A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions (19 page)

Saint Dianne's was creaming us. The real battle, as we could all see, was for second place. At least if you made it that far, you made it into the Ivy Zone, which was kind of like a superquiz round where the top two teams went head to head at fifteen points per question to see who'd be the grand champion. However, Saint Dianne's had built up such a large lead that even at fifteen points per question, it was almost impossible for another team to catch up.

Then Wynston's calculator died. Right in the middle of the Circle of Inquiry, while she was solving a math question.

She shook the machine a few times, but nothing happened.

“Batteries,” she said, hoisting her calculator into the air for the judges to see. The potbellied judge nodded to her understandingly, and then Wynston went to her team's table, where she borrowed a calculator from a teammate and returned to the Circle of Inquiry.

“Seven sixteenths of a mile,” Wynston said.

“Bingo!” said Bingo.

The next contestant, a boy from Moore, got ready to head to the Circle of Inquiry as Wynston returned to her seat.

Q nudged me.

“What?”

“You're the captain.…Speak.”

“About what?” I said. “And by the way,” I remarked, taking note of her complexion, “you're as green as a lizard.”

“The calculator,” Q replied, ignoring my comment. “The”—
Cough-cough
—“calculator.”

“What about it? Her batteries died.” It annoyed me much more than I wanted to admit that Q was sweating and turning colors and looking as if she were about to morph into a zombie right in front of me. I mean, sure, I appreciated the fact that she had nailed five out of six of the questions she'd been asked—and she really was carrying our entire team. It didn't make any sense. I mean, hello, you've proven your point, now go home, cuddle up with your oxygenating hemoglobin thingamadoodle, and get into bed before you croak on live TV.

Arrgh,
she was so frustrating.

“She broke the rules,” Q told me. “What if her teammate did the problem and”—
Cough-cough
—“then left the answer on the screen when no one was looking?”

Hmm, hadn't thought of that.

“That's why there's a rule that says no borrowing,” she added.

“And now,” Bingo began, “for a historically based history question, we go to—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted, speaking into the microphone. “Excuse me, please.”

Bingo stopped, startled by my interruption.

Miss Terrier quickly leaned forward to take control of the situation. “Yes?” she asked, a stern look on her face.

The spotlight swung around and made me the center of attention, practically blinding me with its brightness. I could feel every person in the auditorium staring at me.

“Um, the rules say you're not allowed to borrow.”

“My batteries died,” Wynston shot back in her own defense, speaking into the mike on her table.

“But how do we know that the screen was blank when the calculator was given to her?” I asked.

A gasp rose from the crowd. The spotlight moved off me and swung around to laser in on the girls from Saint Dianne's.

“That's not true!” Wynston exclaimed, fury on her face. “There wasn't anything on it.”

“So let me get this straight,” Miss Terrier said. “Are you accusing the team from Saint Dianne's of cheating?”

“No,” I responded, shaking my head. I wasn't. I didn't think they were cheating. And I certainly wasn't the type of person who would lie and make up that kind of accusation just so I could win some stupid Academic Septathlon. “But rules are rules,” I said, “and the rules say no borrowing.”

A low buzz of murmurs and mumbles rolled through the crowd.

Miss Terrier leaned thoughtfully back in her seat and then huddled with the two other judges. Chattering voices began to fill the Civic Center as the judges deliberated. The girls from Saint Dianne's glared at me. If they had been given carving knives just then, I would have been sliced into sushi.

We waited as the judges considered what to do. The tall one flipped through the official rule book, looking up the bylaws, while the potbellied judge had a quiet discussion with Miss Terrier.

A moment later, they gave their ruling.

“The judges find,” Miss Terrier said, “that yes, a violation has occurred.”

A collective gasp burst from the audience. The section of the crowd that had been doing so much of the cheering was now on pins and needles.

Kiki, amped up with enthusiasm and unable to contain her excitement, called across our table to me, “So they're disqualified?” The hopefulness in her voice that Wynston Haimes might get bounced on her butt from the competition in front of the entire universe caused her to practically shout her comment—and the microphone picked up every word she said.

Disqualified?

The idea sent an electric charge through the Civic Center. Every eye in the room rotated to Wynston Haimes, the violator. Immediately, her eyes got as big as dinner plates. Two minutes ago, she'd been planning a rub-everyone's-nose-in-it victory parade. Now she was on the doorstep of elimination and public humiliation. Panic appeared on her face.

“It's a class-three violation,” Miss Terrier informed us, “an infringement that does not merit disqualification.”

Phew.
Wynston and the snobs from Saint Dianne's breathed the deepest sighs of relief I'd ever seen anyone ever take.

“But a penalty of seventy-five points will be deducted from their tally.”

“Seventy-five points?!” Wynston cried.

Everyone looked at the scoreboard. It went from this:

to this:

The audience exploded in chatter. A seventy-five-point deduction had taken Saint Dianne's from first place to third.

And Grover Park was suddenly in second. Without many more rounds to go.

A sense of chaos swept through the crowd as everyone in the audience tried to figure out what this new development meant for the team they were cheering for.

“Wow, those are some expensive batteries,” Sofes said to Beanpole. “That's why, for my calculator, I only use sonar.”

“Okay, everybody, settle down, settle down,” Bingo said, trying to restore order in the audience. However, with all the kids from all the different schools still pointing at the scoreboard and trying to figure out their own team's chances, a new surge of liveliness had taken over.

“Come on, people, don't be a clown, settle it down.”

With a line like that, Bingo wouldn't have lasted a single day as a middle-school teacher, I thought.

In the midst of all the commotion, however, amid all the noise, there was a calm and ruthless silence. It came from Wynston Haimes. She glowered at me from across the stage, the heat of her scowl practically burning a hole through my flesh.

The Academic Septathlon, I realized, had just become personal.

L
et's be honest: up until the calculator debacle, the evening had been a total snoozer. With no drama, no team putting up a fight, and no one but Saint Dianne's racking up any significant points on the leader board, the audience must have felt like they were sitting in science class, when the clock was broken and the teacher just kept making them do problem after stupid problem from the boring textbook.

But once Saint Dianne's had had their score karate-chopped by the judges, it was GAME ON, and the crowd came alive. Every single question from that point forward mattered, and each school's cheering section grew louder and louder in support of their team.

“Go, SD, go!

Go, SD, go!

G-o-o-o-o-o, Strikers!”

“Hey, hey, Moore,

Show me what you got!

Hey, hey, Moore,

Show me what you got!”

A student from Danes Charter missed a toughie on the Industrial Revolution.

“Awwwww,” came a groan.

I looked up at the scoreboard.

An hour and a half ago, who would have ever guessed that Beanpole would be in a position to answer a question that could put us in first place? Yet there she was, a shot at redemption at her fingertips after missing that first easy one.

Beanpole readied herself to head into the Circle of Inquiry.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Got my whomp-'em powder right here,” she said, slapping an imaginary bag on her hip. With poise and confidence, she headed for center stage.

“Grover Park,

Not stupid,

Smart!

Grover Park,

Not stupid,

Smart!

G-o-o-o-o-o-o-o, Barbara!!”

Well, looky who's awake, I thought.

Beanpole turned to the audience, smiled, and even though she couldn't see him because of the lights, waved a big hello to Logan.

Continuing forward, Beanpole then turned back around to let us know she wasn't going to let our team down. With a grin of nerdish proportions, she gave our team a big thumbs-up.

And then she walked off the edge of the stage, falling face-first into the orchestra pit.

“Holy Sugar Puffs!” Bingo yelled, racing over to help her.

A moment later, Beanpole climbed back onstage, her hair a mess, her Aardvark shirt slightly torn at the shoulder.

“Don't worry, don't worry, I'm okay.”

Sofes turned to me, seriously alarmed. “Shouldn't we go check on her?” she asked.

“For what?” I said. “That's how I know she's gonna nail this one.”

And sure enough, when Bingo asked Beanpole what the significance was of the Appomattox Court House in relation to the U.S. Civil War, Grover Park banked another five points.

“D,”
Beanpole answered. “It's where Robert E. Lee and the Confederates surrendered to the Union.”

“Bingo!” said Bingo. “Well done, little Aardvarks.”

The scoreboard flipped, and suddenly we were in sole possession of first place.

Beanpole cruised back to our table, her smile as big as a beach ball.

Sofes was the first to greet her. “Good job, Barbara!” she exclaimed, giving Beanpole a giant high five. They smacked hands with a perfect smash, the moment caught flawlessly by a cameraman.

I looked up at the big projection screen. The Grover Park high five was broadcast three times in a row to the audience, like one of those instant replays during the Super Bowl.

“Like I told you,” Bingo said, looking into the camera. “Where would we be without Station 723? Donation lines are open now.”

As soon as the camera was off our team, Kiki scowled at Sofes. “Don't do that,” she said. “They're the enemy, remember?”

“But I thought
they
were the enemy,” Sofes responded, looking over at Wynston and the team from Saint Dianne's.

“They're both the enemy,” Kiki replied.

“Yeah,” Brattany said, crossing her arms.

“Boy,” Sofes commented, “we sure have a lot of enemies.”

“It's the price of greatness, Sofes. The price of greatness.”

Q shook her head, disgusted by Kiki's comments, and then coughed, her lizard green complexion evolving into full-blown iguana right in front of my eyes.

“Rawlston, come on down,” Bingo said with great fanfare. “It's your turn in the Circle of Inquiry.”

Every contestant onstage seemed to sense that the main competition was getting ready to end, but in the Academic Septathlon, they never officially told you when you'd be moving on to the Ivy Zone superquiz segment of the contest, because they liked it to be a surprise. Thought that it kept all the teams trying as hard as they could and battling to the end or some stuff like that. But the questions were getting harder and harder, and Beanpole's correct answer turned out to be the last correct answer our team would get.

