by Jody Feldman
Spencer nudged him. Their parents were in section A, waving with giant motions.
“They’re a little too happy sometimes,” said Spencer.
Cameron laughed. It relaxed him for a moment. Then Randy Wright came back.
“Contestants? You are on your own. Any mistakes will be of your own making. Victories will be yours alone.”
Cameron wished.
“Before the next question, you must follow my directions quickly and exactly. First, take out your receipt from the concession stands.”
Cameron nearly panicked over what might have happened. Panicked a little more over whether he’d be penalized for having written on his receipt. Or for having it sauced.
“If you forgot to get a receipt, move to section B. We’ll take care of you there. If you lost yours or if your adult has it, move to section D.”
Several people around him moved toward the concession area. Some others searched their pockets and inside their shoes, then left, too.
“If you have your receipt, please check the number in the upper-right-hand corner. If your receipt has a ten, move to section E. If the number is one hundred, move to section F. If your receipt shows one thousand, remain in section C. Go!”
Cameron and Spencer compared receipts. Cameron’s had one thousand, Spencer’s, ten, but Spencer sat there.
“Why are you still here?” Cameron asked.
“They only want us to spread out. Anyway, Mom and Dad said to stay together.”
Cameron nodded. Um, no. “What if this is a test?”
“Like they’re gonna check every receipt.”
“They might.”
Spencer looked at his ticket, looked at Cameron, and looked across to his parents giving them the thumbs-up. He stood. “See you later. But if I’m right, you owe me an extra ten percent of whatever you win.”
“Ten percent of what?” said Cameron. “You’ll get your own prize.” But Spencer was already too far away to hear.
Across the arena, his parents were standing, palms up, mouthing, What’s going on?
What was going on? Cameron had saved his brother. He knew in his gut; otherwise, they wouldn’t have made such a big deal over a receipt. When Randy Wright came back, Cameron knew it for sure. The ones who had forgotten to get receipts, eliminated. Lost receipts, out. Left them with adults, good-bye. Then Golly workers came around, checking receipts against bibs, kicking out kids in the wrong sections.
It was an “I told you so” moment if there ever was one. Too bad Cameron couldn’t rub it in, but it was better this way. Each of them, as Randy Wright said, was on his own.
The kid in front of him turned around but bypassed Cameron to high-five another boy about six feet away. Several other kids were yammering with their near-disaster stories; Cameron, though, held back.
If he could keep this up, he’d be one of 9—just 9—from this regional to face 991 others. And those others would include Jig Jiggerson.
Jig, last year’s first alternate, had gotten nearly as much TV time as the contestants. He was dubbed the Minute Man, ready to jump in if someone got hurt or disqualified. But Rocky had gotten kicked out too late for Jig to take his place. When Golly announced the new season, they also announced Jig would automatically join the field of one thousand in Orchard Heights. It felt like all America had cheered for the guy who missed the cut by one in the desk challenge.
But now Golly people were coming up the aisles, handing each kid a pencil plus a mini clipboard with a bubble-style answer sheet that had two sections: Bib Number and Answer. Answer had seven columns of numbers, zero through nine. This was a math problem. The desk challenge without the desks! The final question!
Spencer’s legs had to be jiggling like crazy. As smart as he was, he froze at math word problems. For almost a year he’d had Cameron feed him some every once in a while, hoping he’d get immune to them. It had been annoying, but now Cameron couldn’t help himself from sending Spencer extra brain waves, reminding him to take one step at a time.
“On your bubble sheet,” Randy Wright said, “you’ll see a seat location at the bottom. Please find that seat.”
Cameron moved three rows down and five seats over, his own knees like rubber.
“You each have a seat,” said Randy Wright. “You each have a pencil, a clipboard, and a bubble sheet. And now, instructions.” The screen gave a tutorial on filling in answer bubbles; then Randy Wright came back.
