by Jody Feldman
Unpredictable? Not yet. But that was okay. Predictability meant fewer worries to cram Cameron’s mind.
“Let’s get this party started.” Randy Wright kept talking through the cheers. “While it’s inevitable you will talk among yourselves, we strongly request, adults, that you let your contestants take the lead in answering the questions. And now, question number one!”
His words scrolled onto the video screen as he spoke.
“In last year’s Games, we based the first question on Golly’s very first board game, The Incredible Treasures of King Tut. This year our first question is just as appropriate: What toy made its debut to mark Golly’s first anniversary?”
Too easy! It was info Cameron himself had added to Spencer’s notebook. The GollyRocket. Launching Golly Toy and Game Company into its second year. But everyone would know that.
“Answers: (A) something Yuri Gagarin would have liked; (B) something I. M. Pei would have liked; (C) something Jane Goodall would have liked; (D) something Dr. Patricia Bath would have liked.”
Huh? The only name Cameron recognized was Jane Goodall, and outside of picturing her kissing a chimp—if that was even her—he wasn’t exactly sure what the woman had done. Did she raise the chimps that had flown in space?
“Do you know the toy?” asked his dad.
Cameron nodded. “It was in the notebook.”
“Spencer’s notebook? Terrific!”
A small growl escaped. Cameron covered it with a cough and a question: “Do you know the people in the answers?” It felt sort of wrong to ask his dad’s help, but Cameron was taking the lead, and all the other kids were talking to their adults. “Like, who’s Yuri Gagarin?”
“Some Soviet guy, but I can’t remember why he’s famous. I. M. Pei, though? Architect. I’m sure of that. And didn’t you study Jane Goodall in school, Cameron? I know Walker did. I helped him with his report last year.”
That was where he’d seen her kissing the chimp, in a jungle, not in space. Cameron stood.
“You know the answer already? Which one?”
Cameron didn’t want to broadcast anything. He stayed silent, hoping his reasoning was right, that Patricia Bath was a medical doctor and not a doctor of rocket ships. He led his dad out of section C, into the concourse, past section D, and into section A, where a line of people about twenty deep waited in one of the entrance tunnels. Great. Did this mean the answer was obvious to every one of the 9,999 (minus the 784 on the floor)?
“It’s crowded but not jammed,” said his dad. “Are you sure you’re right? If you are, it’ll be great. We can work as a four-person team on the next question.”
“I’m sure,” he said. Three-quarters sure. He motioned his dad to bring his ear closer. “The toy was the GollyRocket. And if the other people were an architect, an animal person, and a doctor, then Yuri had to—”
“That’s right! He was the first human”—his dad lowered his voice—“in space!” And he actually tousled Cameron’s hair.
Section A was definitely more crowded than the others, but they found empty seats in the upper tier.
“Attention!”
Cameron jumped.
“You have five minutes,” said Randy Wright. “Five minutes to be in your section.”
Five minutes until sections B, C, and D were gone. He was sure. Almost. Even more sure now that so many people had crowded into section A. They were standing in every aisle plus the walkway between the upper and lower tiers.
Still, when the clock counted down the five, four, three, two, one, he could hear the blood pulsate in his ears.
“And now,” said Randy Wright, “the incorrect answers will disappear one by one.
“Good-bye to the conservationist best known for her important work with chimpanzees.” Answer C flashed off the board.
“So long to the architect whose accomplishments include the pyramid at the Louvre in Paris and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.” I. M. Pei’s name was gone.
“Now we’re down to two. But who might have most liked the toy in question? Was it the first human in space? Or the person who invented tools that restored eyesight to millions?”
A drumroll came over the speakers. The screen went blank. Then across it flew a cartoon GollyRocket that landed on-screen above both the remaining choices, Yuri Gagarin and Dr. Patricia Bath. The names flashed and flashed fast until only one remained: Yuri Gagarin!