Even Q missed her next question. In fact, the only team that seemed to be answering any of the questions correctly was—guess who?—Saint Dianne's.

Suddenly, a bell we hadn't heard before—it sounded like an old car horn from one of those skinny-tire vehicles back when there were still horses and buggies on the road—blared through the auditorium.

“Well, guess what time it is?” Bingo asked. “That's right, it's time for the Ivy Zone.”

“Oohh…” gasped the audience.

Once again, the hypercaffeinated guy in the control booth pushed every button he could get his hands on, and the Civic Center exploded into a flash of colored lights. I squinted to check out the scoreboard.

“It's going to be the Strikers of Saint Dianne's versus the little Aardvarks of Grover Park,” Bingo announced. “And a contested contest I'm sure it will be. So won't you consider making a donation to our station? After all”—Bingo put on his best puppy dog face—“where would we be without Station 723?”

The lights onstage suddenly dimmed, and soothing elevator music began to play throughout the auditorium.

A lone spotlight shone on Bingo. He swaggered to the front of the stage and broke into song.

“The community arts

The local stage

The sound of a drum, the look of a child, an actor's gaze…”

“I didn't know he could sing,” Beanpole said as we stood in the near dark.

“He can't,” I replied, ready to plug my ears.

“Over here, kids. You to that side, you to this side; let's go,” the guy in the black T-shirt ordered as a group of technicians rushed from behind the curtains and began quickly rearranging everything in preparation for the Ivy Zone. By the time they were done, only two tables were left: ours and Saint Dianne's. Both had been moved closer to the Circle of Inquiry, while Bingo's singing kept the audience distracted.

“A tearful bow

Soliloquy

This amazing thing, 723, don't abandon me…”

“I don't think I've ever heard worse lyrics in my life,” I said.

“Don't worry,” Q replied. “I TiVo'd it so later on we can relive the joy.”

On the other side of the stage, way far away from us, the girls from Saint Dianne's huddled and talked strategy. As team captain, was I supposed to huddle us up as well? For what? I thought. We'd already made it way further than we'd expected, and now I figured it was time to just go out and answer more questions. Plus, engaging in less conversation with Kiki Masters was always a good thing.

“You feeling okay?” I asked Q, checking in on her.

“Never better.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

“And you're a terrible friend,” she replied. “I mean, I can't believe you made me come to this when—” She paused to cough. “Clearly, I should be home getting medical attention.”

She took a slurp off her scuba tank—
Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh
—and smiled, then practically coughed up a gastric valve.

“Aardvark.”

What could I do but smile?

“Aww, that's so sad,” Beanpole interjected, her shoulders slumped. I turned and watched the kids from Danes Charter, Moore, Youngly, and Rawlston exit the stage. Behind the curtains, their coaches and parents greeted them with hugs and words like “Good job,” or “We're so proud of you.” But losing is losing, and there wasn't one kid walking off the stage who didn't want to be back on it.

And there wasn't one of us still standing on the stage who would have wanted to leave, either. This struck me as weird. I mean, the Academic Septathlon had been nothing less than an unwanted nightmare when we were first made to participate, but now that we were in the heat of battle, I had to admit, it was awesome. Who'd have guessed it, but I loved the pressure. I loved the challenge. I loved the feeling of being pushed and getting an answer right, even though, yep, it stung bad when I got an answer wrong.

But that edge, well…the adrenaline rush was so cool.

Most of all, however, I think I loved the fact that for almost the whole night, I'd stopped worrying. I'd stopped worrying about my dad; I'd stopped worrying about how the ThreePees always treated me; and, biggest shocker of all, I'd stopped worrying about how I looked. In the Academic Septathlon, it didn't matter how cute I was or how much my corduroys squeaked when I walked to the pencil sharpener; what mattered was who I was and how I performed. If only it could be that way for the rest of my life.

But, of course, it wouldn't. Tomorrow, life would go right back to being about clothes and hair and jeans size and who looked the hottest and whom you were dating and blah-blah-blah.

I'd never even been on a “real” date. Pah-thetic.

Bingo's voice boomed in a crescendo. This was going on YouTube for sure.

“Be true to me,

723

Think charity!!”

“And we're back in five, four, three, two and one.…” the guy in the black T-shirt said as he hustled our team over to the newly positioned tables onstage.

“Thank you,” Bingo said to the audience, taking a bow. “Thank you very much.” I didn't know why he was bowing and saying thank you to everyone. I mean, it wasn't like anyone was applauding.

“Well, looky here,” Bingo continued, holding up a sheet of paper that had just been handed to him. “Seems the donations tonight are impressive. Keep it up, folks, and call the toll-free number on your screen right now. Just tell them”—he winked—“Bingo sent you.”

“I think I'm gonna yak,” I said.

“Me, too,” Q replied.

“Be nice, you two,” Beanpole said, scolding us. “I think he's talented.”

“I wasn't kidding,” Q said.