I let out a big breath.
I made it!
Even though I’m ready—I’ve spent practically my entire life preparing—when the first category and answer appear on the screen (“Bodies of Water: This Great Lake borders Ohio and Pennsylvania”), I’m surprised.
It’s really happening.
I crack my neck from side to side, wiggle my fingers and remind myself:
Take the full twenty seconds with each one.
There’s no advantage to answering early.
Don’t answer in the form of a question.
Try to spell correctly.
“Lake Erie!” Tucker blurts out from behind me.
“Tucker!” I hadn’t realized he’d gotten off his bed and was peering over my shoulder. “You can’t help!” But I type in “Lake Erie” because I knew that one anyway.
After twenty seconds, a bell dings and a new category and answer appear.
“Name the Poet: ‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’ ”
I know this one, so I take a moment to glance at Tucker. He’s leaning forward, practically resting his chin on my shoulder, but at least his lips are pressed together and he’s not blurting out any information.
I type “Robert Frost” and wait until I hear the ding and the program captures my answer.
“Children’s Authors: This man wrote a novel about ‘some pig.’ ”
I know this one. Of course I know it. Mom read this book to me twice when I was younger. And I read it once by myself and cried. So, why is my brain refusing to cooperate? My big, beautiful brain is totally constipated. Bad timing, big, beautiful brain!
This, I know, is what separates the winners from the losers on Jeopardy! All contestants know tons of information or they couldn’t make it onto the show, but their ability to bring that information quickly to the surface is what helps them win.
Pig. Spider. Come on. I feel Tucker’s breath on my neck. It tickles, and I’m about to yell at him when the answer comes to me. I type “E. B. White.” Then my brain surprises me with a bonus—“Elwyn Brooks White.” I manage to type his full name before the computer dings and captures my answer.
“Score!” Tucker shouts and bops me on the head.
“Hey!”
“Sorry.”
I feel him step back and am glad.
“Texting Acronyms: TTYL.”
“Easy,” Tucker mutters.
I type “Talk to you later” and say, “Tucker, quiet!”
“Sorry.”
“Really, stop. You could have taken the test if you’d wanted to.”
“I didn’t want to.” He flops back onto his bed.
The next question is: “Measurement: Three of these make up a yard.”
“Foot,” I type, then change it to “Feet” and realize mine are finally warm.
I stumble on a Biology question and completely blow a U.S. Cities question. Blasted geography!
Before I realize it, the Jeopardy! “Think Music” plays and this message appears on the screen: “You will NOT be notified of your score. Parents of applicants who are selected to attend our in-person audition will be contacted by the Jeopardy! Contestant Department.”
It’s over.
I inhale deeply, which is a bad idea, because all the dirty clothes in Tucker’s room make it smell like the monkey house at the zoo.
“You missed the U.S. Cities question.”
“I know, Tucker.”
“It was Austin. Austin, Texas.”
“Oh.”
“You can use my atlas to study, if you want.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but the test is over.”
“What about the next part? Don’t you have to study for that?”
“If I make it,” I say.
“You’ll make it, Bean.”
I reel back. “Um, thanks, Tucker.”
“No sweat.” Tucker nods. “Now get out. I have homework to do.” He roots through piles of papers on his desk. “If I can find it.”
Now, that’s the Tucker I know.
As I make my way through dirty-laundry land mines toward the door, I see Tucker’s hamster cage on his bureau and walk over. But there’s only one hamster inside. I look at Tucker.
“Gypsy,” he says. “About a year ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” I tap softly on the plastic water bottle to say hello to Rose.
“You still got DJ?” Tucker asks.
“Oh, yeah. He still meows in the middle of the night and climbs onto my head when I’m sleeping.”
Tucker smiles. “That’s good. See you later, Bean.”
“Later,” I say, making my way down the stairs, past the photos of Tucker along the wall and outside onto the cold, cold landing in front of our homes.
As soon as I’m inside our house, Mom and Neil rush out from the kitchen.
“Where’d you go?” Mom asks.
“Tucker’s,” I say, thinking of Gypsy being gone and how I didn’t even know about it. Tucker must have been crushed, and I wasn’t even there for him. Maybe I have been kind of mean.
“Good thinking,” Neil says.
I realize he’s talking about me using Tucker’s computer to take the test.
“How’d it go?” Neil asks.
Normally, I’d give Neil a snarky answer or ignore him. Not today. Not anymore. “I think it went well.” I remember typing in “Elwyn Brooks White” at the last second. “Really well, actually. But I’m pretty sure I missed two. Maybe only one, though.”
“That sounds fantastic to me,” Neil says.
“Me too,” comes a tiny voice from the top of the stairs.
“Go to bed, Charlie,” Mom says.
Charlie bends and talks through the slats in the banister. “Livi, did you know it takes a mommy rat three weeks to make a baby rat?”
“Charlie,” Mom says in a threatening tone.
“I’m going,” Charlie says, and disappears. “And some rats can go longer without water than camels!” he shouts.
Mom shakes her head, then looks at me and clasps her hands together. “I’m so proud of you, Jelly Bean.”
The nickname throws me because it’s Dad who calls me cute nicknames, although he hasn’t lately.
“When do you find out if you made it to the auditions?” Neil asks.
I peel my socks off, lean on the wall and rub each foot. “I read on a message board that someone from the Jeopardy! staff will call if I made it. If not, I’ll never hear anything.” I think of the year that happened, and how hard it was.
“You’ll make it,” Neil says.
“You’ll make it,” Charlie shouts from his bedroom.
“Charlie!” Mom yells.
“I’m in bed.”
“And be quiet,” Mom calls.
“I am being quiet!” he screams.
Mom sighs.
Neil shakes his head, but smiles.
Neil’s beginning to grow on me, and not in the way mold grows on a shower curtain.
“So we have to wait for a call?” Neil asks.
I like that he said we. “Yup. I read on the message board that more than ten thousand kids take the online test, but only five hundred are invited to the audition. Only five hundred! If I’m one of the five hundred, I’ll get a call.”
“Yowza,” Neil says. “Tough odds.”
“Indeed,” Mom says. “Hey, speaking of phone calls, your father called while you were at Tucker’s. He wants you to call him back.”
“Dad called?” I’m stunned.
It’s not even Wednesday.
Dad picks up on the first ring, like he was waiting for me to call. “Hey, Beany Baby.”
“Hi, Dad.” I slide down the wall and hunch to keep the call private.
“What’s up?”
“I took the online test for Jeopardy!” When I say this, my stomach knots because I remember he wouldn’t sign me up.
“Marion—er, your mother
told me. That’s great.”
But his voice doesn’t sound like it’s great. His voice sounds small and sad.
“Think you’ll make it?” he asks.
I shrug, worried about how Dad’s voice sounds. “Dad, are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says way too fast. “Your old man’s fine. Just fine. Never better.” Then he laughs a fake laugh that tells me he’s not fine at all. I wonder if I should tell Mom.
I chew on a thumbnail.
“Lovely Livi?” he says, his voice slurring a bit. “You still there?”
“I’m here.” I curl tighter, my lower back pressed against the wall.
“So how did you do on that Jeopardy! test?”
“I guess good, but—”
“Well. You did well, Livi,” Dad says. “How could you do anything but well? You’ve got Bean genes. Right?”
I think of my deficiency in geography. That’s not from Bean genes. It’s just my own personal problem.
“Hey, Livi?”
“Yes?”
“I was telling your mom how much I want you to visit.”
My heart does a little thump; then I realize Dad didn’t say he wants Charlie to visit. It would be fun to have Dad to myself, but … “What about Charlie?” I ask.
“Of course,” Dad slurs. “You and Charlie. Charlie and you. Didn’t I say that, Jelly Bean?”
“Um, no.” Dad’s voice sounds strange.
“Stella would love to have you both here.” Dad stretches out the word “love” like it has thirteen syllables.
I cringe at the thought of Stella, all spiky heels and big hair.
“Maybe we’ll play Skee-Ball together at the pier. Would you like that?”
Dad and I haven’t played Skee-Ball since I was six, but I say, “Sure.”
“And we can get soft serve. Chocolate and vanilla swirl. Your favorite. See, Jelly Bean? I remembered.”
Actually, chocolate and vanilla swirl is Mom’s favorite. Charlie and I like vanilla custard with rainbow sprinkles.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Maybe we could watch Jeopardy! together.”
“Like we used to,” he says.
This makes me feel like crying. “Yeah.” I sniff. “Like we used to.”
“There’s one problem, though, Jelly Bean,” Dad says, slurring the word “problem.”
Is Dad okay?
“Things aren’t going so great at the moment, and I was hoping your mom would be able to …”
Dad doesn’t finish the sentence. My heart sinks. I know there’s no way Mom can pay for plane tickets to California. We can’t even afford normal toilet paper!
“But don’t worry,” Dad says, and suddenly I’m hopeful because I know he has a plan. He always has a plan. “I’ll hit the big one,” he says. “One of these days, Jelly Bean, I’ll hit a jackpot and bring you and Charlie here in style. A limo ride all the way across the country. Would you like that?”
“Sure,” I whisper, holding back tears, because I know Dad will never hit “the big one.” And even if he did, it wouldn’t change the things that matter. He’d still live all the way across the country with Stella the Stealer and my former best friend.
“Livi?” Dad asks in a quiet voice.
“Mm-hmm?”
“I miss you, baby girl.” Then Dad makes a choking sound and hangs up.
“Dad?” I lean forward. “You still there? Dad!” But I’m talking to a dial tone. I squeeze the phone to my heart and whisper, “I miss you, too.”
Waiting is terrible.
When the phone rings, I jump, but it’s never for me. Except when Dad calls on Wednesday nights. When he remembers. On those nights, I hope Nikki starts talking to me again, because it’s hard not having a best friend to talk with, especially when it comes to waiting for Jeopardy! to call.
I try talking to Julia, Carly and Brooke about it at lunch, but all they want to talk about is their stupid trip to Bolivia, what they’ll wear and if there will be cute boys there. When I brought up Jeopardy! again the other day, Julia said, “Blah, blah, blah. Jeopardy! We get it, Olivia. You want to get on the show. Stop talking about it already.”
I stopped talking. And now I spend lunch period wondering why I even sit with them.
Mom still hasn’t found a job. Every time there’s a bill in the mail, she winces, like a dentist is drilling in her mouth and hit a nerve. And every day after school, Mom anticipates my question—“Did they call?”—and shakes her head.
I have this recurring nightmare that Mom cancels our phone service to save money, and the Jeopardy! people try to call but can’t get through.
Even Tucker’s been asking if I’ve heard anything. I finally had to tell him to stop bugging me, because it’s been a month since I took the test.
When I’m in bed at night, I hear Neil come home from work and ask Mom, “Anything yet?”
I picture Mom shaking her head, and I feel like a loser. A failure. A kid whose head is stuffed with useless knowledge. The number for pi is 3.14. There are 366 days in a leap year. Victoria Woodhull was the first woman to run for president of the United States, 50 years before women were allowed to vote. There are 64 squares on a checkerboard.
Please call!
Charlie’s the only one who doesn’t bother me about it. He’s too busy smashing racing cars into each other, annoying DJ and spouting gross trivia. Livi, did you know bats have thumbs? Livi, female hamsters smell worse than male hamsters. Livi, fingernails grow faster than toenails. Livi …
With each passing day, I’m more convinced I’ve blown it. I must have missed more than two questions. I must have misspelled some things. Done something wrong. But what? Maybe there are just too many smart kids who took the test, and I’m not going to get chosen. Me, Olivia Bean—the girl who needs this more than anyone else possibly could.
