Time-Out

by W. C. Mack

  The only goal for Saturday morning was to do our best and to have fun.

  It was that simple.

  That night, I gathered my clothes for state, smiling at the team logo printed on my T-shirt. To my surprise, Mitch Matthews had designed it for us, and it was perfect. Silhouettes of each member of the team posed as The Thinker were printed in solid black on our emerald-green T-shirts. The frames of my glasses and my curly hair were obvious, just like Nitu’s trademark braid.

  I folded the T-shirt and placed it on top of the dark blue jeans that would match the rest of the team.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow?” Mom asked from the doorway.

  “Definitely,” I said, turning to face her.

  I was ready to do my best and have fun.

  And if that led us to nationals? So be it.

  Stop, Russ.

  Mom smiled. “I hope you know how proud of you we are.”

  “I know,” I said, smiling back at her before returning my attention to the task at hand.

  “Russell?”

  “Yes?”

  “I mean all of us. We’re all proud.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling my cheeks get warm. “Of course.”

  I’d never doubted Mom’s support of my involvement with Masters of the Mind, but Dad and Owen had taken a little longer to come around. It thrilled me to know that they were truly behind me.

  “Good luck,” Mom said. “Not that you need it. You kids have worked awfully hard.”

  I nodded. “We’re ready.”

  After a sleep filled with dreams I couldn’t remember, I awoke to a buzzing sound that wasn’t coming from my alarm clock. A quick assessment indicated that the sound originated inside my body.

  It was the buzz of excitement.

  The big day had finally arrived!

  I leaped out of bed, anxious to get started. I made my way to the bathroom, and while the steam from my hot shower clouded the mirror, it also cleared my head.

  There were so many possibilities ahead of us! The team had already gone farther than any Lewis and Clark contingent that came before us, which felt like a great accomplishment. But I was dying to know how much farther we’d go.

  Our dreams were limitless, really.

  Once I was scrubbed, dried, dressed, and pressed, I headed for the kitchen, reminding myself along the way that the goal was to do our best and have fun.

  “I made waffles,” Mom said, slipping one onto a plate and passing it to me.

  “My favorite. Thank you,” I told her, although my stomach was filled with nerves and I wasn’t particularly hungry.

  Dad lifted his fork in a silent salute.

  “So, how long is this thing going to last?” Owen asked, pouring a steady stream of maple syrup onto his butter-drenched waffle.

  “Hold up, buddy,” Dad said, taking the bottle away from him. “Save some for your brother.”

  “How long is what going to last?” Mom asked, joining us at the table.

  “The competition,” Owen said.

  Everyone looked at me for an answer, but I could only shrug. “As long as it takes for us to be eliminated.” I smiled. “Or win.”

  “So, like, hours?” Owen asked.

  “I hope so.” My heart was pounding with excitement.

  “Great,” he said, then groaned.

  So much for support.

  I took a bite of my waffle and discovered that eating wasn’t going to be a problem, after all. In fact, I was ravenous. I finished it in what seemed like seconds and Dad got up to pour another round of batter onto the waffle iron.

  “Big appetite this morning,” Mom said a few minutes later as she watched me devour a second golden disk of deliciousness, smothered in syrup.

  Dad let out a low whistle of appreciation when he handed me the syrup for waffle number three a few minutes after that. “Breakfast of champions. Huh, Russ?”

  I certainly hoped so.

  The setting chosen for state was in downtown Portland, which meant limited parking. While my nerves jangled inside of me, Dad circled the same four blocks countless times while muttering about pay parking.

  “I’m getting carsick,” Owen moaned during one of the laps.

  I had to admit, I was feeling a bit queasy myself.

  “We’ll find a spot,” Dad said determinedly.

  Mom checked her watch. “Russ is supposed to register in ten minutes.”

  “I can practically smell a free space, right up here,” Dad insisted.

  He was right, but a dark blue Mini Cooper zipped in just ahead of us.

  Mom sighed as she checked her watch again. “Okay, Russ and I will get out here so he can register.”

  “What?” Owen yelped. “I’m the one who’s ready to hurl.”

  But he was too late. Mom had already climbed out of the van and opened the sliding door for me.

  As soon as I stepped onto the pavement, I gazed up at our venue. The Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, or “The Schnitz,” was a complete mystery to me and I couldn’t wait to look inside.

  As we approached the front doors I wished the event was taking place at night. The vintage “Portland” marquee would be bright with neon lights, the streets packed with excited spectators.

  Before I could get too wrapped up in the idea, I spotted two of my teammates.

  “Sara!” I called. “Jason!”

  They turned to face me with matching grins and I could tell they were as thrilled as I was that the day had finally arrived. Their T-shirts and jeans looked perfect, and I loved the fact that we’d decided to dress alike.

  We’d look, sound, and act like a team, from start to finish.

  When I reached them, I saw that Marcus and Nitu were already in the foyer, so we pushed open the doors and joined them.

  Nitu greeted us by rhyming. “I can’t believe we’re finally here. This is the highlight of my year!”

