Game Changer (9 page)

KT let out a sigh, because somehow, though she hadn’t quite let herself think it, she’d been a little bit afraid
that the trophies would still be missing, that they would have disappeared as completely as the gym and the softball diamond.

“Proof,” KT said aloud.

She wiped sweat off her forehead and tiptoed reverently toward the shrine, even as she admired the glow of the sunlight on gold.

KT had played in a different tournament practically every weekend the past few years, except for during the school softball season last spring. (That had been games twice a week, and only two weekend tournaments. A vacation of sorts, which had left KT feeling antsy and longing to get back to serious ball.) Not every single tournament she’d played in had given trophies to the individual players, but a lot of them had, particularly when she was younger. She had trophies in the shrine dating back to her first season of T-ball, way back in kindergarten. And she had a few random trophies from other sports—soccer, basketball, lacrosse—from when she was too young to be on teams offering year-round softball. But mostly the shrine looked like an entire softball team’s worth of golden running girls atop their trophies, with enough golden gloves, bats, and balls on neighboring trophies to fully equip them.

So why couldn’t KT lay her gaze on a single running girl, glove, bat, or ball trophy right at the moment?

She picked up the nearest trophy, the one in the spot she had assumed would belong to the Rysdale Invitational prize. This trophy had a rectangular gold chunk atop a slender pedestal. The rectangle had a fake-looking keypad of numbers.

Is that supposed to be a calculator
? KT wondered.
Why? Is it supposed to be something about calculating
our chances of winning nationals, too, or of calculating our massive college scholarships, or . . .

KT gave up on trying to figure out this craziness and glanced down at the metal plaque at the base of the trophy.

FIRST PLACE
, it said.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” KT cried, holding the trophy aloft and pumping her arm up and down with every “yes!”

She looked back at the plaque, wanting to see those lovely, golden letters:
RYSDALE INVITATIONAL
underneath the
FIRST PLACE
.

That wasn’t what it said.

Instead the words were
BLAIRTON MATH COMPETITION
.

Math?
KT thought.
Math?

She slammed the trophy back onto the shelf, pounding it down so hard that the whole shelf shook. She grabbed the next trophy over, which was topped with another golden calculator. The plaque on this one read
FIRST PLACE,
FEASEL MATH INVITATIONAL, MAXWELL CHARLES SUTTON.

Max?
KT thought.
Max has math trophies? How could that be?

She began pulling trophies off the shelf at random. They were topped with more calculators, with pencils, with desks, with bronzed versions of the symbol for pi. She dropped them and kept grabbing the next trophies back.

Calculator, calculator, pencil. Calculator, desk, piece of paper . . .

Every single one of them was Max’s.

What had happened to
all of KT’s trophies?

“Kaitlin Therese!”

KT was still frantically pulling trophies off the shelf when she heard her mother scream behind her. She’d apparently just gotten home—KT could hear the garage door jerking shut behind her.

“Just
what
do you think you’re
doing
?” Mom shrieked, in a tone KT had never heard her use before.

“My trophies—where are my trophies?” KT wailed. “Why did you have to replace them all with Max’s?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Mom said. She crossed the family room in three angry strides, and dived toward the lowest, most out-of-the-way shelf. “They’re right here, right where they’ve always been.”

She held up a three-inch-tall figure on a wooden base—not really big enough for KT to consider it a trophy. But she squinted at the cheap-looking plaque at the bottom:

KT SUTTON

SEVENTH-GRADE

HONOR ROLL

“Here’s the other one,” Mom said, holding up a twin of the first, except that this one said
SIXTH-GRADE HONOR ROLL
. “Before that, back in elementary school, they just gave out certificates. They’re here too.”

She rifled through a stack of papers.

“That’s not what I meant!” KT protested.

The anger in Mom’s face softened slightly.

“KT, you know your father and I are very proud of you
and
Max,” she said. “It’s just, you have different talents, and your particular talents don’t happen to lead to lots and lots of trophies. But—”

“Yes, they do!” KT shrieked. “Where did you put them? Why did you take all mine away and bring in these, these
bogus
trophies for Max?”

He’d never been on any math team. Not that KT knew of, anyway, and wouldn’t she know something like that if he’d won all these trophies? The only trophy Max should have in the shrine was his one
PARTICIPATION
trophy from kindergarten, the one year he did T-ball before quitting sports altogether.

She swung her hand at a row of calculator- and pencil-topped trophies, toppling them like so many bowling pins.

“He doesn’t deserve any of this!” KT screamed.

All the sympathy and concern in Mom’s expression vanished. Her face hardened into a mask of fury.

“That,” she snarled, “was completely uncalled for. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You know how hard Max
works! You do not build yourself up by tearing down your brother! I won’t allow it!”

She grabbed KT by the shoulders and gave her a rough shake.

“But—,” KT protested.

“You have five minutes,” Mom said, shoving KT away. “Put every single one of these trophies back where they belong. Then get changed. We will be walking out that door to go watch Max at precisely four thirty.”

“Watch Max?” KT wailed. “What? Mom, no. I’ve got to get back to practice.”

