by Jody Feldman
Dedication
In memory of my dad,
the original Bill,
who guides me even still.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
To hear his friends describe it, it had been a thing of beauty: Zane Braycott soaring sideways—in slow motion, they swore—to make an epic catch. Honestly? It was stupidity. When the baseball shot the gap between second and third, Zane should have let it go. This was gym class, and this was not football. But his instincts had taken over, which caused his chin to hit the ground, and his teeth to clank together.
Now at lunch, it was like his dizziness had teamed with the combo-smell of peanut butter, tuna fish, and french fries to create some superscent. It weaseled up his nose and made the lights a little too bright; his turkey wrap, a little too salty; his friends, especially, a little too loud. It was like he could feel his brain and not in a good way.
His core group was deep in joke mode with the doofus managers of their football team, Thing 1 and Thing 2, who were sitting at their table today. Zane was spacing out on the conversation, but he knew the JZs—Jamaal, Jerome, Julio, and Zack—were using the Things to set up another inside gag. The Things deserved it. They always bragged how they were the heart of the team, but they pretty much stood around laughing at their own lame jokes until Coach yelled at them to do their jobs. Right now, though, none of it was amusing. Zane wanted to find a bed and rest his brain.
At least these symptoms felt different from last November’s, and now he could name the months of the year backwards. Even so, he needed to prove to himself that the headache and the overly bright lights were born from fear, just fear, because Zane could not afford another concussion.
He zeroed in on the conversation and stayed with it for the rest of lunch. He nailed the vocab quiz in comm arts. He habla’ed espanol when he was asked. But his head was still clouding as Mr. Longley droned on about the freezing point in Celsius. Zane propped his chin with his hand, willing the steady pressure to get him through this last half hour. Then he’d go home, rest—
Bzzz! Bzzz!
Thirty minutes already? Had he passed out? No one was rushing the door, everyone was asking about the buzzer, and the clock, itself, had barely moved. Zane breathed.
“And now we come to what promises to be an unfortunate waste of time.” Mr. Longley held up a thick, yellow envelope. “I have no idea what this is nor its purpose, but when I hand out these sheets”—he paused to read the writing on the envelope—“‘You will have ten minutes to turn them over and complete as many questions as you can. Please put your answers in the blanks provided. You may use the margins of the paper as work space. If you can’t figure out an answer, skip the question. This will not be graded; this will not go on your permanent record.’”
He looked up from the envelope, over his glasses. “This will, however, take valuable time from the seventh-grade curriculum.” He slapped a paper on each desk. “Put your name on the side where it says ‘Name.’ You’d think, by now, we wouldn’t need to tell you that. When I say go, turn the paper over and begin.”
Zane would go. He would answer these questions. All of them. That would prove his brain wasn’t bleeding, that he could play spring football, that he wouldn’t be sidelined forever.
“Go!”
Zane turned over his paper. Math!
Question #1
* * * * * * * * * * *
Bob ordered a pizza with 48 pieces of pepperoni at 10 cents apiece, 30 pieces of sausage at 14 cents apiece, 26 pieces of green pepper at 6 cents apiece, 3 different types of cheese at $1.28 per type, and the $3.89 medium crust. The sauce was free.
Zane stopped to calculate the cost of the pepperoni and sausage. If he could do that in his head, he was probably fine. Okay. Four dollars and eighty cents in pepperoni. Then thirty times fourteen, which—
His eye caught the last sentence of the question.
Write an A, if Bob is an omnivore; B, if he’s an herbivore; or C, if he’s a carnivore. __________
A. $18.19
B. $18.39
C. $17.19
D. $18.29
Since when had Zane forgotten to read the entire thing? Since the dive? He wrote A.
Question #2
* * * * * * * * * * *
If you eliminate one letter from each name below, the remaining letters, in order, will spell a common word. Rearrange the eliminated letters to spell another common word. _________________
Alice
Peter
Clement
Dewey
Albert
Rearrange letters with a rearranged brain?
He’d try. If he got rid of the A in “Alice” . . .
Okay. That was a word. Next. If he dropped the P in “Peter,” it’d be “eter.” No. The E? “Pter” sounded like someone spitting. The T! Next. “Clement.” Not the C. Not the L. Yes, the L. Not so hard, at least so far. Next. “Dewey.” Either “ewey,” “dwey,” “deey,” “dewy,” or “dewe.” “Dewy?” Filled with dew? That was the only one that seemed remotely right.
So far, the dropped letters could spell “late,” but he still needed one more. Not the A in “Albert.” Not the L. The B! L-A-T-E plus a B. “Blate”? “Bleat”? Was that what sheep did? Or was that spelled with two Es? “Belat.” “Betal,” like “petal”? Maybe it started with a T. A lot of words did. And a lot of words ended in –L-E. Or –B-L-E? That was it! “Table.”
