NOT!
Despite all the trumped-up drama, it was still the same contest: we went into the Circle of Inquiry, were given a question, and gave an answer. The multiple-choice aspect was gone, though; a student had to respond in her own words, without options being provided. Other than that, not much had changed.
And when I say not much had changed, I really do mean not much had changed. Saint Dianne’s was still very good. However, I had to tip my hat to Kiki and Brattany, because, when it was their turn, they both nailed their questions. Then I missed one, but Beanpole got one right; then Saint Dianne’s, shock of the century, missed two in a row, and Q got one right, while Sofes, yet again, got hers wrong.
“You’re killing us, Sofes,” Kiki said as Sofes walked back to our table from the Circle of Inquiry. “You’re absolutely killing us.”
“Come on,” Brattany complained. “You gotta pull some weight. The way you’re performing is, like, lamer than lame right now.”
Sofes hung her head.
“Don’t worry about it, Sophia,” Beanpole told her. “You’ll get ’em next time.”
“I highly doubt it,” Kiki replied.
“Yeah, with any luck, she won’t even get a next time,” Brattany added. “I’m sure this thing will be over soon.”
“But we’re still in it,” Beanpole said, pointing to the scoreboard. And she was right. Even with Sofes laying an egg every time, we were more competitive than anyone expected us to be, and somehow, after thirty-five minutes of back-and-forth Ivy Zone questions, we were only fifteen points down.
Then the bell that sounded like a car horn blared again.
“You know what that sound means, don’t you?” Bingo said. “It’s the final showdown; just three more questions left, questions that will be worth”—he paused for dramatic effect—“TWENTY-FIVE POINTS APIECE.”
The crowd still didn’t oooh, but knowing that we were headed for the final face-off sent one last surge of energy through the auditorium.
“Strikers,” Bingo said to the girls from Saint Dianne’s, “you control your own destiny. Answer these next three questions and you are tonight’s champions.”
“Go, SD, go!
Go, SD, go!
G-o-o-o-o-o, Strikers!”
A student from Saint Dianne’s named Zina stepped into the circle.
“The speed of a tuning fork’s vibrations is known as its frequency. What is the unit of measurement used to assess this quantity?”
Zina lowered her head and spoke crisply into the microphone. “The quantity is measured in hertz.”
“BINGO!” Bingo cried out.
Calista, the next girl up for Saint Dianne’s, crossed to the Circle of Inquiry. Bingo read from his card.
“The nineteenth-century American policy of Manifest Destiny encompassed what political belief?”
“That, basically, the United States should be entitled to own all the land between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.”
“BINGO!” yelled Bingo. “And that means that if Saint Dianne’s can answer this next question, they are guaranteed to win, and will repeat as champion.”
Wynston Haimes, team captain, headed to the Circle of Inquiry. With elegance and certainty, she crossed her hands behind her back and listened intently.
“The category is Literature.…
“In the Bible, Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden of Eden. Why?”
“Oh, my goodness,” I said to Q. “I can’t believe they just gave her the easiest question in the universe. This whole thing is rigged.”
A big, cocky smile crossed Wynston’s face. She took a moment to glare at me—and then at Kiki—in a smarmy, nasty way. A moment later, she leaned forward and spoke into the microphone.
“Because they ate the forbidden fruit of the apple from the tree of knowledge.”
The girls from Saint Dianne’s prepared to leap victoriously into the air.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, that is not correct,” Bingo said. “It’s because God did not want them to eat from the tree of life. Genesis 3:22–23; always a tricky one, huh?”
“Yes!” Kiki, exclaimed, pumping her fist.
“I think somebody might need to go back to Sunday school?” Bingo said in a good-humored way to the audience. “And that leaves the door open for the little Aardvarks to walk away with the trophy. But they’ll have to go three for three to do it. Donation lines are now open.”