Somehow, over the jumping and cheering, including Cameron’s own, he heard Randy Wright thanking Patricia Bath for her work, which had helped restore his own mother’s sight, then instructing the people in sections B, C, and D to exit. “You won’t go away empty-handed. You’ll receive a ten-dollar gift certificate for any Golly toy or game plus a chance to win ten thousand dollars. To enter, watch The Gollywhopper Games when it appears on TV. One contestant from each of the hundred regional sites will win for a total giveaway of one million dollars!”
Even the losers cheered. As they left, Randy instructed everyone else to stay where they were or face elimination.
Cameron wouldn’t move. Cameron wouldn’t even twitch a finger if Randy Wright told him he shouldn’t. When it came to his family, he was tired of feeling like the third rower in a two-man kayak or the fourth leg on a tripod or the fifth wheel on a wagon or the sixth side to the Pentagon or the seventh muscle in a six-pack or the eighth dwarf, especially when Spencer was around.
If Cameron could be one of nine to make it from this arena to Orchard Heights, he’d be happy. Even if Spencer came with him and even if he got eliminated there immediately, he’d still be happy. As long as he wasn’t number ten today.
With three sections of people gone, it was quieter for a minute.
“Those of you in winning section A”—Randy Wright paused for the cheers—“stay where you are. But you on the arena floor, attention! Turn toward section C.”
Cameron and his dad laughed at the ones who practically twirled in circles, looking for C.
“In an orderly fashion—no pushing or shoving or otherwise running people over—find your way to any seat in section C.”
That was apparently impossible without a mad scramble, but the Golly people kept order and removed the chairs.
“And now, to give the rest of you some space,” said Randy Wright, “if you are standing in the aisles, please move to section D. If you are currently seated in an odd-numbered row, please move to section B.”
Cameron’s dad shook his head. “Guess we’re not joining your mom and Spence.”
Cameron coughed to shield his smile.
When everyone was settled, Golly people in sections A, B, and D passed out golden envelopes marked ROUND 2 ADVANTAGE! DO NOT OPEN UNTIL INSTRUCTED. Cameron wasn’t the only one to hold his envelope to the light. Not even the ghost of a word shone through.
But then the murmur level rose. Golly people were taking down the orange fencing. Within minutes, though, they’d redivided the arena into six sections instead of four.
“It just got harder,” said Randy Wright. “We now have six sections for six possible answers. You know the drill. I will read a question. This time, however, I will not read the answers. They will appear only on your screens. You will have ample time to find the section that matches your answer.
“On my signal, open those envelopes and get your hint.”
Almost no one cheered.
“Yes,” said Randy Wright, “a hint is not as good as a free pass, but it could make the difference. Good luck!
“Question number two! Who were the five finalists in last year’s Gollywhopper Games?”
Really?
“Who would need a hint for that?” his dad said, echoing Cameron’s own thoughts.
Then the choices came onto the scoreboards.
A. Gil Goodson, Lavina Plodder, Bianca LaBlanc, Thorn Dewitt Formey, Rocky Titus
B. Gil Goodson, Lavinia Plodder, Bianca LaBlanc, Thorn Dewitt-Formey, Rocky Titus
C. Gil Goodson, Lavinia Plodde
r, Bianca LaBlanc, Thorn Dewitt Formey, Rocky Titus
D. Gil Goodson, Lavina Plodder, Bianca LaBlanc, Thorn Dewitt-Formey, Rocky Titus
E. Gil Goodson, Lavinia Plodder, Bianca LeBlanc, Thorn Dewitt Formey, Rocky Titus
F. Gil Goodson, Lavina Plodder, Bianca LeBlanc, Thorn Dewitt-Formey, Rocky Titus
Huh? They were all the same. Or not. His throat grew cold.
“What the—” Cameron’s dad stopped himself. “Ah, spelling! That’s great for Spence!” Then he looked down at Cameron. “But not as great for you.”
Gee, thanks, Dad. Cameron opened the envelope. Maybe the hint would help.
If Golly was the first to hold an international marbles championship, then Thorn’s last name will be alphabetized closer to the name of the country that = fish part + acreage.