Question #3
* * * * * * * * * * *
Which number can you put in place of the question mark if:
• you need to fit all numbers one through nine in the squares below; and,
• no square that touches another square—even at the corners—has a number that comes next in order (before or after); and,
• we’ve given you the following head start.
If he eliminated the numbers already filled in, the question mark could only be 2, 3, 5, 6, or 7. And it couldn’t be 7 because the 8 was right next to it. Two, either, because 1 was directly underneath. That left him with 3, 5, and 6. The 4, though, was touching at the corner, so the question mark couldn’t be 3 or 5 either. He wrote 6 in the blank.
Question #4
* * * * * * * * * * *
How many Fs are in the following sentence?
The Office of Tariffs failed to offer all of the officers full information of their official duties. _________
Easy. “Office,” “Tariffs,” “failed,” “offer.” Seven Fs in the first row. In the second, “officers,” “full,” “information,” “of.�
� Five. And just two in the third line. Fourteen total. Or was that too easy?
Zane glanced at the clock. He still had almost five minutes for two more questions, enough time to count again. This time, though, he’d start backwards, with the s in “duties.” Two Fs in the bottom row. Up a line. First letter, another F. Then one, two, three, four, five more for a total of six in row two. He’d skipped one of the “ofs” the first time. And they sneaked another “of” in the top row, too. He changed his answer to sixteen.
Question #5
* * * * * * * * * * *
The names of four cities are below, but each has been broken into two parts. Reconstruct the names of the cities. In any order, write the country where you’d find each city.
Age
Par
At
Mad
Anchor
Rid
Is
Hens
___________________
___________________
___________________
___________________
At least these were hunks of words, not individual letters. And they’d all be cities. Fastest method? Trial and error.
“Age-par.” No. “Age-at.” “Age-mad.” “Age-anchor.” Wait. In Alaska. Anchorage! He wrote Alaska in the first blank. Next. “Par-at.” “Par-mad.” “Par-rid.” Paris! He scribbled down France. Just two pairs left. “At-mad.” “At-rid.” “At-hens.” No, no, and no. He skipped to the next one. “Madat.” “Mad-rid.” Madrid! So “At” went with “Hens.” “Hensat”? “Athens”? Athens! Why didn’t he see “Athens” in the first place? Didn’t matter. He added Spain and Greece to France and Alaska—
Stop! His brain was working enough to catch his mistake. Alaska wasn’t a country. He erased it and wrote United States.
Question #6
* * * * * * * * * * *
Adam, Bella, and Chris each brought a gift to the party.
The gifts were: a jigsaw puzzle, a soccer ball, and a video game.
Each gift was wrapped in one of three colors: red, yellow, or blue.
The person who brought the puzzle did not wrap it in red.
Bella’s gift, in the yellow wrapping, did not have 1,000 pieces.
Adam did not bring the video game, but he wrapped his gift in red.
Which present did Chris bring and what color wrapping paper did he use?
__________________________ and _________________________
If Bella wrapped hers in yellow and Adam wrapped his in red, then Chris’s had to be blue. Zane wrote that in the second blank. So which present was blue? First clue: The puzzle was not red. Second clue: The “1,000 pieces” was not yellow. Of the three, only a puzzle would have one thousand pieces. So if the puzzle wasn’t red or wasn’t yellow, it had to be blue.
If Zane figured that out in his head, no way he had a concussion. He wrote puzzle, put his pencil on the desk, and let his head follow fast.
Chapter 2
“Pencils down! Eyes up!” Why did Mr. Longley need to bark? “I am supposed to grade these, but I cannot see it as a good use of my time. I trust you will be honest, especially because who knows why this matters. Please take out your red pens, then switch papers.”
Zane leaned over to unzip his backpack. Note to self: no leaning. He rubbed his temples.
“I know,” said Zack, sitting next to him. “It’s hard to think at the end of the day.”
“It’s hard for you to think, period.” The words vibrated around Zane’s ears, along with Zack’s laughter.
Mr. Longley looked directly at Zane. “The rest of you, exchange papers with your neighbors. Mr. Braycott, as we will accomplish nothing more today, please come center stage and entertain us all. You will read the answers. I’ll grade your little sheet.”
Funny on command? Not going to happen. Not that Mr. Longley actually wanted him to be. Zane traded his sheet for the answers. “Okay if I lean against your desk?”
“If it will entertain us.”
At least it would be comfortable. But he pretended to plant his hand on the desk and purposefully missed. Big mistake. He got a laugh, though. Then he backed up to the desk for support and read the answer sheet. “‘One is A. Two is either ‘table’ or ‘bleat,’ B-L-E-A-T. Count either right. Three is the number six. Four is the number sixteen. Five is, in any order, ‘France, Greece, Spain, and the United States,’ also correct, written as ‘U.S.,’ ‘U.S.A.,’ or ‘America.’”
