The New Champion

by Jody Feldman

  “He’s not,” Dacey said too fast. “Your sense of humor take that vacation? Or did your brains?”

  “Oh, no,” said Clio. “Just stop.” She pointed to the words I Sue Pret hurt some needy weak puzzle doers—it didn’t even look like a sentence.

  “Besides the fact it’s missing a bunch of punctuation—”

  “Like Lavinia noticed last year,” said Dacey. “She was such a geek, but so smart. Did you see her at regionals? She’s prettier than I thought she could ever be.”

  “And the reason that’s important?” said Estella.

  Clio shot her a look.

  “Sorry,” Estella said. “Now I’m done. Punctuation? I say no. They wouldn’t give us a rerun from last year.”

  “Agreed,” said Jig. “But it’s still weird. What kind of name is Sue Pret? They didn’t pick it out of nowhere.”

  Obviously. Or maybe it was obvious only to Cameron. “They made up that name so they could spell the choices.”

  Clio leaned into the puzzle. “He’s right! You’re right!” She pointed and spelled at the same time: “R-E-T-R-O-W-A-R-S.” All the letters were in the sentence, in order. “Wait. Supreme Dazzlers and Super Sneeze are in order, too!”

  “Which is a major big problem,” said Dacey, “because we’re no closer than we were ten years ago.”

  “Sure we are,” said Clio. “It gives us a place to start.”

  Dacey shook her head. “What if it’s coincidence?”

  “They don’t give us puzzle instructions,” said Jig, “so they have to give us something.”

  They stood around the puzzle. Not even Dacey was thinking out loud.

  The silence, though, let Cameron think. All the letters of each choice were in order, but not in any noticeable pattern. Not every other letter or every third letter or anything like that and—

  “All I know,” Dacey said, breaking the silence, “if it’s Supreme Dazzlers, I’ll rock the stunt. Every year when the new version came out, I’d beg my mama to buy it. And she did. But my luck it’ll be Super Sneeze and we’ll have to crawl into some snot-filled nose.”

  Jig laughed. “The nose is over in that far corner. I saw it.”

  “Gross.”

  “But none of that brings us closer to the answer,” said Estella.

  “Right,” Clio said. “So all the letters of all three choices . . .”

  Cameron started to raise his hand, but that was stupid. “Um.” He scratched his head instead. “I was trying to see if every third letter or sixth letter or something like that spelled out one of the choices, but I don’t see a pattern yet.”

  Jig tapped his finger on the puzzle paper. “Okay, okay.”

  Cameron looked again.

  I Sue Pret hurt some needy weak puzzle doers

  “Thank goodness we’re not looking for hidden meanings in the words,” said Dacey.

  Cameron tried to ignore her or anything that didn’t push them forward.

  “There are thirty-six letters in this wonky sentence,” Jig said, running with Cameron’s thought. “If we number the letters, in order from one to thirty-six, maybe we’ll find something.”

  “I have good penmanship,” said Dacey. “I’ll write it down.” She spaced the letters across two rows. Below them, she wrote the corresponding numbers.

  Meanwhile, Cameron wrote the numbers that corresponded to the letters in RetroWars: 6, 7, 8, 11, 14, 24, 35, 36.

  Clio stood right next to him. “What’s this, Cameron?”

  “RetroWars with its corresponding number form, but I don’t see a pattern.”

  “Explain,” said Estella. “Why did you use seven for the E? The four is an E, and so are the sixteen and all those others.”

  “The choices are all spelled out in order,” said Cameron. “So the E we use has to come after the first R and before the first T. Otherwise, we’d be jumping all over the place.”

  “Right,” said Clio. “Okay, everyone. So Cameron wrote the numbers that correspond to RetroWars. Look for some pattern while we write the numbers of the other two.”

  Cameron took on Supreme Dazzlers: 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 15, 16 (or 18 or 19), 24, 28, 29, 31 (or 34), 35, 36.

  “I don’t see anything here,” he said, “but it’s confusing. Two of the letters can have different numbers.”

  “And Super Sneeze has options for the last four.” Clio slid her paper to him: 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 18/19, 19/23, 28/29, 31/34

  “RetroWars is the only one with exact letter-number matches, right?” said Estella. “You think that’s anything?

  Silence.

  “Yeah,” said Estella. “I didn’t think so, either.”

  “Anyone want to trade number sequences?” Jig asked. “I got nothing here.”

  Cameron didn’t want to. There was something about this one, about Super Sneeze. It started with seven no-choice numbers: 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17. All odd except for the 2. Then came four numbers with choices, but one option was always odd. If only he could get rid of that stinkin’ 2. He slammed the paper to the table.

  “What?” said Clio.

  “Super Sneeze? All the numbers could be odd except they had to throw in that two to spoil everything.”

  Clio turned the paper toward her. “You’re good,” she said. “He’s good,” she said louder so everyone could hear.

  “He got it?” Dacey asked.

  “He got me to get it. Look,” said Clio.

  And Cameron saw it, too. “Prime numbers,” he said. “Super Sneeze can be made with all the prime numbers in the sentence.”

  “That’s a math thing, right?” said Dacey.

  “Yeah,” said Estella. “Prime numbers: any numbers higher than one, divisible only by one and its own self.”

  Cameron waited for some rude comment, but nothing came.

  “But what about the option numbers in Super Sneeze?” Dacey said. “Y’all think we can ignore those?”

  “I say we go with it. Make up some time. Hey, you Golly people!” Jig looked toward the ceiling as if they’d be there. “We logically think the letters in Super Sneeze correspond to prime numbers. If we’re wrong, don’t give us a penalty. Okay?”

  Silence.

  “You expected an answer?” Dacey said.

  “Why are you trying so hard to get on everyone’s nerves?” Jig opened Super Sneeze.

  Stunt #3

  * * * * * * * * * * *

  Primed for passing?

  Yes? No?

  The nose knows.

  “It’s the giant nose,” Jig said in Dacey’s face. Then he took off toward the far corner.

  There it was. A nose taller than Cameron, its nostrils like twin tunnels. To the side was another card over a playpen of footballs.

  Stunt #3

  * * * * * * * * * * *

  It’s really quite simple a stunt.

  You don’t need to run or to punt.

  Just pass ten of those

  through our very big nose,

  then stand three feet out from its front.

  ***Additional rules: (1) Each person must pass one ball into each nostril from behind the blue line; to count, the ball must remain fully inside the nostril. (2) When you’ve accomplished that, stand three feet from the nose in the marked green area. (3) You should soon know what to do next.

  Jig already had a ball in each hand. “Let’s throw snot balls into the nose. Blue line’s way back here.”

  It was at least twenty feet away. Cameron grabbed two balls, and so did the others.

  “Holy gracious me!” said Dacey. “I need to throw a football all the way there? I can do lots of things, but holy gracious me.”

  “It’s better than searching inside a snot-filled nose,” said Estella.

  Dacey laughed. “Sure as spit.”

  “We’ll figure out a way to help you,” said Clio.

  Jig got behind the line. The others watched. “I’m not the sideshow,” he said. “Someone throw to the other nostril.” And he launched a perfect spiral into
his.

  Clio heaved back and got hers in, too. “It’s a huge target. Just go for it.”

  Jig made his second, and Cameron stepped up from behind him. He took a big heave and launched the football too high in the air.

  “Not so much adrenaline,” said Jig, running to fetch the ball.

  Clio got her second one in, and Estella stepped up next. “Don’t watch,” she said. “I throw like a girl.”

  “You are a girl,” said Dacey.

  “Still doesn’t mean I want to throw like one.”

  Cameron put his second ball down so he could get a better feel for this. He took a look at his target and visualized the way Spencer might throw the ball. His pass came off a little wobbly, but it hit the mark.

  Estella’s fell short.

  “Throw your second one, Estella,” Clio said. “We’ll get you another.”

  Jig was already chasing after it.

  Estella threw, this time underhanded. The ball arced up and up and came down just in time to clear the opening.

  Cameron stepped from behind her and got his second in. He moved aside to make room for Dacey.

  “Don’t laugh, y’all,” she said. She twisted her whole torso to the right and seemed to throw the ball with her body. No extension of her arm.

  “So I guess they taught you to wave in pageant land but not to throw,” said Jig.

  “Oh, I can throw kisses with the best of them.”

  “Show me how you do that,” he said.

  Dacey put her hand on her hip. “I get the point. You can stop teasin’ me.”

  “No teasing,” said Jig. “I’m gonna use that to teach you how to throw.”

  “Fine.” Dacey put her hand to her mouth, then flung it toward the heavens.

  “Good. Good,” said Jig. “Same motion, but just the reverse. Hold the ball to the outside of your body, then do the kissing motion forward.”

  Dacey tried, but the ball sailed way to the left.

  Jig stood next to her. “You have distance, and I have a new tactic. Use your normal kiss-throwing motion, but”—he grabbed her shoulders and turned her so her right side faced the nostril—“start with the ball at your waist, as if your lips were there; then throw that kiss.”

  The ball bounced short, then sideways, then back, then it rolled and rolled and in!

  “Do it again,” he said.

  It took her three more tries, but she got it.

  “You done, Estella?” said Jig.

  “I took care of it while you were all watching the Dacey show.”

  “Everyone!” Clio called. “Green area!”

  They squeezed in. Steam poured from the nose. It let out some gasps. “Ah-ah-ah.” It stopped. “Ah-choo!” Out flew hundreds of slime-covered, acorn-sized brown balls, dodgeball style.

  Dacey started retreating, but Cameron grabbed her arm and held her in the green area.

  The slime balls stopped coming. Now what? Nothing came. No clue, no lights, no noises, no nothing.

  “Bless you?” Clio said to the nose.

  Out shot some boxes of tissues.

  “Don’t tell me we need to wipe the slime balls,” Estella said. “I wipe enough boogery noses at home.” She pulled out a hunk of tissues and wiped one ball down anyway.

  Cameron followed her lead. So gross, but underneath the slime? Words.

  If they needed every slime ball for the next puzzle, they’d be hunting them down through Thanksgiving. All the balls they saw, though, had the same two words: “green wall.”

  Three of the warehouse walls were sky blue; only the fourth was the color of grass. Without saying a word, they raced toward the front corner, then made their way along the green wall. A table near the middle had their choices: Who’s There?, Things that Go Bump, and Baby Chat-a-Lot.

  Bill jumped off a refrigerator.

  Dacey screamed.

  “Good,” said Bill. “You’re awake.

  “Great job on the nose, but not good enough. You picked up only thirty-one seconds. Somehow, you need to find nearly five and a half minutes or I’ll be wearing my little maid outfit for a year. And that could be ugly. Now go!”

  Estella opened the envelope.

  Puzzle #4

  * * * * * * * * * * *

  trenchcoat bookmark window whiplash however bubbly igloo otter noodles scratchy nefarious xylophone serpent elephant trunk tickle trench hurricane eyewash frumpy artichoke femur ragamuffin hopscotch butterscotch moss projectile meanwhile end

  “Well, this is pretty much garbage,” she said. “It’s like they threw the dictionary into a shredder.”

  “Only after they let a bunch of words escape,” said Clio. “Why these?”

  “Isn’t that the point of the puzzle?” Dacey said.

  Clio took in a deep breath. “Right,” she said on exhale.

  “At least end is at the end,” Jig said.

  “Which isn’t good,” said Estella. “If it weren’t at the end, it might give us the tape bump.”

  “The what?” Dacey had that tone in her voice again.

  Cameron tensed, but Clio leaned in, ready to handle it.

  “You have a roll of tape, but you can’t find the end, right? Then you hold it to the light and see where to pick at it to get it going. That’s the tape bump.”

  Cameron liked the comparison, but Dacey’s mouth was gearing up to disagree. Five minutes. They needed to make up five minutes. He needed to head her off. “You mean, a clue,” he said. “Like how the first two words are compound words. So are some of the others.” He’d already thrown away that idea, but anything to stop the sniping.

