“Pop quiz,” he says.
“Great. Just what I want in the summer.”
“How many countries are there on earth right now?”
I’m just curious enough to play along. “Fifty?”
“Hundred and ninety-five.”
“Wow. Really?”
He points to the world map on his wall. “And of those hundred and ninety-five, guess how many existed a thousand years ago, by today’s standards?”
“Twelve?”
“Zero. They all vanished, or transformed into different versions of themselves.”
“Great,” I say. “Thanks for the history lesson.”
“Now let me ask you this,” he says, pacing with his hands behind his back like he’s giving a TED Talk. “If the map looked completely different a thousand years ago, despite having the exact same landmasses… what do you think it’ll look like a thousand years from now?”
“I have no idea.”
“Exactly. None of us do. How could we? How could someone back in 1000 AD have predicted the United States? In Europe, they didn’t even know North America existed. The map will completely transform again.”
“What’s your point?” I say.
“My point is… in the long view… the concept of a nation-state is actually pretty flimsy. You might even say it feels a little… made up.”
It feels the opposite of that, I think. There are borders. Fences. Signs. Guards. The lines couldn’t be more clear. They’re right on the map.
“My point,” he continues, raising his eyebrows dramatically, “is you have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here. All you have to do is reach out and grab it.”
21
Ifrown. “Some stupid online petition isn’t going to change anything, Franny.”
“I’m not talking about a petition,” he says, voice charged with excitement that actually feels genuine. “We need to do something bigger. If you can’t represent America… why not just be your own country?”
“Ha.”
“I’m serious. Tell me why not?”
“Well, for starters—setting aside the fact that I don’t own any land—which would make it hard to start a country—the competition is in—”
“Two weeks. Three hundred and thirty-four hours. That’s plenty of time. All you need is to pick a name, make a flag, a few other small details. I mean, if your country can’t produce some official letterhead in two weeks, we should just close up shop now.…”
“We?”
“Well naturally you’ll need someone you trust to set up the IP address, since I assume this will be a digital territory.”
“Digital?”
“Yup. We’ll put your country online. It’ll be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. All you need is Wi-Fi and you’re there!”
I have to admit… for about a half second… I’m intrigued.
I mean, what even is a country?
A bunch of lines on a map? A group of humans who all happen to have been born in the same geographic area, with no say in the matter whatsoever?
Isn’t that sort of random?
Why did I never question that before?
But then I crash back to reality.
“No,” I say, eyeing the dirty socks on his floor. “No way. Babblemoney will never go for it.”
“But she will! She will! Trust me! All she cares about is—”
“Cut the crap, Franny. What’s your angle here?”
“Angle?”
“Why do you want this so bad?”
He clutches his heart. Wounded. “But Grant. I’m your brother.…”
I laugh. “You think I’m gonna fall for that? Anything you’ve ever done has been to help yourself.”
He stares out the window, chewing the inside of his cheek. When he turns back, it’s weird. It’s like my little brother—the mop-haired boy I used to make silly movies with in the backyard, who used to bring bright pink poster boards to my track meets saying THAT’S MY BROTHER!!!—he’s back.
“You know why you can trust me?” he says. “Because you’re right. I am doing this for myself. All these years, while you’re out there winning races, the golden boy… I’ve been in here working, making these stupid videos… knowing that one day I’d use this platform for an actually worthy cause. Well, up in New York I realized the answer was right there in front of me all along.” He points. “It’s you.”
“Me?”
“We can do this,” he says, practically vibrating with excitement. “I’m telling you. Even if the idea is ridiculous—which it is, clearly—it’s built on top of something real. We’re all online these days… these digital versions of ourselves… kings and queens of our own domains. The physical place you were born—that’s the old way of thinking!”
I tap my finger on my bottom lip, excited about this idea but also remembering our family motto. “Skepsis!” Question everything.
“How would it work?” I ask.
“Simple. We make a vlog about your quest to enter the competition. We tell your story—the scrappy underdog following his dream. We build subscribers… but instead of subscribers we call them your citizens. We use the existing infrastructure of social media… but transform it into something totally new!”
“I still don’t see how this helps me get into the race,” I say.
Franny closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He gets frustrated when people can’t see twelve moves ahead like he does. “Just trust me, okay? With my help, we’ll grow your presence—your country—so big that Babblemoney will recognize the PR potential… and she’ll let you in. This is all just one big commercial for her anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it. Just focus on what we can do right now.”
I look over at his fake Nobel Prize on the wall. His falling-apart IKEA desk. I’m scared to trust him… but I find myself believing in what he’s saying. What’s really happening? Do I just want this so badly that I’m willing to grasp at any wisp of hope, even if it might vanish from my hands and make all this hurt even more? Or is he really onto something? I say, “You remember what Babblemoney said in New York?”
“Funny you should mention that.”