  Sara smiled and added, “I love that we look like a team. Don’t pinch me if it’s all a dream.”

  Mom gave my shoulder a squeeze and whispered, “I’ll leave you to it, Russ.”

  I was still feeling both queasy from the circling van and anxious about the events to come, so I didn’t have a rhyme on the tip of my tongue.

  Would failing to rhyme jinx the team?

  Of course not.

  “So, it looks like registration is right over there,” I said, pointing to a table surrounded by kids and parents.

  Jason announced, “There’s no time for running late, because we’re here . . . to dominate.”

  “You’re too much,” Nitu said, laughing.

  “But I’m right,” Jason said, giving Marcus a high five.

  After we checked in, we were directed to our assigned seats in the theater. As soon as we entered, I gasped. It was a beautiful setting, with enough seating for Lewis and Clark’s entire student body, if not the whole school district.

  The walls were covered with carved pillars; the seats were covered in velvet, facing a stage that would be the site of victory (hopefully ours).

  For the next thirty minutes, a constant stream of spectators poured through the door and into their seats. I felt a little overwhelmed as the theater filled with noisy chatter. The audience was larger than I’d imagined (even in the best of my daydreams), but at least no one was occupying the balconies.

  Yet.

  I spotted my parents and Owen, right in the middle of the next level. Next to them were the Matthewses. While the adults chatted, Owen and Mitch Matthews barely spoke.

  They were getting along perfectly on the court, but they hadn’t quite become friends yet.

  I was confident that they would, someday.

  I scanned the lower seats, where all of the teams were gathering. Apparently, we weren’t the only team who’d thought of matching T-shirts.

  There were nine other schools in the competition, but most of them were from outside of Portland. The only familiar group would be the team from Beaumont, but I didn’t see them anywher
e.

  When we tied with them at districts, their fearless leader, Peter, had announced that they would stomp us at regionals.

  I’d already proven him wrong there, when we’d tied again.

  But the time had come to remove Beaumont from the equation. Only one team could represent Oregon at nationals.

  My stomach rumbled ominously as I tried to focus on the word association game the rest of the team was playing to warm up their brains.

  Suddenly, the stage lights were turned on and the judges walked in single file to their chairs.

  This is it!

  The final step before nationals.

  I took a deep breath and rubbed my sweating palms together as one by one, each judge was introduced to the crowd by the master of ceremonies.

  Do your best and have fun.

  “Are you okay, Russ?” Nitu whispered.

  I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “Because you look kind of—”

  “Shiny,” Sara finished for her.

  “And pale,” Marcus added, looking concerned.

  “I’m totally fine,” I assured them, hoping I was right. My stomach’s sound track had moved from rumbling to gurgling.

  The master of ceremonies spoke again. “I’d like each team to stand up for a moment when I announce them, then be seated.” He glanced at a piece of paper. “Millbank Middle School.”

  A group of kids in orange baseball caps and yellow T-shirts stood and waved to their families in the audience.

  “We should have done hats,” Marcus whispered.

  “The shirts are great,” I told him. “Mitch did an awesome job.”

  Two more teams stood up when their names were called, and then I heard, “Lewis and Clark Middle School,” over the speakers.

  We jumped to our feet and I ignored the lurching sensation in my stomach as I waved along with the others.

  “Beaumont Middle School,” the master of ceremonies said.

  I didn’t see any movement in the lower section.

  “Beaumont Middle School,” he repeated.

  I looked behind us, and still saw nothing. A soft buzz of conversation started to fill the area.

  What if they failed to appear?

  The master of ceremonies cleared his throat. “Last call for Beaumont Mid—”

  He stopped in midsentence when the lights suddenly shut off. I heard Nitu and Sara both gasp in the sudden darkness. Then, there was a bright flash as a spotlight swept over our team and the rest of the crowd, as though it was looking for something.

  What on earth was going on?

  The light finally found its target, at the top of the aisle. A blast of music came through the speakers and a group of five familiar figures started walking toward the stage to the beat of a song I’d heard a hundred times in my own living room: “We Are the Champions.”

  I glanced at Nitu, who shrugged.

  My eyes were drawn, against their will, back to the spotlight.

  The Beaumont team wasn’t wearing the T-shirts they’d had at districts, but dark suits, white shirts, red ties, and sunglasses. They carried their trademark briefcases, complete with the Masters’ logo, and wore the smirks I was all too familiar with.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sara muttered as they passed our row.

  “Oh, it’s on now,” Jason said, smiling. “We’re going to take these guys down.”

  “Our only goals are to do our best and to have fun,” I murmured.

  Nobody heard me over the music.

  I’d suspected we were in trouble as soon as Beaumont entered the Schnitz, and my suspicions were confirmed in the first round.

  Word and math problems should have been our strong suit, but as soon as we sat down at our group table onstage, everything felt . . . wrong.

  “It’s bad feng shui, or something,” Sara said, looking as awkward as I felt.

  “Do you want to switch seats?” Marcus asked her.

  Sara shook her head as one of the judges placed an egg timer on the table and the speed rounds began.