“The next challenge will be answered with a number. When you have derived that number, fill in the correct bubbles on your sheet. Note that there are seven columns. Your answer may or may not be seven digits long. If it’s not that long, fill in zeros to the left of your answer. If your answer is fifty-one, for example, you would fill in zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-five-one. If you did it the other way, you would give us an answer of five million one hundred thousand. Quite a difference. But you must fill out all seven columns or your card will be rejected by the computer and you will be eliminated.
“Because this round will require some math, you may use the blank side of your card for your calculations. Any marks on the front: computer rejection again.” Randy Wright then gave them time to bubble in their bib numbers.
“From here on out,” he said after a few minutes, “the directions will be more crucial than ever. So follow each to the letter. Stay quiet. No standing. No kneeling. No leaning. No cheating. And here’s the question:
“Take the total number of Gollywhopper Games contestants who started the day in arenas across the country.
“Divide that by the number of arenas involved in the Gollywhopper Regionals today.
“Subtract from that the number of snowflake points in a gross.
“Subtract from that the number of players in the starting lineup on a professional baseball team plus the number of starters on a professional basketball team.
“Add the number of pages in the Golly Dolly instruction book inside each box.
“Reverse the digits in your current running total.
“Multiply that by the average (or arithmetic mean) age, in months, of the contestants left in this competition nationwide.
“Fill in the bubbles to show us that number.
“Time starts . . . now!”
Just like he’d coached Spencer, Cameron told himself, one piece at a time.
Total number of contestants today.
He turned his bubble sheet over and wrote 999,900.
Divided by the number of arenas. Whoever had the wrong answer so far deserved to be eliminated. It was the same number that started in each of the 100 arenas today: 9,999.
The number of snowflake points in a gross.
Cameron loved this. One day Walker had dumped his orange juice and turkey bacon into his oatmeal so he could eat his whole breakfast with a spoon.
“You’re gross,” Cameron had said.
“No, you’re gross,” said Walker.
“No, you’re gross.”
“You know what’s gross?” Spencer yelled over them. “One hundred forty-four. That’s gross.”
Cameron and Walker looked at each other and burst out laughing. Sometime after Walker had thrown that mess into the garbage, Spencer told them that 144 of something was called a gross, and they had called one another One Forty-four until it got old. So 144 times 6, the number of points in each snowflake. He subtracted 864.
Now sports teams. Basketball. Easy. Five. Two guards, 2 forwards, 1 center. Baseball? Nine, right? Three on the bases, the catcher at the plate, the pitcher on the mound, and 3 in the outfield. Eight. Why did he think 9? Where would a ninth guy play? Backing Cameron up, that was for sure. Cameron could swing the bat, but you couldn’t count on him to field the ball. So 5 plus what? Eight or 9? One number couldn’t keep him out, could it? He subtracted 13.
The number of pages in a Golly Dolly instruction book? That doll didn’t talk or pee or fetch snacks. It was Golly’s original doll with a zillion different outfits. Trick question? Had to be. Ther
e was no manual. He added 0 and circled 9,122.
Reverse it: 2,219. Uh-oh. One baseball player would make a huge difference after all. If a team had 9 players, his running total would be 1,219. Go with 8? Go with 9? Shortstop! Go with 9. He scratched out 2,219 and wrote 1,219.
The next piece would separate them all, and it was anyone’s guess. The average age of the contestants. If they ranged from eleven to fifteen, the average would be thirteen. And in months—Wait! Your sixteenth birthday could be tomorrow. You could be fifteen years and eleven months. Cameron wrote down the range of possible months: 132 to 191.
He jotted down 161.5, the average of those numbers. But there’d be more older kids, right? How many just-turned eleven-year-olds would stand a chance?
Should he play it safe: 161.5? His gut was screaming at him. Too young! A year older? Too old! He split the difference: 167.5. He multiplied: 204,182.5.
