by Matthew Ward
“Oooh,” Rex goaded with glee. “Charlie, please—I can’t take it anymore! It’ll be hard enough waiting till the end of the week as it is, without you teasing me like that! Please, no more!”
“Fair enough, Mr. Goldwin. I shall henceforth restrict my means of communication to the blade or the bullet.”
“Oh, do stop, Charlie!” Rex snickered. “It’s just too much! Next you’ll be threatening to bludgeon us to death with the Championship Cup! Still, I can hardly fault you for your wishful thinking. Surely you realize the nearest your family will ever get to the cup is admiring it in our trophy room—after your own untimely demise, of course. Ooh—I really cannot wait to get started! Tomorrow just can’t come soon enough, can it?”
“Indeed it cannot, Mr. Goldwin.”
“Come along then, children. Let’s leave Charlie here to enjoy the parade with his family. I’m afraid it will be his last.”
With that, Rex Goldwin turned his back and led his family through the crowd into the heart of the procession.
After a moment of angry silence, the Whipples followed suit, rejoining the parade as it wound its way back toward the stadium.
When the two rival families emerged through the gate and stepped onto the stadium floor, the arena thundered with applause as the crowd leapt to its feet. This was sure to be the Greatest World Record World Championships the World Had Ever Seen.
• • •
The next morning’s car ride into the city was silent and tense. As they neared the tournament grounds at Champions Court Place Park, the Whipples prepared their minds for the first day of what promised to be the most challenging competition of their lives.
Upon their arrival, Arthur and his siblings silently followed their father through the complex. In the vacant courtyard between the winged statue of Lady Victory and the Totem Pole of Triumph, on the steps of the Fountain of Favorable Results, Mr. Whipple halted—and turned to face his family.
“Children,” he declared, “you may be experiencing an unusual and rather unpleasant feeling at the moment— a feeling, I must admit, to which I presently find myself no less vulnerable.”
“I don’t like it, Daddy,” Lenora groaned. “What is it?”
“I believe,” Mr. Whipple replied, “this is generally referred to as ‘stage fright’ or ‘the jitters’—a perfectly common condition, I am told, in normal individuals when facing a particularly testing challenge. We mustn’t forget, however, that we are not normal individuals. We are Whipples. In recent months, we have been sabotaged, insulted, maligned, and assaulted, and the only way to restore our honor is to win it back in open competition. For there are those, dear family, who would have us stripped of our records and dishonored—those who would relish in robbing us of our accomplishments and rendering us ordinary. But we shall not so easily oblige them. Oh, no. We, my dear Whipples, will not go quietly into normality!”
A cheer sprang out from his family like the Bursting of the World’s Largest Dam.
“Now come, my young champions,” said Mr. Whipple. “We must be steadfast; we must be strong. Charlotte, darling—are you ready to eviscerate the competition in finger-painting portraiture?”
“Yes, sir!” Arthur’s five-year-old sister declared. “The earth will run Winsor red with the spilt pigments of our enemies!”
“Indeed, little one—that’s more like it! All right, Whipples—you heard your sister. Let’s go gut some Goldwins, shall we?”
• • •
With paint dripping from her fingers and face, Charlotte slapped her palette down onto the table.
In just over four minutes, she had successfully reproduced recognizable representations of the art world’s twenty-five most famous faces—from Vandini’s Mia Lona to Flambeau’s Self-Portrait with Potatoes—effectively nudging out Radley Goldwin for the first world record of the competition.
The Whipples jumped with joy. The crowd roared. The Goldwins sneered.
“That was a freebie,” Rex remarked as the two families passed each other on their way out of the arts complex. “A little gift from our family to yours. It’s only finger-painting, after all, and we’re more than happy to part with it. I’m afraid, however, in the next event we won’t be so generous.”
He was not lying. Twenty minutes later, Roland Goldwin had broken the record for Farthest Rubber Boot Throw, surpassing Henry’s phenomenal throw of 66.4 meters by just three and a half centimeters.