He has the video queued up on his computer.
He plays it:
“But guess what? Little news flash for you, missy. We’re not living in your world. You’re living in mine. So don’t you come here, to my event, and presume to tell me right from wrong.”
“That was messed up,” Franny says. “You don’t talk to Mama Falloon like that.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t.”
We had a secret brother handshake once, I think. But I’ve long-forgotten it. The only history between us is ancient. If we’re going to do this, we’ll have to build atop the ruins. “I’m in,” I say, extending my hand. “How do we start?”
22
At first we develop our plan in secret. We need to work out the bugs, or it could flop. But pretty soon we realize we’re gonna need help. It’s not like we—a thirteen- and a twelve-year-old—can just sneak out of the house and fly to California.
The first person I tell—no surprise—is Jay.
G: hey bro
G: so this is gonna sound weird…
G: but franny had this idea 2 get me into the babblemoney race by starting our own country
J: uh
J: what
G: he thinks it can work
G: and i kinda do too
J: how can u just start a country
J: don’t u need like… land
G: we’re gonna put it online
J: lol
G: no im serious
J: bro that’s genius!
J: i mean it’s nuts
J: but who knows
J: if anyone could pull it off it’s franny
J: wut ur parents say
G: didn’t tell ’em yet…
Next morning me and Franny call a Family Council.
“M
om, Dad,” I say, standing in front of the fish tank in the living room. “Thank you for joining us today.” I’m wearing mesh shorts, a T-shirt, slip-on sandals. Franny’s wearing an oversize thrift store suit, blue with a red tie.
Mom’s legs are bouncing with excitement. This is only the second time her boys have ever cosponsored something.
“We realize this is unusual,” I say. “The two of us up here. Together.”
“For years we’ve backstabbed each other,” Franny says. “Torn each other down at every opportunity. And what good has it ever done? Where has it ever gotten us?”
“Nowhere,” I say.
“After what happened in New York,” he says, “we realized it was time to set aside our differences—”
“Reach across the aisle—”
“Come together, work for the common good—”
“A house divided against itself cannot stand,” I say.
Nailed it.
Mom applauds. “See!” she says, elbowing Dad. “I told you they’d work things out! Sometimes it just takes a little adversity to bring—”
“Now wait just a minute,” Dad says.
Oh boy. Here we go.
“This is great, boys. Really. It’s exciting. It’s beautiful. But it all seems a bit… abrupt. Why do I get the sense that you two are up to something?”
“We are,” Franny says, grinning. “We absolutely are.”
He distributes the Information Packets.
“The way everything went down in New York,” he explains, “it really bothered me. So I did a little research, wondering if maybe there might be a way to make things right. Turns out in the terms and conditions of the Million Dollar Race it states: ‘There shall be one participant from each country.’ What it doesn’t specify—anywhere—is how many countries are eligible to enter or, more broadly, what even defines a country. We believe this leaves the matter open to interpretation.”
I translate: “Yeah. So we’re gonna start our own country. We’re gonna crash the party, force them to let us in, and fly home with that million bucks.”
“A digital country,” Franny explains, “the very first of its kind. We’re excited, but we need your help. Mom, we need your eyes on the legal stuff. Dad, we have lots to design. We wanna build this thing from the ground up!”
Mom and Dad are shoulder to shoulder on the lime-green couch. They look at each other. I can tell they love the idea, but they’re fighting it. Skeptical.
“You know how you guys moved to the commune?” I say, trying a new tactic. “Because you wanted to expand the definition of family? This is like that. But even bigger. What if we can change the definition of country? To bring people together from all around the world? Isn’t that at least worth trying?”
That does it.
“I’m in,” Mom says. “I vote yes.”
“Aye,” Dad says. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
The country’s name is the biggest piece of the puzzle, so we start brainstorming right away. We try making up some cool-sounding words, but they all sound like allergy medicines. Looking at the list of names—Zoozaloorakia, Moopoxia—Mom jokes that if Dr. Seuss were alive today, he’d be working in some pharmaceutical company’s marketing department, trying to pay off his student loans.
That gets a big laugh out of Dad.
Me and Franny roll our eyes.
“I’m taking five,” I say.
I go out to Dad’s Dracula production studio, hoping the creative vibes will inspire me. It’s spooky and dark, like always. I pace around, thinking. Come on, come on.
The name needs to feel fresh and revolutionary… but at the same time kind of classic and timeless. A bolt of fake lightning strikes, and I see it—this super-cool mythical figure!—back from the dead—just like me in the competition!
Yes! That’s it!
I race back inside and yell the name as loud as I can.
23
WELCOME TO GRANTSYLVANIA POP. 4
We print up a sign and tape it to the back of Franny’s laptop. It’s like Transylvania, the home of Dracula, but, you know.
