by Jody Feldman
Bert had to stay rational. He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled. “We’ve already put an alternate puzzle in place, but that doesn’t mean we can rest. We have a traitor living among us.” He stared down each member of his leadership team. “Outside of us, there were only ten people privileged to know the puzzles and stunts. The two computers that held that information were fully secured and, I’ve been told, have not been compromised. The only hard copy is stashed in a safe that has not been opened since I put it there.
“Security has assured me there were no breaches from the outside. From here on out, watch for any unusual activity. Safeguard any delicate information you’re working on. Turn your computer screens so they cannot be seen or reflected in the windows behind you. Above all, be my eyes and ears to find out who is doing this to us. Now, go home. Sleep if you can. Tomorrow must go off without a hitch.”
This wasn’t your typical roadside motel with two squishy beds and one lumpy cot. Golly had given them three adjoining rooms with direct instructions that Cameron have his own. No knees in his back. No fighting for covers. No bathroom wars. And the best—not having to be part of Spencer’s pity party.
Cameron could imagine all the other families dancing around and singing at the top of their lungs, which his own family would have been doing if Spencer had made it, too. Or forget “too.” If Spencer had made it, period. At least the party in Cameron’s head was still popping.
His mom, dad, and brothers were dismantling the enormous food basket in one room. He was in his, staring into a closet packed with toys and games. For him alone!
His knees buckled. Not from the toys, but because someone had kneed them forward.
Cameron’s first instinct was to slam the closet door. Instead, he opened it even wider.
“How do you do that, Walker?”
“Do what?”
“Sneak up on people like that. The army could use you for stealth research.”
Walker came around from behind, laughing and shaking muffin crumbs all over the floor. “I saved you the blueberry one.” He held it out to Cameron.
“Thanks.”
“Whoa!” Walker shoved the rest of the muffin into his mouth. Then he said something that sounded like “Yours?”
Cameron nodded. “Pick something.”
“Me?”
“Sure.”
Even if Walker chose Mongo-Jongo, the video game Cameron had wanted forever, it didn’t matter. After tomorrow Cameron could buy his own. The losing team members last year had each walked away with one thousand dollars in cash.
Cameron devoured his muffin while Walker pulled out about ten different toys and lined them up. One by one he eliminated a box and put it back in the closet. It got down to Mongo-Jongo and the Zone of Chronos action figure collection.
“Take ’em both,” said Cameron.
“No way!” Walker looked up at Cameron, his eyes wide, his mouth in an O.
“They’re yours.”
Walker butt-scooted and grabbed around Cameron’s knees to make them buckle again. They rolled on the floor in a wrestling match that had them laughing so hard, they couldn’t help but untangle to catch their breath.
Yeah, this was the kind of celebration Cameron was talking about. Even when Spencer marched in, declared that 50 percent belonged to him, and walked away with an armload of stuff from the closet, this was so great!
Not too much later Cameron was staring at the ceiling from his king-sized bed. The simple thought of the Games should have kept him awake for days, but when his room phone rang, he could barely open his eyes.
He fumbled to pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Cameron!”
The voice was way too happy for morning.
“It’s Sharryn—”
Who?
“—and this is your six-thirty wake-up call. In fifteen minutes room service will knock at your door with breakfast for your family. At eight o’clock sharp, like your instructions said, be downstairs, ready to go. Okay?”
“Uh-huh,” he managed to say.
“You’re not about to roll over and go back to sleep on me, are you?”
He shook his head.
“If you’re shaking your head, Cameron, I can’t see you.”
Then it hit him. “No, no. I’m awake. Now I’m awake.”
She was laughing at the other end when he hung up. He grabbed his camera and burst into the next room. His dad was already sitting at the edge of the bed, stretching and smiling. The camera caught his mom lifting her head and dropping it back to the pillow.
“They’re sending up breakfast,” Cameron said. “I hope there’s something I like.”