  First, we had to make as many words as we could out of “acknowledgment,” but we couldn’t agree on whether it was spelled with two e’s or three. Then there were word problems, involving hours, mileage, and props.

  The ticking of the egg timer was borderline sinister.

  I felt sweat trickling down my neck while the glare of the lights practically blinded me. Every whisper and cough from the audience was amplified and I had a terrible time tuning out the noise.

  When it was time for a break before the big challenge, it was obvious that we were all feeling disappointed in the first round.

  “Let’s not freak out,” Nitu said. “We can still ace the challenge.”

  “Totally,” Marcus agreed.

  I nodded firmly, knowing we still had time to redeem ourselves.

  Nationals depended on it.

  Onstage, all of the teams assembled the materials to build a bridge on their tables, and when the buzzer sounded, we all got to work.

  Just as we’d practiced, I tied the drinking straws, Jason and Nitu tackled the popsicle sticks, and Marcus helped Sara with the string and paper cups. We had probably built thirty bridges since we’d first read the challenge, and through trial and error, we’d designed a structure that could support the single brick that would put it to the test.

  At first, everything went smoothly, but as our fifteen minutes ticked away, the master of ceremonies announced how much time was remaining at regular intervals.

  And when we had just three minutes left, I spilled our glue all over the straws.

  “No!” I gasped.

  “We’ve got it,” Sara said, leading the team in cleaning up the mess and making sure the structure was intact.

  “It’s fine,” Jason said as the final seconds dwindled away.

  But we all knew it wasn’t.

  The judges tested each bridge, one team after another. Several crumpled while a couple managed to withstand the weight.

  When our turn came, I was filled with shame and horror as I watched the bridge fall apart completely.

  My stomach growled angrily.

  While results were tallied, we stood under the hot, glaring lights next to Beaumont, in all of their smug glory.

  The lead judge announced them as the winners and wished them luck at nationals.

  My stomach performed a somersault, followed by a backflip.

  I tried to swallow, but couldn’t control the rising wave of sickly sweet syrup in the back of my throat.

  The drive home from state was dead quiet. Mom and Dad had tried to cheer Russ up before we left the Schnitz, but he kept shutting them down by either grunting, sighing, or shaking his head.

  We took the highway home and Russ waited until our exit before he finally said, “I choked.”

  “No,” I said, chuckling. “You puked.”

  “Owen,” Dad warned from the front seat.

  “What? It was awesome!”

  “I don’t think—” Mom started to say, but I cut her off.

  “It was the best revenge ever. I could tell that Peter kid from Beaumont was a total turd and when Russ nailed him, it was—”

  “An accident,” Russ snapped. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

  “It was still awesome,” I said, mostly to myself.

  Dad waited for the light and turned left. “I’m proud of you, Russ.”

  “Can we please not talk about it?” my brother begged.

  “What?” Mom asked, turning to look at him. “You did your best.”

  “And blew it,” Russ said.

  If “it” meant chunks, he was right about that. I had no idea chewed-up waffles would look so gross.

  “There’s always next year,” Dad said.

  “Please stop,” Russ said.

  “It’s not that big a deal, Russ,” I told him.

  He turned to face me. “It’s like losing the NBA championship.”

  Ha! “Yeah, right. Don’t get
too crazy, Russ.”

  “I’m serious!” he hissed at me. His nostrils were bulging out. “To me, this was exactly like losing an NBA championship.”

  “Honey,” Mom said.

  “Everyone at school is going to know about this.” He blinked hard a couple of times.

  Was he going to cry?

  I guess if I lost an NBA championship, I’d probably cry, too.

  I decided to cheer him up. “Okay, nobody at school even knows Masters of the Mind exists, Russ. No one will know you blew it.”

  “Owen,” Dad warned again.

  “What?” I was trying to be positive!

  “I let everyone down,” Russ said. “I was supposed to be the team leader and I cracked under the pressure.”

  “It’s not the end of the world,” Dad said.

  “It’s the end of mine,” he said, then went silent again.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Dad shot me a look in the rearview mirror, so I shut it.

  Russ was in a funk for days after state and nothing seemed to pull him out of it. He hung out in his room alone most of the time, and moped around the house for the rest. All of his nerdy friends tried to talk to him at school and Nitu even stopped by the house twice, but he was still down in the dumps.

  Of course, he kept studying like his life depended on it and he made it to Pioneer practices, but he just wasn’t the same.

  After a whole week had passed, it was my turn to set the table one night. Since Mom and I were alone, I told her how I felt: that Russ should be over the whole thing already.

  “That competition was really important to him,” she said.

  “Well, lots of things have been important to me and I’ve had to get over them.”

  “Is that right?” She raised one eyebrow at me, like I was supposed to prove it.

  “Yeah. I had to get over being outplayed by Dante Powers, getting benched when I knew I could make a difference in a bunch of games, and I even had to get over the Twinvaders when they joined the team.” And I was just getting started! “I had to get over Hoopst—” I stopped myself, realizing I had a golden opportunity right in front of me.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked.