.

  When someone answers, I almost expect to hear Nikki’s voice, so I’m surprised at the sound of Dad’s deep voice.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say. “It’s Olivia.” Charlie pokes me. “And Charlie.”

  “Hey, Butter Bean,” he says, sweet as cotton candy, and I want to cry with relief that he’s being nice.

  Charlie pulls on my elbow. “Can I talk to him now, Livi?”

  I push Charlie’s hand away and give him the stink eye. I already told him I needed to ask Dad something.

  “Liviiiii,” he whines.

  I cover the phone. “Not yet, Charlie.”

  He sticks out his tongue, and I turn my back to him.

  “Dad?” I ask. “Still there?”

  “Yes,” he says, suddenly donning his impatient voice. “But I’ve got to get to the track soon so … Oh, crap. I forgot to call you guys yesterday, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” I say quietly, not wanting to make him feel worse than I’m sure he already does.

  “Sorry, Butter Bean. Real sorry. Lots going on here and—”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him.

  “What’s okay?” Charlie asks.

  “Shhh,” I say, and hunch forward for more privacy. I feel Charlie poke my back with the tips of his skinny fingers, but I ignore him.

  “Butter Bean,” Dad says. “I’m sorry to rush you, but I really need to—”

  “Dad, there’s a chance for me to be on Jeopardy!”

  “The Jeopardy!?”

  “Yup. The one we watched together,” I remind him.

  “I know,” he says. “Your old man hasn’t lost his memory yet. That’s great, baby. Let me know how it goes. Hon, put your brother on so I can get going now. Okay?”

  I squeeze the phone, as though it will help me hang on to Dad a little longer. “But there’s one thing.” I need to hurry, but it’s hard to ask him.

  “Yes,” he snaps. “Go on, Olivia.”

  My chest feels tight. “It’s just that I need a parent to register me to take this test online, then I can—”

  “Your mom can do that, Olivia. Put Charlie on. I’ve got to go.” I picture Dad glancing at his watch with the blackjack cards on its face that Mom and I got him for his birthday about five years ago.

  Charlie pulls the bottom of my shirt. “Now, Livi?”

  I turn. Charlie’s eyes are bright and wide, and I want to hand him the phone to make him happy, but I have to ask Dad about signing me up first.

  “Dad, do you think maybe you could register me? It’s really easy and—”

  “Olivia,” Dad says sharply. “That’s the kind of stuff your mom does.”

  I look at the ceiling as though I have X-ray vision and can see Mom lying in bed. Mom can’t sign me up right now. “But, Dad …” And I realize I sound as whiny as Charlie, but I don’t know what else to do. Why can’t he understand? “It won’t take long. I promise.” My voice gets high and tight. “You just have to—”

  “I don’t just have to do anything … except get to this first race on time. There’s a long shot I want to bet on.” Dad lets out a rush of air. “I’m sure your mom will be happy to take care of this. Now put Charlie on.”

  My throat tightens. “But, Dad—”

  “Never mind,” he says. “I’ve got to go.”

  “But—”

  “Damn it!”

  Why is Dad acting like this? Sometimes he’ll talk to me for a long time. Once, we chatted about a book he was reading—Outliers—for almost half an hour. It explored the hidden reasons behind ubersuccessful people. Dad had said the author explained that people need to practice something for ten thousand hours before they can be truly great at it. I remember wondering if I’d studied trivia for ten thousand hours.

  But right now, the anger in Dad’s voice scares me.

  “Look, Olivia, tell Charlie I’ll call later.”

  Click.

  “Now, Livi?” Charlie asks, holding out his palm.

  I put the phone in Charlie’s hand, the sound of the dial tone already oozing from the speaker, and run up to my room before I start crying.

  I lie on my bed with the butterfly comforter pulled to my chin and stare at the bright yellow ceiling, wishing it were pain
ted a depressing shade of gray to match my mood. Why can’t Dad do this one thing for me? It’s not like I ask him for much. And why couldn’t he wait a few more seconds to talk with Charlie? How is Charlie supposed to understand that Dad would rather go to the racetrack than talk to him? No wonder Mom used to get so upset with Dad.

  Mom!

  I pull the comforter over my head. In the stifling darkness, I think of horrible diseases Mom might have: ovarian cancer, Lou Gehrig’s disease or trichotillomania, which is the compulsive need to pull one’s hair out, strand by strand. Tears trickle down my cheeks, and I wipe my leaky nose on my comforter. I picture Mom handing me a tissue and telling me I’m being gross, which only makes me cry harder.

  I need my mom!

  I’m sniffing and sobbing and making it so stuffy under my comforter that I fling it off me.

  Mom is standing there. Her hair is flat and greasy. Her eyes are pink and puffy, like Charlie said.

  “Mom?”

  “Olivia?”

  Mom’s voice sounds hoarse, and I get scared all over again that something terrible is wrong with her.

  “Why are you crying?” Mom asks. “What’s wrong?”

  Everything! “Nothing.” But I start blubbering again. My shoulders heave in spasms, and I have to take my glasses off to swipe at my leaking eyes.

  Mom climbs into bed next to me. She grabs Phil around the neck and scoots close to me. The warmth from her body makes me feel better.

  “Now, tell me what’s wrong,” Mom says.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Mom lets out a breath. “I’m sorry, Olivia.” She kisses the top of my head. “I know I haven’t been myself since Tuesday night, but that’s over now.”

  “What happened?” I remember Mom and Neil’s talk Tuesday, him telling her everything’s going to be okay.

  “Oh, Livi,” Mom says. “After twenty-four years of loyalty to that newspaper, they laid me off.”

  My eyes go wide. “They laid you off from the newspaper? But how …?”

  “It’ll be okay,” Mom says, touching her head to mine. “I’ll find another job.”

  “Yes, but … you’ve worked there for, like, forever. You have your own column.”