“What don’t you like?” his dad asked.
“You have a point.” Cameron ran to the next room to wake Spencer and Walker, but he stopped short. He didn’t need Spencer ragging on him for disrupting his beauty sleep. He backed out of the room and ran to shower.
The clatter of the breakfast carts—a whole buffet on wheels—woke his brothers.
“Did they invite the entire city to eat here?” said his mom.
They didn’t need the city. Before Cameron got it all on video, his brothers had already begun to demolish the platters of eggs, pancakes, French toast, and waffles; bowls of fruit and yogurt; plates of bacon, sausage, and steak bites; baskets of rolls, sweet and not; and pitchers of juice, milk, hot chocolate, coffee, and tea.
In the middle was an envelope for Cameron. Spencer reached for it, but even with his camera rolling, Cameron snatched it first.
“Only because I let you,” Spencer said.
Who cared if it was the truth? No one was opening Cameron’s envelope today. Inside was a plastic packet of lemon juice and a card that said, “Not now. You’ll know when.”
Spencer grabbed the lemon juice from his hand. “Smart juice? So you can get halfway to intelligent?”
“Spencer,” said his dad more sternly than Cameron had ever heard, “it’s his day.”
“Should’ve been mine.” Spencer put the packet on the table.
Cameron held back a smile. It was his day. His dad had said so. He tucked the card and the juice into the pocket of his jeans while he ate. The lemon juice? No question. Reappearing solution for disappearing ink. Would the other kids know? Yeah, or they’d find out. No advantage here.
During the limo ride it was still his day. His parents kept telling him to play smart, try his hardest, and know they were proud of him. Walker kept telling him to kick it. Spencer was unusually silent.
The ten black limos pulled up, parade style, at Golly Headquarters. Cameron’s was fifth in line, which, he was told, had no bearing on how he’d finished or on anything to come.
Their driver turned to him. “They’re letting you out one at a time, so wait here until I pull up to the red carpet.”
“Red carpet?” said Spencer. “He gets to walk the red carpet?”
“You all do,” the driver said. Soon he pulled up and opened the doors.
Cameron turned his videocam toward the cheering, sign-waving, camera-clicking spectators flanking the red carpet. At first he suspected Golly had planted all these people to make them feel like big deals. But then he recognized a reporter from one of his mom’s Hollywood shows. Was she waiting for someone important? A celebrity’s kid or something? Suddenly Cameron had multiple microphones thrust at him.
“What’s your name? How old are you? Where are you from? What’s with the video camera? How surprised are you to be a finalist? Are those your brothers? Ooh. The tall one’s cute. Can I have your autograph? Can I have his?”
With Golly people surrounding them and shuttling them into the doors, though, Cameron was barely able to say his name. “Who do you think they’re waiting for?” he asked Spencer.
“Seriously? Don’t you know you guys are stars now? And that I will forever be known as Cameron’s brother?”
Cameron smiled inside. “Welcome to my world,” he said under his breath.
; “What?”
“Nothing.”
Spencer pinched his arm. “What?”
“Nothing. We’re nothings right now. We haven’t done anything.”
“You don’t get it. You have the chance to be the next Gil. Or the boy version of Bianca. Well, not her. You’d need more personality and looks, but people all over the world will know your name.”
Poor Spencer. He would have loved the attention, the fame, and adoring fans.
Not Cameron. He needed to forget about being in any spotlight; otherwise, he’d forever be known as the kid who sat babbling in a puddle of his own drool. It had been bad enough at that spelling bee. He’d been able to spell “succumb” in his sleep until he got onstage in front of two hundred people. And now it wouldn’t be two hundred people watching him; it’d be zillions.
Sharryn met them at the door. “Great to see you all again! At least for a little while. In a few minutes, Cameron, I will turn you over to a couple of familiar faces. Bill and Carol will be your guides from here on out.”
On the rare occasions Cameron had allowed himself to dream about getting this far, Bill and Carol had been part of the fantasy. For the last year, people at school and online had debated which guide they’d rather have. Cameron didn’t care. They both gave the same information and cheered on their teams equally. The difference was in their styles. Carol put an arm around her kicked-out people, then gently sent them to their families. When Bill’s team was eliminated, he gathered them in a huddle, then gave the best pep talk Cameron had ever heard: They’d each been one of ten people in the whole world who had made it this far; on any other day they’d be the ones continuing on; they needed to hold their heads high and be proud. Maybe it wasn’t original, but coming from Bill, it would have Cameron ready to conquer the world.
Sharryn led his family to a small conference room, where his parents signed even more forms. And before he’d shot barely two minutes of good footage, Sharryn herded Cameron out the door and down the hall. “Here we go.”
Cameron panned the pictures on the walls—pictures of stern-looking men and women with wacky props. Water was squirting from one guy’s ears. One woman had a pair of skunks on her head. Another had a daisy mustache.
“Team competition time,” said Sharryn. “Excited?”
Cameron was focused on the picture of the man with a snake smiling through tufts of his hair. He nodded.
“Nervous?” said Sharryn.
Cameron nodded again.
“And the camera helps?”
Cameron smiled at her.
“You know,” she said, putting a hand on his camera hand, “it’ll help your nerves if you don’t bottle everything up. So tell me how it feels to be excited.”
Cameron lowered the camera. “It’s like I have this lava pool that’s starting at my knees and bubbling around my stomach. But it’s more warm than hot, and I’m still not sure if it’s giving me energy or getting me ready to throw up.”
“Let’s hope for energy,” said Sharryn, “but let me know if it’s the other. We can stop at a bathroom along the way. In fact—”
She stopped and pointed down a hall. “Third door on the right. Bathroom. Go splash some water on your face, and take a few deep breaths. I’ll hold on to your camera so it doesn’t get wet. And I promise nothing will happen to it. Sound good?”
It did.
“Take your time,” she said. “The Games can’t start without you.”
He closed himself into a stall and leaned against the door to breathe. This might be the only moment of the day he couldn’t mess up. In less than an hour Bill or Carol might be sending him to the losers’ room. Then, in a few weeks, he’d have to explain to the kids at school how he wasn’t quite good enough. As usual.
There was only one antidote for that: winning the whole thing. But how would that even be possible? How had he gotten this far? What exactly had he done? Nothing extraordinary, really. He’d just tried his hardest.
Cameron came out of the stall, washed his hands, and splashed some water on his face. Is that all he needed to do? Try his hardest? Support his team? His team. This next part wasn’t all on his shoulders!
He splashed more water on his face. What if his team discovered that he wasn’t special, that he was as bogus as a green-striped zebra, as phony as a thirteen-hour clock, as fake as a cinnamon-scented cabbage? Wasn’t a chain only as strong as its weakest link? What if he was the weakest?
Even this private pep talk was a disaster. He diverted some water into his mouth, swished it around, and spit it out. He grabbed a bunch of paper towels, wiped his hands, then held them against his face. He was panicking the way Spencer did with word problems. He had to treat this like math. One step at a time. He could follow directions. He could unravel questions. He could reason things out. He’d done better than Spencer, who could do anything. He could do this. I can do this, he mouthed. “I can do this,” he whispered. “I can do this,” he said.
Cameron pushed open the door to an empty hallway and walked toward the spot where Sharryn had left him. No Sharryn. Maybe he’d turned the wrong way. He went back past the bathroom and to an open office. Maybe Sharryn was in there.
Cameron peeked in and saw heaven. The large room was loaded with monitors, lots of them. All the screens sat above banks and banks of buttons and levers and switches. A TV control center? The hub of busyness once all the cameras were rolling? Could Cameron just stay here? Well, not today. On any normal day he’d have been more than satisfied to watch the producers decide which camera angles to use and how to edit this together. But today he had the chance to do something he’d never be able to do ever again.
