Pop Quiz

by Tom Ryan

  We sit in silence for a few moments.

  “Let’s get out of here,” says Anais, standing up from the table.

  “Wait a minute,” says Satri. “The mall was your idea.”

  “I can’t just sit around like this,” she says. “I feel like we need to do something.”

  She turns and begins walking toward the escalator. I glance at Satri.

  “You’re the one who wanted to hang out with her,” he says.

  “Are you coming or not?” I ask him as I grab my backpack.

  “Oh man,” he says, grumbling. “I really wanted an Orange Julius.”

  We follow Anais through the main level of the mall. A group of girls a couple of years younger than us push through the doors at the main entrance. They’re giggling and laughing excitedly.

  “Oh hey,” says one of the girls. “Those guys are in Pop Quiz.”

  The group turns to stare, more curious than excited.

  “Is it true?” one of them asks. “Has Pop Quiz been canceled?”

  “Yeah,” says Anais. “It’s a bummer.”

  Another girl shrugs. “I guess so. It’s been on TV, like, forever though. I don’t know anyone who watches it anymore.”

  “So I guess you don’t want my autograph?” asks Satri.

  “I mean, no offense or whatever,” the girl says. “I don’t watch anything on TV anymore. I just, like, watch stuff on my phone and whatever.”

  “Come on,” says another girl. “Let’s go. I need to buy lip gloss.”

  The group scurries away into the mall.

  “Well, that was fun,” says Satri.

  “It’s so weird,” says Anais. “I’ve been acting since I was a kid. Now we’re just supposed to go back to the real world?”

  “There’s got to be something we can do,” I say.

  “Like what?” asks Satri. “We’re not even in high school yet. How are we supposed to fix anything?”

  “Besides,” says Anais. “You heard those girls. Nobody watches us anymore.”

  “Well, I care about this show, and I know I’m not the only one,” I say. “I’m going to do what I can to keep it on the air.”

  “If nobody is watching TV anymore,” says Satri, “then what’s the point?”

  “Maybe that’s it!” says Anais. We both turn to look at her.

  “If the problem is that nobody watches Pop Quiz on TV anymore,” she says, “maybe we should forget about TV and try to get it online instead.”

  “You mean like WowKids?” asks Satri.

  “Exactly,” she says. “They do that show all by themselves, in their basements and backyards. They upload it for free, and they have, like, a zillion viewers.”

  I think about this for a second. “It kind of makes sense,” I say. “I could make a video of the three of us right now and put it online in three minutes. Why can’t we do the same thing with Pop Quiz?”

  “You guys might be on to something,” says Satri.

  “So what do we do now?” I ask.

  “We go see Bill,” says Anais.

  Nine

  Bill is working in the editing studio, a big old converted house on a quiet tree-lined street. The entrance has been turned into a lobby with brightly painted walls and framed posters of TV shows and movies.

  We tell the receptionist we’re there to see Bill, and she buzzes him. A couple of minutes later Bill comes down the stairs.

  “What a surprise,” he says. “Three of my favorite people.”

  “We’re sorry to bug you, Bill,” I say. “If you’re too busy we can come back.”

  “Not a problem,” says Bill. “We were just about to take a break. Come on up.”

  We follow him up the stairs. I glance in the open doorways as we follow him down the hallway. In the darkened rooms, editors are working in front of large monitors. I catch glimpses of clips from various commercials and cartoons on the giant screens.

  “This place is cool,” Satri whispers.

  At the end of the hallway Bill takes us into a big room with a table and chairs, two large TV screens mounted to the wall, and a long desk with several monitors and random technical equipment on it. A young black woman with pale-blue hair is sitting at the desk. She spins around in her chair and smiles at us.

  “Guys, this is Bree,” says Bill. “Best editor in town. I doubt I have to introduce these guys, Bree.”

  Bree laughs. “Nope. I’ve been staring at them all morning.” She gestures to the screen behind her, and I realize there’s a clip of Dane and Penny loaded into the editing program.

  “We’ve been working on your scene all morning,” says Bill. “Bree, why don’t you take a break for a few. Stretch your legs.”

  She gets up from her chair and heads for the door. “Sounds like a good idea. I’ll bring you back a coffee.”

  “Have a seat,” says Bill. We slide into chairs around the table, and Bill takes Bree’s chair. “So how’s it going, guys?” he asks. He sounds exhausted, but I’m happy to hear the Chill Bill cheerfulness back in his voice.

  “We’re good, Bill,” says Anais. “How are you though?”

  He leans back. “I’m good,” he says. “Thanks for asking. I was pretty upset at the party the other day. Not very chill of me.”

  “You were kind of an Ill Bill,’ ” says Satri.

  Bill smiles. “You can all relax. I’m still Bill. I just kind of lost it when I found out about the show.”

  “Do you think that’s it?” I ask. “Is the show really done?”

  “It looks that way,” he says. He smiles sadly. “But at least we can be proud that we had a good run.”

  I glance at Satri and Anais. Anais stares at me, then at Bill, then back at me. I get the message.

  “That’s kind of why we wanted to talk to you, Bill,” I say.