If Golly was NOT the first to hold an international marbles championship, then Thorn’s last name will be alphabetized closer to the name of the country that = lion’s house + Huckleberry’s creator.
His dad was reading over his shoulder. “They call that a hint?”
Cameron shook his head. How could that mess of words help him at all? But Cameron again looked at the hint, then at the six choices. He smiled, but he’d need to talk this out. He leaned closer to his dad’s ear.
“Remember how Bianca signed my camera? She put a smiley face in the first A of LaBlanc. L-A Blanc. So E and F are out.”
His dad nodded. “And the hint?”
“I never read anything about a Golly marbles competition. There was a tiddlywink one and a hopscotch something, but no marbles. So it’s the second hint. And if a lion’s house is—”
“A den,” said his dad half a beat before Cameron did. “Plus Huckleberry. Finn, I assume which—”
“Is Mark for Mark Twain,” Cameron said before his dad could.
“Denmark,” they both said together.
“Which means Thorn is a hyphen,” Cameron said.
“Hyphen?” His dad looked at the scoreboard. “Oh, his last name.” He shook his head. “How do you notice little things like hyphens but can’t remember spelling?”
Why’d he rub that in again? It had been two instances in fourth grade: a spelling bee he’d flubbed because he’d gotten stage fright and one D on one test, only because he’d forgotten to study.
“I do remember about hyphenated last names. They get alphabetized with the first last name because Alli Schindler-Davis sits next to me when they put us in alphabetical order.”
“Good,” said his dad. “That knocks out two more answers. So B or D?”
Cameron stared at B, then at D. They were exactly alike.
His dad’s tapping foot was as calming as a ticking bomb. So was his pushing Cameron’s shoulder and pointing to where Spencer and his mom had been. “They’re gone. I’ll watch to see where they resurface, and we’ll go there.”
Cameron wanted to live or die on his own. If he copied off Spencer, he’d never hear the end of it. B or D? B or D? He had to hurry.
He read B softly: “‘Gil Goodson, Lavinia Plodder, Bianca LaBlanc, Thorn Dewitt-Formey, Rocky Titus.’” Then D: ‘“Gil Goodson, Lavina Plodder, Bianca LaBlanc, Thorn Dewitt-Formey, Rocky Titus.’”
“This will serve as your five-minute warning,” said Randy Wright.
He had to hurry. But hurrying wouldn’t help. Cameron put the mock lens of fingers to his eye and focused on each syllable of B as it came into view. It looked right. Now, if only D wouldn’t. “Gil. Good. Son. La. Vin. Ee. Uh.” Stop! That’s not what it said. They’d left out the i in Lavinia! It said Lavina. Cameron stood. “Dad! Let’s go!”
“You’re sure we shouldn’t wait until we see Spencer?”
“No time.” Cameron kept walking.
When they got inside section B, his dad’s radar eyes went straight to the third row, and his legs followed. He sprinted down, kissed their mom, then grabbed Spencer in a headlock, ruffling his hair. “I knew you’d get it right!”
If that meant his dad thought Cameron was right, where was his headlock?
“How’d you get it right?” said Spencer.
“I used the hint and reasoned it out.”
“Only spelling-challenged wimps needed a hint for that question.”
“Wimp” might have been the nicest name Spencer had ever called him.
While the three of them had a happy family reunion, Cameron watched the people in the other sections, the ones about to leave. He hoped. Worst case? He and Spencer would head home together. But how often was Spencer wrong? Almost never. And not now.
Cameron jumped with his family. He high-fived strangers. He let loose until reality reminded him that hundreds and hundreds of people could still beat him. He sat.
“Are you okay?” asked his mom. She felt his forehead as if he might have a fever. “You look flushed.”
“Just excited.” He wished he had his camera to record the girl over there giving raspberries to the other five sections. Or that girl with the hiccups. Or that boy springing from row to row on armrests until a Golly person stopped him.
The people in the losing sections had barely left with their twenty-dollar Golly gift certificates and their chances to win ten thousand dollars when Randy Wright’s voice rocked the arena again. “You’re still here!”
More cheers.