  Estella nodded.

  “So, compound words,” said Dacey. “That’s our tape bump?”

  If he said no, she’d probably yell at him for throwing out a lame idea. “Um, well . . .”

  “So that’s a no,” she said.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Then why—”

  Clio took a step toward her. “It’s called brainstorming, Dacey. And now we know: no compound words. No definitions, either. Too many words to connect. They wouldn’t do that.”

  “They can be mean,” said Dacey.

  “Not that mean.”

  Not counting the ongoing crackle of tension, it was quiet. Even so, Cameron wanted to find that cave and buy himself some space to find the tape bump.

  “Some of the words look connected,” Estella said, apparently ignoring the tension. “Window and whiplash both start with W.”

  “And?”

  “I wasn’t finished, Dacey, because there’s elephant trunk, which is a term. And hurricane eyewash. And before you say anything, I know hurricanes don’t wash their eyes. All I’m saying, there’s such a thing as a hurricane eye, and it’s interesting how those words are in that order. Also hopscotch and butterscotch, both end the same. And projectile and meanwhile.”

  “But what does that mean?” Dacey asked.

  “I’m just throwing it out there. Isn’t that what we do?”

  “Fine.”

  There was something in what Estella just said. Cameron wiggled his fingers in the air as if he could almost feel a bump.

  “Twenty-nine words,” said Jig.

  “Huh?” Estella said.

  “There’re twenty-nine words in this puzzle. None of the choices have that many letters, but like the last puzzle, all the letters of all our choices appear in order.”

  “They wouldn’t do that again,” Clio said. “That’s not how they work.”

  “Unless it is,” said Dacey. “What if they’re trying to throw us off?”

  Clio gave a small nod. “Possible.”

  It was possible. At least it was a place to start. First on the table: Who’s There? All the letters in order. There were two W’s in window, then a third, immediately, in whiplash, which had two H’s. And the second H butted up to the H in however. He put his index finger near the adjoining W’s and his middle finger on the neighboring H’s. O’s next. It was swimming with them: bo
okmark, then igloo otter noodles. Two together, three in a row, then two more. But the choices had only one O each.

  “Hmm,” he said, or breathed, really. “Could be two letters together, just not—”

  “Don’t get all quiet on me,” said Clio. “What are you thinking?”

  He turned to her. “It’s—”

  “No,” she said. “Faster if you say it to everyone.”

  They were all looking at him.

  “I’m not sure if I’ll make sense and—”

  “Just spit it out,” said Dacey.

  “Double letters. There are all these double letters.”

  He pulled the puzzle toward him.

  trenchcoat bookmark window whiplash however bubbly igloo otter noodles scratchy nefarious xylophone serpent elephant trunk tickle trench hurricane eyewash frumpy artichoke femur ragamuffin hopscotch butterscotch moss projectile meanwhile end

  “It’s almost like double letters in this list spell out a choice, but there are too many double O’s. Even a triple O.”

  Silence. They kept looking at him.

  “Explain,” Jig said.

  “I keep wanting to use double letters to spell the name of, say, Who’s There?” said Cameron. “First letter, W. Window ends in a W, and whiplash starts with a W. So two W’s together. But that means we’ve already thrown away the first set of double letters, the O’s in bookmark, and none of our choices start with O.”

  A pair of arms had him in a headlock. But it wasn’t Spencer. It was Jig. “You got it.”

  “But—”

  “Forget all the double letters. It’s when one letter ends a word and the same letter starts the next one. Those letters spell out this!” Jig bonked Cameron’s head with Who’s There?, then opened the box.

  None of the game’s pieces were inside; just small, black boxes, each with a single button in its center. Remotes. At least that’s what they looked like. Also a small card:

  Stunt #4

  * * * * * * * * * * *

  Point your signalers to the top of the green wall. Press your buttons at the exact same time (or as exact as humanly possible). You’ll know if you weren’t exact enough. No penalty for trying again, unless you count the time you wasted. Go!