  “Okay,” he says. “Go on.”

  “Well, it’s kind of like…” I realize I don’t know how to explain our idea.

  “Have you seen WowKids?” Satri blurts out.

  “Of course,” says Bill. “It’s everywhere. It’s all anyone is talking about lately. I love it.”

  “You watch it?” asks Anais, as surprised as I am.

  “Yeah,” Bill says. “Don’t forget I make TV shows for young people. I have to pay attention to what’s popular. WowKids is hilarious.”

  “It’s so hilarious,” says Satri. “It’s, like, my favorite show of all time.”

  “Your favorite of all time?” asks Bill.

  “Yeah,” says Satri. “Totally. You know how it is, Bill. Nobody watches TV anymore.”

  I poke Satri in the ribs. “You’re not making him feel any better,” I whisper.

  “No, it’s okay,” says Bill. “It’s just the reality these days. Everything is online. It’s hard to compete.”

  The three of us exchange a look.

  “That’s what we’re here to talk to you about, Bill,” says Anais.

  Bill doesn’t say anything, but folds his hands behind his head. He’s obviously curious.

  “Shoot,” he says.

  “So it’s just like you were saying,” says Anais. “TV is too expensive these days, and kids aren’t watching it anyway, right?”

  “Not as much as they used to, that’s for sure,” he says. “Go on.”

  “Well, think of WowKids,” I say. “They do a new video every week, and they do it all themselves! They just put it online and they get all those views.”

  “They had almost ninety thousand views last month alone!” says Satri.

  “Unbelievable,” says Bill. He shakes his head.

  “So I guess what we’re wondering is,” I say, “why don’t we do that ourselves? We don’t need to be on TV. We just make the show and put it online instead. YouTube is free!”

  Bill smiles, but it’s not a “freaking out with excitement at our incredible ide
a” kind of smile.

  “I see what you guys are saying,” he says, “but it doesn’t solve our big problem. A show like WowKids doesn’t cost any money to produce. It’s just some kids in a basement coming up with funny ideas and then filming it all on their phones. Pop Quiz isn’t nearly that simple. We need to rent equipment and space, and feed the cast and crew, and most important, we have to pay all the people who work on the show. Including you guys, don’t forget.”

  Anais looks deflated. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess that’s right. It was kind of a stupid idea.”

  “Not at all,” says Bill in his kind, Chill Bill voice. “I love that you’re so keen to keep the show going. I was beginning to think I was the only one who still cared.”

  “Come on, Bill,” says Satri. “How can you say that? We all love the show.”

  “I know,” he says. “I’ve just been feeling sorry for myself the last couple of days. If you guys want my advice, you should take advantage of this new reality. Spend some time being kids while you still can. I know Pop Quiz was fun, but sometimes it’s nice to spend your summer without a schedule.”

  “My parents want me to get a job at an ice-cream parlour,” I say.

  “Oh, sweet,” says Satri. “Can you hook me up with free sundaes for life?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be doing it for life, Satri,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Well, now that your acting career is in the trash, you’ll have to figure out something to do for a living.”

  Ten

  Pop Quiz is dead, and it has finally started to sink in.

  I try to keep myself busy, so that I won’t think about the show. My parents are all too happy to give me things to do, and I spend a lot of time in the yard, mowing the lawn, weeding the garden and doing a crappy job of repainting some wooden chairs that have been out in the backyard for years.

  Satri and I go to the community pool near his house a couple of times, but it’s overrun with little kids and gets boring quick. One afternoon we take the bus to Lake Birch, where there’s a small beach, and that’s a lot more fun. We swim, hang out on the sand and watch girls. It almost feels like we’re normal teenagers again.

  One hot afternoon when Satri is busy and my parents have somehow forgotten to give me any chores, I find myself wishing I had something to do. I’d like to hang out with Anais, but I’m too shy to get in touch with her on my own. I know it’s stupid, but I don’t want her to think I’m a loser. It’s just easier to hang out with her and Satri, as a group, at least for now.

  I’m bored stiff sitting around the house, so I head out for a walk, going nowhere in particular. I wander through the neighborhood, wondering if some of my old friends are around to play basketball or something. But the sidewalks are empty, and when I get to the basketball court at the elementary school, there are a bunch of kids playing. Too small for me to join in.

  I stop and watch them for a few minutes. It’s not long before I’m noticed.

  “Hey, Aiden!” yells one of the kids. It’s Sanaa, who is ten and pretty much the leader of the younger kids in my neighborhood. She’s always racing around with a gaggle of followers.

  “Shouldn’t you be home getting your TV makeup done?” she asks. The kids who are with her burst out laughing at her stupid joke. Then they all lose interest and go back to their game.

  I find myself walking to the movie theater.

  I’ve always loved the movies. The smell of popcorn, the comfy seats, the way the chatter dies down as the lights dim and the trailers begin. Best of all, I love being able to forget about the world for two hours. My phone is turned off, and nobody is going to bother me. It’s just me and the big screen.