“Ha,” snapped Rex Goldwin. “Boot throwing, now there’s a real event!”
Mr. Whipple looked slightly nervous, but said nothing.
Fortunately, his nervousness would soon fade, after Penelope bested Rowena Goldwin in Junior Beer-Stein Carrying to keep the Whipples ahead by one.
As the little girl staggered across the finish line with six sloshing mugs in each hand, Arthur noticed the shimmer of pride in their father’s eye—and longed for the moment when he might receive a similar shimmer of his own.
Of course, he would have to wait some time for the chance to make any personal contributions to his family’s cause. Because knife-block speed stocking was new this year to the WRWC, it had been tacked on to the very end of the schedule. Arthur hoped that by the time his big attempt finally arrived, it might still be of some use to his family—or at least that someone might be around to actually witness it.
But for now, he was content to cheer on his family from the sidelines as they battled the Goldwins through one nail-biting round to another.
After nail biting had ended—with Cordelia nibbling out a win over Rodney by barely half a fingernail—it was on to heart stopping. This time, the record was broken by the Goldwin family, when Randolf managed to slow his heart rate to just nineteen beats per minute through Zen meditation.
As Arthur watched his family struggle back and forth with their rivals over the coming days, he couldn’t help but feel he was headed for a stalemate of his own. Hard as he tried to cast it from his mind, the thought of Ruby hating him was making it more and more difficult to focus on his upcoming attempt. Sure, she was bound to offer him unconditional forgiveness when she discovered he was a world-record breaker, but in the meantime, he was dying for even a simple “hello.” Every time he worked up the courage to try and talk to her, Ruby would suddenly disappear behind her siblings, effectively cutting off his approach before he’d begun it.
On the evening before the final day of competition, as the Whipples and Goldwins geared up for the yak-milking competition, Arthur’s frustration finally reached its curdling point.
After catching a rare glimpse of Ruby, only to watch her immediately vanish into a cluster of her brothers and sisters once again, he decided he had been ignored long enough. Arthur straightened his collar and marched toward the gathering of Goldwins. He gently tapped Ruby’s outermost sister on the shoulder.
“Um, pardon me,” Arthur stammered, “um, Roxy?”
“It’s Rosalind.”
“Oh, right. Sorry about—”
“Look—what do you want?”
“Yes, of course—straight to business—we are mortal enemies, after all, so I’ll only take a moment of your time. It’s just that, well, I was wondering if I might speak to Ruby for a minute.”
Rosalind sniffed. “What are you asking me for? The two of you are practically married, aren’t you?” Rosalind glanced to Ruby, who looked furtively away. “Ahh. Had a lover’s quarrel, did we?”
“We are talking about Ruby here, right?” Arthur asked, furrowing his brow in confusion, then pointing for clarification. “She’s right there—green eyes, dark, reddish hair?”
“Dumb-looking dimples, lazy expression?” Rupert chimed in. “Yeah, that’s Ruby all right. Why would you want to talk to her?”
“Well, that’s sort of a private matter. Look, if it’s too much trouble—”
“Hey, Ruby—you wanna talk to Mr. W
inner here?”
Without looking up from the ground, Ruby quietly shook her head.
“There you go,” concluded Rupert. “The freak doesn’t want to talk to you anyway.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched. “You know, Rupert—if that is your real name—I don’t think you should talk that way about your sister. I mean, if you spent five minutes trying to get to know her, you might see what a remarkable person she is—clever and honest and kind and—and well, completely extraordinary, however hard she tries not to be. And, as it happens, she’s also the best friend I ever had.”
Arthur took a breath, ignoring the Goldwins’ looks of bored indifference. “Anyway, thanks for your time. I won’t be bothering you again.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Rupert. “Oh, and by the way, good luck in speed stocking tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll do great—at losing.”
Not wanting to dignify the comment with a response—even if he’d actually had one—Arthur turned defiantly away . . . and stepped face-first into a sudden stream of yak’s milk.
Ruby’s siblings burst into laughter.
“Sorry about that,” tittered Roland Goldwin from the bulging underside of one of the shaggy-bellied beasts nearby. “I guess that one sort of got away from me there.”
Thoroughly soaked and sufficiently humiliated, Arthur wiped his face with his sleeve and proceeded on his path as the Goldwins continued their jeering behind him.
Much as he hated to part with Ruby in such a manner, he could not bring himself to look back, for fear he’d only find her laughing along with them.
• • •
Forty minutes later, the Goldwins had added Most Yak’s Milk Extracted By Hand in Half an Hour to their list of world records, bringing their record tally dead even with their rivals as the day drew to a close.
“Well, Charlie,” Rex Goldwin smirked at Mr. Whipple from the other side of the fence, “who knew this competition would be so close, eh? Really, I thought we’d have completely buried you by now. Ooh, poor choice of words—we all know how you feel about being buried, don’t we? But no matter; after our appointment tomorrow, your family will fold like an origami frog with no head. By which I mean, I will leave your family crumpled and headless—by which I mean, I will kill you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Goldwin,” Arthur’s father replied. “It’s not every day one receives such explicit clarification of his adversary’s killing metaphors. Would’ve been a pity to think you were merely referring to your paper-folding hobby.”
“Nope. Just talking about murdering you.”
“Yes, I see. Will that be all, then?”
“Oh yes, Charlie,” Rex leered. “That will be all. Sweet dreams now.”
Mr. Whipple turned to his family as the grinning man sauntered away. “We must get our rest tonight, children,” he declared. “For if life as we know it is to carry on, we shall have to earn it on the field tomorrow. Wilhelm, fetch the car.”
The drive was silent once again as the Whipples headed home for the last time before the championships’ end. With their father’s duel in the morning and the awards ceremony at night, not to mention the dozens of decisive events in between—including Arthur’s own—the fate of the Whipple family now hinged on one final day of competition.
It would be the most horrifying day of Arthur’s life.
The Final Day
Arthur sat on his bed, surrounded by blankets and pillows and wooden knife blocks.
The thought of his upcoming event had left him unable to sleep, so he’d decided to get in a few practice runs before the rest of his family had risen. Because he didn’t want to wake anyone, however, he was forced to practice the thunderous, lightning-paced sport of knife-block speed stocking rather gingerly.
“Ahem,” came a hushed voice from the far side of the chamber.
Arthur turned his head toward it. The plump silhouette of Mrs. Waite filled the doorway. In her arms, she held Arthur’s baby sister, Ivy, who, in turn, held her stuffed bear, Mr. Growls. Dressed in the same frilly pink nightgown as his owner, Mr. Growls did not look pleased.
“So sorry to disturb you, Master Arthur,” whispered the housekeeper, “but—er—well, your presence has been requested in the garden.”
“Oh,” Arthur replied. He climbed over his knife blocks and staggered out of bed. As he stretched an arm through the sleeve of his shirt, he asked, “By whom?”
“Shhh,” Ivy whispered, holding her finger to Mr. Growls’ mouth. “It’s a secret. . . .”
Mrs. Waite gave an uneasy smile, then simply motioned Arthur to hurry.
• • •
Arthur followed Ivy and Mrs. Waite through the dim, silent house and out onto the terrace. Swirls of early morning mist revealed the first glimpses of the approaching dawn.
When they had reached the edge of the garden where the grass gave way to forest, the housekeeper halted.
“There,” she said, pointing to one of the larger trees. “Your visitor awaits.”
Arthur gave a quizzical look to the housekeeper, then stepped past her toward the tree in question. When he was within ten feet of the trunk, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness beside it.
“Hiya, Arthur,” said the visitor.
“Oh,” said Arthur, stumbling backward. “It’s you. Ruby.”
“That is my name, yes,” said the girl.
“Right,” said Arthur. “What I meant to say is: it’s good to see you—I mean, to see you and to hear you saying words to me at the same time. Do you know what I mean?”