I had to admit, I would have gotten that one wrong, too. But Wynston was the one who had gotten suckered, not me, and Grover Park had one last chance. Of course, we already knew the order in which we would have to appear, because we’d been through the lineup many times over. It was my turn first, Kiki’s next, and Q’s last. That meant that if Kiki and I could get our questions right, we’d be passing the torch to our cleanup hitter, Q, and really, who wouldn’t have liked those chances? As everyone knew, she was our team stud.
I entered the Circle of Inquiry, took a deep breath, and focused.
“Grover Park,
Not stupid,
Smart!
G-o-o-o-o-o, Maureen!”
Logan’s voice made me smile. Was I feeling the pressure? Oh heck, yeah. But was I having fun?
The time of my life.
I entered the Circle of Inquiry, and Bingo held up a blue note card.
“The category is History.…
“In the year 1215, this document was signed by King John of England, limiting the power of the ruler. Please name this document.”
I leaned in to the microphone. “The Magna Carta.”
“Bingo!” said Bingo.
“Yes!” I exclaimed with a pump of my fist. I walked back to our table.
“Nice job, skinny-chubby,” Kiki said as she passed me on her way to the Circle of Inquiry. Even in my finest hour, she still had to twist the knife.
Whatever, I thought.
“Way to go, Mo!” Beanpole exclaimed. “Come on, Kiki, you can do it!”
“The category is Art.…
“In most mid-Renaissance paintings, the Virgin Mary is portrayed wearing the color blue. Please explain why.”
“Because blue is a calm color, like, tranquil and pure and stuff.”
“Bingo!” said Bingo.
Wynston grimaced. Kiki, class act that she was, turned to the girls of Saint Dianne’s, puckered her lips and blew them a kiss. The team from SD scowled.
“Well, things are getting a little chippy out here as we wind down,” Bingo commented. “But you can still donate to Station 723.”
Next up was Q. She entered the Circle of Inquiry. I’d never seen her look more intensely focused.
“One question. One answer. One chance to win it all for the little Aardvarks. Tell me,” Bingo asked as he held up the note card with the final question of the tournament on it, “how do you feel, Alice?”
Q gazed out at the audience before responding.
“Perfectly fine.”
Then she vomited all over the stage.
Puking is bad. Puking on TV is worse. Fainting and falling into a puddle of your own puke while on TV? Worst of all.
“Holy Sugar Puffs,” Bingo exclaimed as he backed away, trying not to get any yakity-yak on his shoes. “Uh, let’s take a break.” He walked to the upper left-hand corner of the stage. “Call in now to support Station 723,” he said into the camera. “Operators are standing by.”
The TV crew cut quickly to a prefilmed segment about all the benefits that Station 723 brought to the community. A swarm of us rushed over to Q. I was the first to arrive.
“Q, Q, are you okay?” I raised her head off the floor, careful to avoid the upchuck. “Speak to me.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes. They were glassy and red.
“Aardvark.”
Phew, I thought, she’s going to live, even though there are signs of brain damage.
But she’d had signs of brain damage long before we ever started preparing for the Academic Septathlon, so I wasn’t too worried
about it.
“Come on, let’s get her backstage,” Beanpole said.
“No, don’t move her!” Miss Terrier ordered, storming over, a cell phone in hand. “An ambulance is on the way.”
An ambulance? I thought as the crowd of people around us grew larger. But Miss Terrier wasn’t going to take any chances. The last thing she wanted was for the Academic Septathlon to get sued.
Suddenly, Mrs. Applebee fought her way through the crowd.
“Alice? Alice? That’s my daughter, let me through.” She pushed her way into the ring of people and knelt down to cradle Q in her arms.
“Are you okay? Honey, please tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Q said in a weak voice. “Fine.”
“Oh, you are so stubborn,” Mrs. Applebee said in a half-scolding, half-relieved voice. “I was sitting out there watching you grow worse and worse, thinking, Why did I even let you do this tonight? Why?”
“Because you love me,” Q answered feebly. “But you have to learn to let go, Mom. You’re smothering me.”