  I buy a ticket for Seven Skills, about a group of teenage superheroes. I like it. It’s a big Hollywood blockbuster, with cool special effects and lots of action. There’s just one problem—the actors. It’s not that they aren’t any good. In fact, they’re great. It’s just that they’re all around my age. Soon I’ve stopped paying attention to the movie and started wondering how they got these parts.

  Until Bill told us that we were going to be promoted to big roles for next season, I’d never really thought about acting in the future. Pop Quiz was just a fun thing to do, a neat summer job with lots of cool co-workers. Now I feel like a rug has been pulled out from beneath me, and just like that my acting career has gone up in smoke.

  I leave the movie in a worse mood than when I came in. I’m walking through the lobby in a funk when I hear a voice that sounds kind of familiar.

  Standing in the concession lineup is Seth March, Pop Quiz’s most famous former cast member. He’s talking to a couple behind him, a man and woman in their early twenties.

  “Yep,” he’s saying. “It’s hard to go out without being recognized, even after all these years off the air.”

  “This is so exciting,” says the woman. “I’ve never met a real celebrity before. I mean, you see the Pop Quiz kids around town all the time, but you’re big-time! You’re TicTac Tucker!”

  I quickly turn so they won’t notice me. I pull my phone out of my pocket and pretend to look at it as I keep listening.

  “So what’s the deal?” asks the man. “You just here for old times’ sake? You heading back to Hollywood soon?”

  Seth March laughs. “Actually, I moved back here a few months ago.”

  “Really?” asks the woman. “Why?” From the tone of her voice you’d think he had just said he’d been sentenced to prison.

  “Oh, you know,” says Seth. “I’ve still got friends and family here. It felt like time for a change.”

  “Are you still acting?” asks the man.

  “I’m between projects,” says Seth. “Trying to keep my options open. I’ve been doing a lot of writing, actually. You never know what opportunities might pop up.”

  They reach the front of the line, and Seth turns to the clerk to make his order. I can’t very well keep following him around, so I leave before I’m noticed.

  But my mood has lifted. I have an idea.

  Eleven

  It’s a lot easier than I thought it would be to find out where Seth March lives. I try the online phone directory, and there he is, under March, S., with an address and everything.

  I’m not sure what to expect. I guess if I’d thought about it at all, I would have imagined something more dramatic and glamorous—a big house on a hill or a cool loft-style apartment or, at the very least, a nice house in a nice neighborhood.

  So the drab, nondescript apartment building on the wrong side of town is a bit of a surprise. The glass door is propped open by a brick. Next to the door is an overflowing cigarette bin. As I stand on the sidewalk, double-checking the address on my phone, a woman shuffles past me. She’s loaded down with groceries, two small kids behind her. She gets to the door and tries to kick it open with her foot.

  “Perry!” she says, “Larry! Help me open the door!”

  The kids ignore her, too busy looking at their phones. I snap out of my daze and rush up the walk to grab the door. She gives me a weary smile.

  “Come on, kids,” she says, and the boys, without looking up from their gadgets, squeeze past me into the small lobby. The woman drops her groceries on the floor and digs through her purse for keys. I stare up at the list of names. Sure enough, there it is. S. March 305 is written in ballpoint pen on a small piece of cardboard. I wait, wondering if I should press the buzzer or not.

  “You want in?”

  “Huh?” I turn back and realize the woman now has the inside door open and is holding it for me. The boys have scurried ahead of her and are already at the first landing, moving out of sight as they make the turn.

  “Wait for me, kids!” she yells after them. She looks back at me. “You want in or not?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I grab a few of her bags and she mumbles another thank-you, and then I follo
w her up the stairs.

  We stop outside a door on the third floor. The two boys are standing on either side, waiting for her to open it. She unlocks the door, and the kids push past her into the apartment.

  “Thanks a bunch,” she says, taking the rest of the bags from me.

  “No problem,” I say. She disappears into the apartment, and I continue down the hall. Standing in front of 305, I can hear music from inside the apartment, and my nerve escapes me for the second time.

  I am about to leave when the woman sticks her head back out into the hallway to pick up the rest of her bags.

  “He’s there,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “He’s in there. He never leaves. Not sure if you knocked, but you should try again—louder. He just stays inside listening to music all day.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Okay, thanks.”

  She disappears back into her apartment, and the door shuts behind her.

  Before I can change my mind again, I knock on the door. Quietly at first, then with a loud bang. The music shuts off abruptly, and then I hear someone moving around.

  “Who is it?” a voice calls from the other side of the door.

  “Mr. March?” I ask weakly.

  “Who the heck is out there?”

  I don’t know what to say, and I’m about to run away down the hallway, when the door opens and Seth March is standing in front of me.

  “This had better be important,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say, without even realizing I’m saying it. “I think I have the wrong place.”

  I turn, but he reaches out and grabs me by the arm.

  “Hang on,” he says. “You’re the kid who plays Dane.”

  “You know me?” I ask, surprised.

  “Of course I know you,” he says. “I watch every episode of Pop Quiz. It’s the TV show I hate the very most in the entire world.” He chuckles, although something tells me he’s not joking.

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “That’s me.”

  “Come on in.” He turns and heads back into the apartment.

  I stand in the open door, not sure what is going on.