As our newly appointed Ambassador of Arts and Culture, Dad takes it upon himself to design our flag. He does a dramatic reveal in the living room, where he pulls a bedsheet off an easel. Me and Franny and Mom are on the couch. I’m holding my phone up so that Jay—live via video chat—can be a part of the process too.
The flag looks like this:
Mom forces a smile. “It’s very… creative,” she says.
“Yes!” Dad says, rubbing his hands. “Exactly! That’s what I was going for! Something a little abstract, you know? But still clear and strong? It’s like—”
“It’s two triangles,” I say.
“Right, but—”
“Are they supposed to be mountains?” Franny asks.
Mom tilts her head. “Oh yeah! Look! I see it! They’re mountains!”
“Why are they mountains?” Jay says. “Aren’t you a digital country?”
The vein in Dad’s temple is throbbing. It’s like the time he attended his own art show in disguise and flipped out because people didn’t “get it.” He flails in frustration and accidentally knocks the poster board across the room. It hits the wall—whap!
We all look over and see it at the same time.
“Genius,” I say.
The poster board has flipped upside down. With the two triangles facing downward, they look like… Dracula fangs.
“Aw man,” Franny says. “Good work, Dad. That’s perfect!”
24
That afternoon, while Franny’s setting up the country’s IP address, I jog over to the track. Creating this Internet country is fun and all, and it might just work… but I don’t want to just get into the race. I want to win it. And that means I need to outwork all my competitors, push myself to a place they can’t reach.
Although, as any runner knows, I have to be smart.
Overtraining leads to injury. I’ve built a short-term training schedule so I’ll be peaking—the best version of myself—when the whole world is watching.
But when I get to the track… I’m confused. It’s a clear sunny day, and yet, up by the finish line, there’s a cluster of black umbrellas.
It reminds me of picture day at school.
And that’s when I realize—a photo shoot.
“Bro!” Jay says, waving. “Bro! Over here!”
Beside him, a photographer’s assistant is tilting a foil-covered board.
“What’s this?” I say.
“ESPN. They say I might be the lead story on the website. Crazy, right?”
I can’t help it. A blade of jealousy slices through me, followed by disappointment that he hadn’t even told me. I mean, he probably just didn’t want to hurt my feelings, but our friendship is supposed to be able to be invincible. He should be able to tell me anything.
“This is my best friend,” he says to the photographer. “The one I was telling you about. Grant. You should get him in the picture too!”
“Sure,” the photographer says, an extremely tall woman with a brown ponytail. “Greg, was it?”
“Grant,” I say.
“Right. You know, this is actually perfect. We want to simulate the moment of triumph, what every runner dreams about—crossing the finish line. Having someone to race against will make it feel more natural. You can help us out?”
“Um. Okay.”
Me and Jay start walking back toward the starting line.
“That’s far enough!” the photographer calls. “Just need enough to make it look real!” She checks her camera to be sure it’s on the correct setting. “Okay, here we go. Ready. Set. Go!”
I can’t help it. My natural competitiveness takes over. Jay’s the same. We fly down the track, crossing the line at what feels like the exact same instant.
“Awesome!” the photographer says, checking the picture display on her camera. “Beautiful! Except… George?”
“Grant,” I
say.
“Right. Listen. Can you slow up just a bit at the end? You know, don’t look like you’re slowing up. If anything, try to look extra desperate, like no matter how hard you try, you can’t catch him. That’s the whole point.”
“I don’t think I want to do this,” I say.
“Oh it’s fine!” she says, swapping the lens on her camera for a bigger one. “No one will even notice you! You’ll just be an out-of-focus face in the background!”
Jay frowns. “If he doesn’t wanna do it, he doesn’t wanna do it.”
To me he says, “Sorry, bro. I thought it’d be fun.”
“It’s cool. I’ll text you later.”
On the way home I stop on the fenced-in bridge over the highway. I grip the rusty fence, staring down at the cars inching along in rush-hour traffic, brake lights flashing red. I have to make this work, I think. I have to get into that race.
And when I get there, no mercy.
I have to win.
25
That night, using a foam roller on the carpet in Franny’s room, I say, “You’re going to share our videos with your subscribers, right? To get us started?”
He’s weirdly uneasy about this. He tucks his long hair behind his ear and says, tight-mouthed, “Yeah.”
We’re about to film our first video—our first collaboration in years, the return of G&F Productions. Except our traditional roles have flipped. He’s the writer/director. I’m the talent.
“The point here is to build an emotional connection,” he says, hanging his green screen on his bedroom wall. “So really open up. I mean, just fully bleed out in front of the camera, explain what this means to you. That’s what we need.”
“Why do we need the green screen?”
“Because then I can make it look like you’re in Grantsylvania.”
“What does Grantsylvania look like?”
“How should I know? Lots of mountains. Big scary mountains.”
The Million Dollar Race Page 6