Still, he could take a few more seconds in here. He counted sixteen monitors, all dark except for three larger ones in the center, each showing the same picture of fireworks, ones he hoped would go off for him at the end.
This felt good. This felt natural. This is what he wanted to do with his life. No matter if he was first to get kicked out, made a total fool of himself on national TV, or otherwise messed up, it wouldn’t need to permanently mark him, not when there was the rest of his life and a world full of cameras to use.
He backed out of the room, walked a few doors down, the wrong way. He retraced his steps and waited near the bathroom for Sharryn and whatever the Games would hand him.
Cameron was ready. He could do this.
Sharryn rounded the corner just seconds later. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
He shook his head. He almost asked her about the TV room but didn’t want to get in trouble for wandering.
“You certainly look different. Throw up?”
“No,” said Cameron. “I decided I can do this.”
“Of course you can.” She handed him his videocam and led him back the way they’d come. “If you couldn’t, you wouldn’t be here. Our challenges are designed to weed out people who can’t do this.”
“Really?”
“Really. And how does that make you feel?”
“Even better.”
“Then my job here is done.” Sharryn stopped at a door. “Your journey continues inside.” She squeezed his shoulder. “It was a pleasure, Cameron. You can do this.”
He smiled and held up his camera. “Can I record that?”
“Of course.” She planted her feet and looked straight into the lens. “You can do this, Cameron. And even better, you finally know you can. Now, go in there.”
Cameron kept recording, his hand turning the doorknob, the vestibule inside, the blue door and the orange door opposite him, the faces. Faces? The guides!
“Cameron!” said Carol.
“Welcome!” said Bill. “Whose team do you want to be on? Mine or hers?”
Cameron held the videocam as a barrier between him and his answer. Did he really have to—
“No doubt,” said Bill. “He wins for the most alarmed reaction so far.”
Carol put a little pressure on Cameron’s arm. He lowered the camera. �
�You don’t have to choose,” she said. “Not that way.”
Cameron breathed.
“It’s the luck of the draw,” said Bill. He held up a large wooden block with three jester heads sticking out. There was also one hole where apparently a jester used to be.
“Here’s the drill,” said Bill. “Boys pick from my block; girls, from hers.”
Carol’s block had four jesters remaining. “If your jester’s wearing an orange shirt, you’re on the Orange Team with me.”
“And if your jester’s wearing a blue shirt, you’re with me on the Blue Team,” said Bill. “Choose wisely.”
Cameron’s hand hovered over the jester in the far corner; then he grabbed one in front.
“Oh, yeah,” said Bill. “I have my first boy!” He opened the blue door for Cameron. “Go ahead in. I’ll be with you in a few.”
Inside the blue door and above a large table was a ceiling full of balloons, and around him were walls with fun-house mirrors and giant toys.
A girl with bouncy reddish blond hair stood behind a chair. She carried herself like she planned to be the next Bianca, except her eyes weren’t as, um, well, he didn’t know what the right word was. They actually looked a little mean. “Who are you?” she said to Cameron. “Kid or camera crew?”
“Kid,” said Cameron.
“And what’s this on your camera?”
Cameron felt his head start to sweat. “Bianca signed it.”
“The Bianca?” said the girl. “Seriously? I so want to be her. I’m Dacey, by the way.” She looked him up and down. “And you are . . .”
“Sorry. I’m Cameron.”
“Well, if that’s not cute as all get out—Cameron with the camera.” Maybe it was supposed to sound “cute,” but her tone matched her eyes. “How’d that happen?”
Cameron ran his free hand over a chair back. He wanted to shrug and keep filming, but he needed to start this team thing off right. “When I was born, my grandmother misheard my dad, thought he’d said my name was Camera. I mean, who names a kid Camera?”
“My middle name is Table.”