Ruby paused. “It’s good to see you too.”
“All right,” Mrs. Waite interjected. “I’m glad you two are talking again—but I’d better get back. Mr. Whipple would have me skinned and mounted to the trophy room wall if he found out I’d let a Goldwin onto the estate on the final day of championships.”
“Champ-in-ships!” chirped Ivy.
Mrs. Waite patted Ivy’s head and turned back to Ruby. “He’d only take you for a spy, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should be more wary myself, but something tells me you’re no spy, are you, dear?”
“You needn’t worry about me, ma’am,” Ruby replied. “I’m no fan of the Goldwins either. In fact, I’m very nearly convinced I was adopted, actually—so my surname is really nothing more than a seven-letter lie. I’m only stuck with it until I can find my real family.”
“Oh, my my. You poor thing,” said the housekeeper. “I’m sure they’re not far off, dear. You’re bound to find them soon enough if you just keep looking. With a little bit of patience, one can accomplish anything.”
“I hope so, ma’am.”
“You can be certain of it, dear. All right, Arthur—don’t be too long now. Your father will no doubt be wanting to get an early start for the championships today.”
“Champ-in-ships!” repeated Ivy.
“Yes, Mrs. Waite. Thank you,” said Arthur before turning to his sister. “All right, Ivy. You and Mr. Growls go get ready. It’s sure to be a big day for humans and bears alike.”
“Big day for bears!” the little girl laughed.
As the housekeeper departed back toward the house with his sister, Arthur and Ruby stood casting furtive glances back and forth at one another, until Ruby finally broke the silence.
“So, I just wanted to wish you luck on your record attempt today—and to let you know I’ll be cheering for you. I know you can do it.”
“Wow. Thanks,” Arthur replied. “That really means a lot.”
“Yeah, well, it’s true. If anyone can break that record, Arthur, it’s you.”
Arthur smiled briefly, then shuffled his feet. “In case you didn’t read any of my letters, please, let me say again—I am so sorry about the archives.”
“Yeah,” Ruby frowned, “that was pretty bad. But, you know, it’s possible I may have overreacted just a bit. And
anyway, I think you’ve suffered enough, so . . . I forgive you.”
The words warmed Arthur’s insides like a sip of ExploCocoa in the middle of a rainstorm.
“And I have enjoyed the letters, by the way,” she added. “Of course, most of them are down to three or four words now, but there’s something strangely poetic about a message that merely reads, ‘Ruby, Sorry. Arthur.’ It’s like you’ve managed to reduce the medium to its most basic form. Are you sure you haven’t accidentally broken the record for World’s Shortest Letter or something?”
“Already been done. The Shortest Letter Conceivable was written in Morse code by Soviet secret agent Egor Stroganov to his wife, Elga, instructing her to meet him at Terminal E of Düsseldorf International. The entire message consisted solely of three dots.”
“Ah. Unfortunate.”
“Yeah,” Arthur agreed. “I knew I wasn’t going to get that one. I was, however, only 762 letters away from the Most Apology Letters Ever Sent in One Month.”
“Oh, well hey, don’t let a silly thing like forgiveness stop you. Feel free to keep sending them for as long as you like. They might come in handy someday—you know, in case I ever need to divert the flow of a major river or something.”
“Thanks—but I think they all have to be authentic. Mr. Prim is pretty particular about that sort of thing.”
“Hmm. Then I guess you’ll just have to make up for it with your event today, now won’t you?”
“I guess I will. I do have a good feeling about this one.”
Ruby bit her lip and wrung her hands together. “You know,” she added, “speaking of world records . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I—I think I should tell you about mine.”
Arthur coughed. “Wh—? Oh, okay—I mean, you don’t have to, you know—I mean, I really shouldn’t have been so nosy and—”
“No. I want to. I’ve held it in for too long—I think it’s driving me a bit loony, actually. I’ve given it a lot of thought since the archives—and I’ve decided it might be better just to get it off my chest. But I’m warning you, you’re not going to like it.”