“I’m just so scared to lose you,” Mrs. Applebee confessed. Tears ran down her cheeks as she hugged her daughter. “You’re all I have left, and I’m just so scared.”
“You’re not going to lose me, Mom,” Q replied. “But you’re losing you.” Q dragged her arm over her chest and raised the scuba tank to her lips. Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh. “Like, get a life, Mom. It’s kind of pathetic.” She smiled weakly.
Mrs. Applebee, the tears still streaming, grinned in response. She knew her daughter was right.
What a nerdwad, I thought. I mean, only Q would have had this kind of conversation with her mother at a time like this.
“Well,” Mrs. Applebee said, with uncompromising firmness, “you are done for tonight, miss. Competition’s over.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Q’s mom replied. “And no more of those silly homemade homeopathic remedies you’ve been making for yourself, either. I don’t care what it says online about treating nut allergies; we’re listening to real doctors from now on.”
Beanpole and I turned to one another, looks of shock on our faces.
“But she said that—” Alice protested.
“Excuse me, excuse me, coming through. Give us some space.” A paramedic with muscular forearms nudged me out of the way as he knelt down. A moment later, a second EMT, a woman with long, sandy blond hair tied in a ponytail, pulled me up by the shoulder.
“Please, we need some space.”
The first paramedic took out a flashlight and started checking Q’s vital signs, shining the flashlight at her pupils, taking her blood pressure, that sort of thing. After a short inspection, he took off his stethoscope.
“My guess is they’ll probably run an IV to get some fluids in her and then give her something to bring down the fever. She’s stable, though. Let’s get her on the wagon.”
The second paramedic rolled a stretcher onto the stage, put an oxygen mask over Q’s face, and prepared to transport her to the hospital.
“Should I come?” I asked Mrs. Applebee.
“Sorry, only one in the ambulance,” the female EMT said to me.
Mrs. Applebee took her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll call you when we get there. You can come later; the hospital’s right across the street.”
They began to wheel Q off the stage.
“Can’t you, like, prop her up or something, for just one more question?” Kiki asked. “It’s kind of important.”
The paramedic didn’t even dignify Kiki’s question with a response.
“I’ll call you!” I shouted as they rolled Q away.
“Feel better, Alice!” Beanpole yelled. “See you soon.”
“And so the twists get more twisty,” Bingo said into the camera. “And remember, donation lines are open now. Just take a look at what Station 723 can offer.”
Another prerecorded video started to play for the audience as Bingo put down his microphone and a stagehand rushed to clean up the remnants of Q’s stomach off the floor.
“Should we go back to our positions now?” Beanpole asked.
“Naw,” Bingo replied. “Give it a few more minutes. I mean, look at those phone lines; they’re going nuts.”
The volunteers who’d been manning the phones were suddenly working at a furious pace. At best, there had been a slow trickle of calls all evening, but now, every single one of the volunteers was on the line, with at least three more phone calls to answer. It was like Station 723 couldn’t rake in the cash fast enough.
“People must be calling their friends to say, ‘Hey, are you seeing this?’” Bingo explained to us. “Heck, if I’d known this was going to happen, I would have had a kid barf years ago. Take yourselves a little break, ladies. We’ll finish up in a few.”
Bingo walked off to speak with the stage manager as Wynston and her crew of knee-highs approached, sinister grins painted across their faces.
“Too bad about your little geek pet there,” Wynston said in a snide and cutting voice. “Looks like you’ll be sending out your big slugger to take her place.”
All eyes fell on Sofes. Since we had to remain in the same order, regulations demanded that she be the one to go out there and replace Q for the final question.
“What’s that saying, nerdo? Oh, yeah…‘Rules are rules.’” Wynston snickered at me, the irony of the whole thing simply too delicious for her. “Come on, Strikers, let’s leave them some time to sweat.”
The knee-highs mob, smug and tickled by this latest turn of events, sauntered off.
Brattany was the first to speak.
“We’re dead. Totally dead.”
“No, we’re not,” Kiki said.