“Though, technically,” said Mr. Longley, “we all know America would be incorrect.”
“‘And the answer to number six is ‘puzzle’ and ‘blue,’ in that order.’”
Zane held out the answer sheet, but Mr. Longley waved it away. “Stay here for a moment, Mr. Braycott. And I invite you each to claim your own paper and stand.”
Was it always this noisy when everyone stood?
“Now,” said Mr. Longley. “Please take a seat if you have two or fewer answers right.”
About six people sat.
“Three or fewer?” Five more, down.
“Four or fewer?” Eight people were left.
“If you have fewer than all six right, please sit.”
Should Zane sit?
Mr. Longley didn’t say. He was nodding at Kelly. “Bring your paper up here. For what it’s worth, Kelly, you and Zane got all six correct. You may both take your seats.”
Zane sat to the murmurs and the back pats, and the smile he couldn’t hide. That proved it. No concussion. And absolutely no more diving in gym class. He’d gotten away with it this time, but he couldn’t risk it again. The fact was, if he couldn’t play football, he might as well shrivel up in a corner and rot.
Chapter 3
For the first time, Zane understood what it meant to dodge a bullet. He went home from school, pretended he had tons of homework, lay in his dark room until dinner, then rested his brain all night, just in case. One more concussion meant no football for at least a year. On that, his parents had agreed, and they never agreed.
When he got to gym today, he’d sideline his instincts, if that was even possible. Better, he’d persuade Coach to make him a designated hitter; lie about a pulled muscle if absolutely necessary.
Right before gym, though, he and some other kids were randomly called to the media center. He’d barely made it inside the library area when Kelly, that girl in his class who’d also answered the six questions right, raced up to him. “I’m hoping it’s that quiz,” she said. “Regardless, it has to be something good.”
“Cupcakes would be good.”
She giggled. “I’m thinking bigger. Maybe National Quiz Bowl or MENSA tryouts.”
“Men-what?”
“You know, the club for geniuses?”
Zane nodded, but he didn’t know. And he wouldn’t be trying out for any genius club. He had better things to do. The NFL was calling.
So was Ms. Mendoza. “Gather around, take a seat.” She gestured to two pushed-together tables at the edge of the media center.
Kelly giggled and sat right next to Zane, as if they had somehow bonded.
“You may have heard from friends and family around the country that you were not the only ones to take that quiz yesterday.”
Kelly leaned over to Zane. “My cousin in Syracuse got all six right, and she’s only in fifth grade.”
“So genius runs in the family?”
Kelly nodded and giggled again.
He wanted to say, “Let’s alert the Genius Fairy about you and your uglier cousin,” but he wasn’t on the football field where players let insults fly.
Ms. Mendoza stepped up and waved a yellow envelope. “I’m supposed to read what’s printed on the outside first. Then you’ll need to fill out some forms. After that, you’ll get more information.”
“National Quiz Bowl,” Kelly said again.
If she were really a genius, she’d know he’d heard her the first time.
“I can’t explain it,” she said, “but something here has me s
o excited.”
He smiled, but didn’t want to encourage her. Maybe Kelly was okay, but Zane had the JZs plus the girls who fit in with them—their own easy group within school. Kelly probably did, too, but their orbits never met. Even if she didn’t have her own people, it wasn’t his problem.
Zane filled out his name, address, email, and other basics. Then he tackled the questions.
A. Name three occupations you might want to try.
He wrote:
1. NFL corner
2. NFL linebacker
3. NFL receiver
Too bad if they wanted more variation.
B. If you could win anything in the world, what would it be?
Easy.
Super Bowl MVP
Most people would say a million dollars or maybe a billion, but if he was named Super Bowl MVP, that meant: (A) his team won the Super Bowl; (B) that he, as a defensive player, had performed out of his mind, and (C) the money would come.
C. What’s the best advice anyone ever gave you?
It’s what he did every time he was on the football field and had started to do off it, too.
Watch your opponent’s eyes.
One glance revealed so much about another person.
He looked into Ms. Mendoza’s eyes. Something was making her happy.
She snapped to and waved a smaller yellow envelope. “I’m supposed to open this envelope in exactly three minutes. But if no one needs more time . . .”
No one did.
“We can either wait two and a half minutes or open it now and see if the Envelope Police come to arrest me.”
That was funny.
She didn’t wait for an answer. Ms. Mendoza broke the seal on the envelope and looked around. “No police? Good. Let’s see what’s inside this supersecret envelope.” She pulled out a card and gave a little gasp. “Well, this is fun.”
“What?” said several voices.
“Let me read it verbatim.” She cleared her throat. “‘The Gollywhopper Games has—’”
Even Zane gasped and high-fived everyone near him.