She said this even though she didn’t know where practice was, even though the gym and the softball field had vanished. It was something to hold on to, something to wish for.

She longed for softball practice.

Even as KT spoke, Mom had started to stomp away. But now she whirled back around and glared.

“And now you’re lying to me?” Mom asked incredulously. “KT, I
know
your schedule. It’s easy to keep track of. You don’t have anything after school today! Not anything that
you’re
doing!”

“Then I must have . . . homework,” KT said, even though she couldn’t quite remember if she did or not.

Mom went back to angrily stomping away.

“I can’t even look at you right now,” she called over her shoulder. “Do what I told you!”

KT gazed down at the toppled trophies before her, and at the half dozen she’d left standing. She swung both arms out, knocking down every single
one.

It was a tense ride in the car.

Dad drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Mom squeezed her hands together so hard her knuckles turned white.

“Max’ll do fine,” Dad said.

In the backseat KT seethed.

Why are they making me go watch some stupid thing with Max?
KT wondered.
Why aren’t they insisting I get back to practice?

Her parents were fanatical about the importance of practice. They routinely left work early to get her to her club-team practices. Dad had even driven her there once when he’d had a 103-degree fever and had to stop twice by the side of the road to lean his head out the door to vomit.

But KT couldn’t say anything else about softball practice.

She couldn’t, because all of her sports trophies had vanished.

She couldn’t, because when she’d gone up to her room, she’d looked for her list of goals on her bulletin board—about pitching for the University of Arizona, about winning a gold medal in the Olympics—and it had vanished too.

In its place had been a row of report cards.

All with straight As.

Her pictures of the 2004 and 2008 Olympic softball teams were missing as well, along with the hand-lettered sign that said,
IT’S COMING BACK! IT HAS TO! AND I’LL PLAY IN THE OLYMPICS IN 2024!

She’d quickly logged on to her laptop—no messing around with the iPod this time—and still couldn’t find the Rysdale Invitational website.

She couldn’t find the “Bring softball back to the Olympics!” Facebook page.

She couldn’t find the Amateur Softball Association website.

At that point Dad had barged into her room—just home from work, judging from his suit and tie—and said, “I don’t want to hear a single word about the argument you tried to start with your mother. Or anything else. You are not going to ruin this day for your mother or Max or me. You are getting in the car, and you are getting in that car
now
!”

KT got.

Mom and Dad are acting strange, but they’re not acting like they think there’s anything strange going on,
KT thought.
They’re acting like they think everything is normal.

She thought of Mom holding up that stupid honor-roll trophy and saying, “They’re right here, right where they’ve always been.”

Like that was all KT had
ever earned.

How could Mom have forgotten all of KT’s softball trophies? How could Mom have forgotten KT’s softball practice?

How could the softball field and the gym have disappeared? How could the entire softball team—and the coach—have failed to show up for practice? How could Mr. Horace have told me I wasn’t on a team? How could this whole day have been so mixed-up and confusing?

Dad turned onto the street in front of the school.

“The lot by the academic entrance already looks full,” he said. “You want to try out front?”

“Sure,” Mom said.

Academic entrance?
KT thought scornfully.

But the front parking lot was full too. Dad ended up having to park three blocks away.

Mom spun around in her seat, glancing at KT for the first time since she’d slid into the car.

“You didn’t change?” she cried in dismay.

KT looked down at her clothes, which were admittedly a little sweaty after her day of jogging, pitching, exercise-biking, and weight training. And after running to and from school.

“I like these clothes,” KT said.

“But—,” Mom began.

Dad put his hand warningly on Mom’s arm.

“Brenda,” he said. “Don’t fight this battle right now. KT’s here, she’s supporting her brother, she’s showing school spirit . . . for now, let’s just focus on Max, shall we?”

Since when does Dad use terms like “shall we”?
KT wondered.

Maybe it was just the aftereffect of all that running, but she
felt chilled suddenly. It was all she could do to stumble out of the car.

Dad slammed the door shut behind her.

“Don’t try anything,” he warned her through gritted teeth. “Don’t upset your mother.”

What does he think I’m going to try?
KT wondered.

They joined a huge crowd walking into the school, buzzing with excitement. Someone—cheerleaders, probably—had lined the hallways with posters:
GO B-NORTH! BEAT WINCHESTER!
And
EVERYBODY KNOWS WE’RE SMARTER!
And
DO THE MATH! BRECKSVILLE NORTH ALWAYS COMES OUT #1!

KT had been toying with the notion that any competitive event Max played would have to have something to do with video games. Maybe all those gold lumps on his trophies were actually remote controls, not calculators?

But this was definitely a math event they were walking toward. Someone had written out pi to thirty decimal places in huge numerals down the main hallway. Most of the kids KT saw were wearing shirts with numbers and mathematical symbols all over them. Some of the grown-ups were even wearing math T-shirts or sweatshirts or polos. And—KT noticed for the first time—Dad’s tie was covered with mathematical notations. Had he come home from work and changed
into
those clothes?