“Listen carefully, contestants, because I will give these instructions only once.
“You all deserve a break. Bathroom break, food break, stretching break, whatever break you want to take. All the food in the concession area is free. Order whatever you’d like. But keep listening because this is vital.”
The place grew much quieter.
“Whether you get food or not”—Randy Wright continued—“you must visit one of the concession stands and have a worker scan the bar code on your bib. You will then get a souvenir Games pen and a receipt. Contestants, you personally need to keep that receipt on you at all times.
“Now go. Eat. Then sit wherever you want. We’ll start again in forty-five minutes.” The video screen faded to black.
Cameron ordered two slices of pizza, an orange soda, Cracker Jack, and Skittles. Miraculously, his mom didn’t tell them to get something healthier. Not even when Spencer asked for chicken fingers in addition to his hamburger, hot dog, pizza, and fries.
Cameron shoved his pen, his receipt, and some napkins into his right-front pocket to better balance the cardboard tray with his food and drink. His family found seats in section E, and Cameron snarfed down the pizza with half his soda. Then he dumped some of his Skittles into his Cracker Jack box despite Spencer’s “So disgusting.” Yet Spencer was dipping his pizza into a ketchup-mustard combo like it was the most normal thing on earth. And he laughed when Cameron had to dig out napkins to wipe sauce that had dripped dangerously close to his leg.
It wasn’t long after they’d thrown away their food trash and taken a bathroom stop that Randy Wright gave them a five-minute warning. Three hundred seconds later he came back.
“We know you will talk among yourselves, but a reminder that the more people you help, the more competition you’ll have. Also remember, your neighbor might not be right. With that, let us continue,” said Randy. “Assume there was one Golly worker for every four contestants who got a free pass for the first question. How many people were on the floor of your arena during question number one?”
Cameron focused on the screen.
A. 980
B. 1,960
C. 1,764
D. 1,568
E. 935
F. 1,683
Spencer and his mom and his dad were all staring at him. “What?”
“You’re the math guy,” said Spencer.
They just assumed he remembered the number. Fine. He’d do the math for the family. He pulled his pen from his pocket, but where was his receipt? He checked every pocket. If he’d lost—
There, on the ground with a trampled napkin. Was that it? Yes! He picked it up, sauce smudged but intact.
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He shook out his nerves. It was math time. First, his new least favorite number. He wrote 784 on the back of his receipt. Then divided it by 4 because there was one Golly worker for every 4 contestants. Under 784 he wrote 196 and totaled them. There it was! A. 980.
He opened his mouth to tell them where to go. His mom was staring at him. His mom! She’d been on the floor. Each contestant had had an adult down there. He added in another 784. Now he was right.
When they got to section C, a few people were still scribbling on napkins, on hands, on pants, on anything. One girl was fighting with her mom over which was right, D or F. Cameron smiled. Either way, gone! Still, the drama had him gripping his armrests until the wrong answers disappeared.
His parents’ whoops drowned out Randy Wright’s announcement of the parting gifts, but they quieted in time for his next words. “How many of you are left?”
Cameron wasn’t the only one to stand and count.
Randy Wright laughed. “This is not a test. It so happens, there are seventy-three thousand fourteen of you. An average of about seven hundred thirty at each of the one hundred sites from coast to coast to Alaska and Hawaii!”
The screen divided into postage stamp–sized squares of people cheering.
“It’s time for the great divide again! All adults, head to section A. You have two minutes to vacate your current section. Go!”
Cameron’s mom and dad gave them each hugs.
“You two stick together,” said their mom.
“What if we can’t agree?” Spencer said.
“Try.” Their parents headed out.
Spencer’s knees were jiggling up and down faster than the time he’d decided to ask Dana Caine to the freshman dance last year. Maybe he did want this more than Cameron did. Not that Cameron would let Spencer win, but maybe he could stop Spencer’s dumb impulses from taking over. Like when Spencer worked up the nerve to call Dana Caine. At six-thirty in the morning. And Cameron had dared to grab the phone away before Spencer’d finished dialing.