“We’re not?” Brattany said. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“Nope, not at all,” Kiki replied. “We’ll forfeit.”
“Forfeit?” I repeated.
“That’s right,” Kiki told me. “Forfeit.” She fluttered her eyelashes and tapped her heart, pretending to be hopelessly distraught. “Due to the emotional strain of having one of our dearest friends and colleagues go to the hospital, we do not think we are fit to go on.” She wiped away a fake tear. “And therefore, we’ll graciously concede the title to Saint Dianne’s.” She lowered her head, nobility oozing through the sadness.
A second later, she abandoned the woe-is-me act, stood up tall, and dictated the game plan. “And we do all this knowing, of course, that if the allergy freak hadn’t practically poisoned herself, we could have won.”
Silence fell over our group as we considered Kiki’s strategy.
“I like it,” Brattany said, with a devilish smile. “Makes a ton of sense.”
“Plus, this way we can avoid the embarrassment of having to send Sofes out there to make a laughingstock of us on live TV,” Kiki explained. The fact that Sofes was two feet away from her when she made this comment didn’t seem to bother her at all.
“You’ve got all the angles covered, Keeks,” Brattany said, with admiration in her voice. “Double-double nice-nice.”
“You mean, I don’t have to go answer a question?” Sofes asked timidly, not quite sure about the plan that was being floated.
“Nope,” Kiki told her. “You’re fine right there.” She turned to me. “All right, Captain, go out there and inform the judges.”
I paused. Kiki and Brattany were one hundred percent serious. I turned to Beanpole. She wrinkled her brow. “We’re gonna forfeit?”
Sofes, embarrassed, ashamed, and kinda confused by the whole thing, twirled her hair and stared at her shoes.
“It’s the couldda, wouldda, shouldda excuse,” Kiki explained.
“This way, we can always say, ‘We couldda, wouldda, shouldda won’…and after seeing the goobwad yak up her small intestine on live TV, who would really argue with us?”
“Hey,” Brattany said, growing more and more excited by the moment, “maybe those Moose people will feel sorry for us and
give us some money anyway!”
“Do I smell French purses in the air?” Kiki asked with glee. “Maybe we can play on our sad feelings for our friend and at least get half the prize money.”
“Like, maybe we could split a purse or something, Keeks!”
“Show me your drowned-puppy-dog look, Brit.”
Brattany frowned like her pet turtle had just died.
“Double-double nice-nice,” Kiki said, smiling.
I couldn’t believe these two.
“You’re up, Captain.” Kiki nudged me toward the judges. “Go get ’em.”
I paused, unable to move.
“Well?” Kiki said. “Go.”
Gulp. My feet were frozen to the floor. Each member of the team stared at me. I considered what to do, looking deep into my heart. Suddenly, I realized there was only one way to handle this.
“I gotta pee,” I said, and then I raced off to the bathroom before anyone could stop me.
Iwould have thought that a moment alone, to use the restroom, wash my hands, slap some cold water on my face, and sort through my thoughts, would have helped me figure out how the heck to deal with all this.
It didn’t.
Sometimes, I guess, the answers in life didn’t come; you just had to make a decision and deal with the consequences. I hated those kinds of moments. Made me crave cupcakes.
I decided to do the only thing that made sense: call Mrs. Applebee. I figured taking a moment to check up on Q might help me settle my brain, so I turned on my cell phone and started to dial.
Crud. Inside the bathroom, I had no bars.
I stepped out of the restroom, looking at the screen of my phone, and boom! crashed into someone.
My father, to be exact.
“I just need to know one thing,” he said, before I’d even had a chance to realize who it was. “Is it okay that I came?”
“What?” I said, disoriented. “How did you get back here?”
Suddenly, Marty appeared.
“Tell him it’s not okay, Maureen,” my brother insisted. “Tell him it’s not okay to abandon his family for his kids’ entire lives and then randomly show up one day and think everything gets to be golly-gee-freakin’ swell.”
A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions Page 18