Did my geography deficiency somehow show up on the test? I’m positive I didn’t miss more than one geography question. And I’ve actually been improving in that area. I got a C on that first geography test in school, but solid Bs on the two tests since. Even Tucker gave me a thumbs-up when we got our most recent test back.
And Mom hung it on the refrigerator door.
If I got on Jeopardy!, I could show Dad how much I’ve improved at geography, even though I still can’t remember some of the basic stuff. I wonder if Dad still watches Jeopardy! And if he does, does he watch it with Nikki?
Thinking about this makes my stomach clench. I bend forward and try to think about something else, like if those Jeopardy! people will ever call. But that doesn’t help my stomach feel better.
Last night, I overheard Mom and Neil whisper-talking. She said we’re running through our savings faster than she’d expected. He told her not to worry. She said there’s not enough money for Christmas presents this year. He said he’d find a second job.
After that, no one said anything, but Mom cried softly. I wanted to run downstairs and hug her, tell her I’d figure out a way to help, but somehow I knew Neil was holding her and she’d be okay.
If I’m lucky enough to get on Jeopardy! and win, I’ll take all of us to Disney World; then I’ll give the rest of the money to Mom so that she can stop worrying.
Oh, please call!
It’s unusually cold for the first week of December. On my way home from school, I pull my collar up against my neck and walk fast, but when I arrive, the tips of my ears and nose still feel frozen.
Tucker usually walks home with me now, but he stayed after school today for debate club. He’s such a nerd!
I let myself into our house and am overwhelmed by the fresh scent of pine.
“Hi,” Mom calls from her chair across the living room. Wreaths are piled all over, and one is on Mom’s lap. She’s threading a sparkly gold ribbon through it.
I drop my backpack. “What are you doing? And why does our house smell like a pine forest?”
“Mmm.” Mom inhales deeply. “Don’t these smell good, Livi?” She’s smiling.
&n
bsp; “Yes, but—”
“Ms. Duxbury, down the street, decorates wreaths for the holidays. People pay a lot of money for these things.” Mom holds up the wreath with the gold ribbon threaded partway through it. “I don’t get the appeal. But, whatever.”
I make my way through the piles of wreaths to get to Mom and sit on the stool in front of her.
Mom is smiling so broadly the skin beside her eyes crinkles. “Ms. Duxbury had more orders than she could handle—thank goodness!—so she threw some work my way and taught me how to do it. Wasn’t that nice of her?”
“I guess.” Really, I can’t believe Mom’s decorating wreaths. When it comes to crafts, she’s the anti–Martha Stewart. Mom shudders at the thought of sewing a tear in our Halloween costumes. Getting near a hot glue gun probably frightens her more than a real gun. “But, um, wreaths? Really?”
She shrugs. “I’m just going to make these for the holidays so we’ll have some extra moolah.” Mom’s eyes go wide and she rubs her palms together. “We could really use the money now.”
Why the emphasis on “now”? Panic swells in my chest. “Have we run out of money already?”
“Oh, no,” Mom says, shaking her head and looking way too happy. “Being careful has really helped. And Neil’s going to work a couple shifts at the Stop and Shop till I find another job. We’re fine.”
“Mom?”
“Hmm?” Mom threads gold ribbon through the wreath, her hands trembling.
“Why are you smiling so much?”
“Am I?”
“Yes! You haven’t stopped smiling since I got home, and it’s freaking me out. No offense, Mom, but you’re usually not this happy. Especially about wreaths!” Then a thought begins to bubble, and I smile, too. Maybe the extra money from the wreaths will pay for plane tickets for me and Charlie to visit Dad at Christmas.
“Well,” Mom says, finally putting down the wreath. “I thought we’d need a little extra cash for, I don’t know, maybe a special trip somewhere.”
“California?” I practically lunge at her.
“No, why?” Her shoulders slump. “Do you want to visit your father?”
I shake my head, even though I do want to visit him.
Olivia Bean, Trivia Queen Page 9