He reworked the math again and a third time: 204,182.5. Good enough. Except he needed to round it up or down, and he had only a minute and a half to bubble in his answer. Up or down? Up or down? Ack! Down. He liked the way the number started with a 2 and ended with a 2. He bubbled in 0 2 0 4 1 8 2.
Cameron exhaled. He’d done everything he could.
The Golly people collected their sheets and instructed them to reunite with their adults.
Spencer caught up to Cameron in the concourse. “What’d you answer?”
“Two-oh-four one-eight-two. You?”
Spencer let out a breath. “Two-oh-four seven-nine-two.”
It was scary their numbers were so close. Or maybe good.
“Golly Dolly?” asked Cameron.
“Trick question. All the way.”
“Gross?” said Cameron.
“Gross!” And they high-fived.
Cameron loved moments like these when Spencer felt like a friend. “Average age?” he asked.
“Fourteen,” said Spencer.
“I went half a month younger.”
“Half a month? Seriously?”
And the moment faded.
Inside section A, their parents greeted them with hugs and way too much mush even for sled dogs. Cameron pulled out of their clinches and watched a few Golly people milling around the arena floor.
“I have a feeling,” Spencer said, “I’m about to hit victory lane. If I forget to thank you afterward, Cameron, you boring me all these months with math stuff? It was so worth it.”
A real thank-you? Sort of. Then you’re sort of welcome, Spencer. But wait. Why would Spencer make it and not Cameron? Except for average age, their answers—
“We have results!” Randy Wright’s face covered every inch of the screen. “To hear them, we put you in the capable hands of your local announcer. Until Orchard Heights, I’m Randy Wright wishing you the jolliest, Gollyest day!”
The screen cut to Bianca in a locker room. “OMG! You guys were amazing! I don’t know if I could’ve . . . without . . . I mean, okay. Script. I will call out numbers, the ones on your chests, I mean, your bib things. If it’s your number, congratulations! Sit tight, and we’ll tell you what to do. Everyone else, you rocked anyway. You’re going home with a fifty-dollar Golly gift certificate and your chance to win ten thousand dollars.
“Drumroll, please!” Bianca looked around. “We don’t have a drum? Okay. If you all want to make a drumroll sound, go ahead, but also listen to the numbers.” She waggled a white card in the air. “They’ll also appear on the scoreboards. And they are in totally random order, just so you know.”
Spencer’s knees were bobbling, but only in half-time to Cameron’s racing heart.
Bianca called the first number. It wasn’t his. It wasn’t 6342.
Now what? Golly people were moving chairs back onto the arena floor.
Second number. No.
Nine chairs in one row.
Third. No.
Nine more chairs in the second row.
Fourth. Still no.
For the nine finalists?
Fifth. Crud.
And their adults?
Sixth. Double crud!
Maybe they were setting up for something else today.
Seventh. Spencer? Spencer!
Which would leave only two more spots—
Eight. No.
—for him.
“And number nine,” said Bianca. “Four seven—”
Cameron stopped listening. He sucked in a deep breath and joined the family celebration. As much as he wanted to moan and cry, he’d make the best of this. Maybe there’d be a next year for him. Maybe—
“Wait!” shouted Bianca. “I see people getting up! Stop! Sit! Who said anything about calling only nine numbers?”
Cameron didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he put every ounce of emotion into yelling with everyone else.
Bianca’s voice rose above the crowd noise. “Next. Oh-seven-oh-nine.”
C’mon. Call 6342 . . . 6342.
“Three-two-eight-four.”
Groans from the guy behind him wearing 3248.
“Six-three—”
Four-two. Please. Four-two.
“Six-three.”
So close. But not.
“Oh,” said Bianca. “Another six-three. Six-three-four-two.”
Did she say 6342? Cameron looked at the board. Rechecked his bib. Or started to. Spencer had him in a headlock. His dad grabbed him anyway. His mom was kissing the back of his head. In public. And he didn’t care.
For however long it took Bianca to call the other numbers, Cameron also didn’t care that Spencer would probably beat him at whatever they had to do next. Right now, he still had a chance.
On the arena floor: eighteen seats, eighteen kids. What next? Musical chairs?
The one time Cameron had played musical chairs at a birthday party, he’d stunk at it. Even when he was four, he hadn’t been pushy enough to win. Not even a single round. Maybe he could become a different person in the next five minutes. Maybe he could become a Spencer and claw his way into a seat. Or maybe this wasn’t musical chairs at all.
Spencer had straddled a chair backward and was talking to some girl.
Cameron started to sit next to him, but no one had said to sit. Instead, he circled the chairs, watching Golly workers roll out three long, thin mats, each of which ran the entire width of the arena floor.
The mat at the far end had a green line labeled GO! The mat in the middle, several feet in front of their chairs, had silver arrows pointing toward the green. The mat way behind them at the other end of the floor was pure red.
Cameron was still circling the chairs when Bianca’s voice came back over the speakers.
“Hey, you guys! Congratulations! I’d love to come down and chat, but we have more business to take care of. I’ve been told I need to read this exactly, so if it doesn’t sound like me, I mean the words not the voice, because it is my voice, anyway, you know why. Okay, here goes.
“First, I need you to freeze right where you are. You can relax your arms and get into a comfortable stance, but don’t move more than a step until I tell you.
“When I say go, you will run to the end of the arena floor. Just beyond it is a tunnel. Once inside the tunnel, you will find five lit buttons. The first five of you to hit a button will be on your way to the next round of the Gollywhopper Games in Orchard Heights. The remaining thirteen of you will participate in one more challenge. This last arena challenge will determine the other four who will continue playing the Games.
“In a moment I will begin a countdown. When I do, you may start moving again. But until I say go, do not go past the silver arrows in the middle. So far so good? Raise your hand if you understand.”
Cameron raised his hand and took the opportunity to unfreeze his head and look around the arena floor again. Where should he go once the countdown started? To the arrows in the middle? Poised to race to the green GO? Maybe Bianca would give them more info.
“Good,” she said. “I got the okay from Charlie
. You all understand. And now for the countdown.”
Silence. It was like she was sitting up there, laughing at them all pointed toward the green end. What if that was a fake-out? What if the buttons were at the red end?
“Ten,” she said.
They unfroze, and all of them scurried toward the silver arrows, the few remaining parents cheering them on.
“Nine.”
They all were there, Spencer, jockeying for position in the middle; Cameron, a step behind.
“Eight.”
This didn’t feel right.
“Seven.”
Should he alert Spencer? Clue him in? Or just be ready himself?
“Six.”
Cameron was here only because Spencer had signed him up.
“Five.”
He tugged on Spencer’s shirt. Spencer shot him a go-away look.
“Four.”
Cameron cupped his mouth to Spencer’s ear. “There’s another opening behind us. I think green’s a fake-out.”
“Three.”
Spencer looked toward both ends and took a step back.
Cameron turned and started inching toward the red end.
“Two.”
“If you’re wrong—” Spencer was right behind him.
“One.”
If Cameron was wrong, he was already too late to be one of the first five inside the green tunnel. Might as well go for it. He dashed toward the red.
“Go! To the end with the red carpet!”
All right! Cameron picked up his pace, moans and footsteps scrambling well behind him. Except for Spencer, who took the lead. But Cameron didn’t have to beat Spencer this time, just be in the top five. Just a few more feet.
Spencer disappeared into the tunnel.
A few more steps. Through the opening. Bright red buttons. Four still lit. Cameron raced to the wall and hit one.
Immediately Cameron felt himself being hoisted backwards, the leverage coming from under his arms. Had some weird Golly gizmo lifted him? No, it was Spencer who had him in the best full nelson ever. “We did it!” Spencer said.
