The Gollywhopper Games (5 page)

“When Thaddeus G. Golliwop founded Golly Toy and Game Company, he was the same age as Charles Lindbergh when Lindy made the first solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean. Give us that age.

“A. 25; B. 27; C. 29; or D. 31.”

Without wasting a second, Gil stood to leave for the concession area. He looked back. His dad’s eyes wouldn’t meet his.

Gil smiled at him anyway. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

With his dad, Bianca, Curt, Rocky, and Mr. Titus in a parade behind him, Gil made a giant circle around the concession area until he led them back to section A.

“You do know where we are, don’t you?” asked Curt.

“Isn’t this where we just came from?” said Bianca.

Gil’s dad smiled.

“Sorry,” said Gil. “Needed to move.”

His plan to shake Rocky hadn’t worked. Not that he’d expected it to. Maybe soon. Maybe…

Dozens of workers were racing onto the field, placing small desks onto the turf in haphazard rows. Maybe for the next question, Rocky couldn’t follow him.

Gil watched. He waited. And when the scoreboard started flashing, he held his breath, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake, hoping he could—“A!”

Gil jumped. He screamed. He hugged his dad. Wanted to call his mom and tell her he’d beat Golly at least a little. It wouldn’t pay to gloat. Not now, though. Not yet. Not unless he made it through the final elimination round of the day.

G
il thought he might explode. He’d just inhaled two hot dogs, a bag of peanuts, a slice of pizza, and some cotton candy, all washed down with a giant root beer. When he’d first gotten into the food line, he didn’t think he’d be able to eat a thing. But if Golly was giving away free food, he was taking it.

Right now, though, he volunteered to make a trash run. He needed to stand and give the food space to spread out. Back in the concession area, he turned to the left, against all the arrows from the previous game, and started a lap around the stadium.

He was tempted to pick up more peanuts and a few candy bars to take home. That stuff was expensive.
Would it make him a thief, though? Probably not, but he’d live without it.

He’d made it to the next round. He’d get at least as much as the last group to leave—a fifty-dollar Golly gift certificate plus an autographed Skorch CD—but now he wanted the whole pizza. He wanted the prizes and the victory. He wanted Bert Golliwop to look him in the eye and shake his hand. He wanted to give his dad the opportunity to return to Golly headquarters tomorrow, for the first time in eighteen months, with his head held high.

Mostly he wanted a fresh start, to move to Phoenix near his aunt Katherine. Or to St. Louis, where his parents had met at college. Only a win could guarantee him enough money for that. Gil wished he’d made a different deal with his dad. Gil could’ve said, “If I get into a second round, we’ll move. Deal?” But no. He needed to win.

Gil grabbed a bottle of water and headed back to his seat. Sidled through the row. Sat.

“You look tense,” said his dad.

“A lot of pressure.”

“Only if you want it. Nothing will change if
you win or lose. Nothing important, that is.”

Did his dad forget their deal? Or was he being philosophical? Gil took a hard gulp.

His dad looked at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just…” Gil hesitated. “Just wondering how many contestants are left,” he said. “I’m thinking eight hundred forty-two.”

“No. Last round eliminated more folks than that. They probably didn’t think someone so young could start such a huge company.”

“So how many?” said Gil.

“Wild guess? Five hundred fifty,” said his dad. “Go beat ’em all.”

As if on cue, the buzzer sounded.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” Randy boomed. “Please direct your attention to the desks on the field. Each is identical. No desk will give you an advantage over another. I invite you to make your way to one of these desks. Adults, please accompany your contestant to a seat then return to the stands as this portion of the Gollywhopper Games continues.”

Gil turned to Bianca. “Doubt I can help you here. Doubt you can help me. This may be it.”

“Hey,” she said, flashing him a huge smile, “we got this far, didn’t we?”

They walked toward the football field, where desks stood in rows, spaced two yards apart, spanning the width of the turf. They all faced the stage in the center. Gil spotted a desk on the thirty-two yard line between two that were already occupied. He took that one on purpose.

To his left sat a spindly boy with glasses. To his right sat a girl whose face looked about fourteen but whose black ponytail and pink ribbon belonged on a preschooler. Perfect. No distractions.

He looked up at his dad and smiled. “I’m good.”

“I’ll be in our old seats. Remember? Thirty yard line, west side?” Gil’s dad put a hand on Gil’s shoulder.

“Gotcha.”

Before his dad could leave, the mother of the ponytail girl marched up to Gil’s desk. “Excuse me,” she said. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You seem to know exactly where you’re going after this, young man.”

“Yeah?”

“This stadium is so large, I’m afraid I’ll lose Lavinia in the crowd. If I sit near your guardian, would you lead Lavinia back?”

“Sure. No problem.” Gil glanced over at Lavinia, expected her to be under her desk from embarrassment. But she sat there like she was used to this. Then he looked at her hands. She was gripping them together so hard her knuckles turned white.

“Very well,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Plodder. And your name?”

“Gil.”

She looked at him like she expected more.

He stood. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Gil Goodson. This is my father, Charles Goodson.”

“Pleasure,” she said. “If you’ll give me one minute.” She went back to Lavinia’s desk. “Are you sure you’re all right here, dear?” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“At least they had bottled water. You never know about water in these small towns. Remember what happened when you attended that scholars competition?”

“I’m fine, Mother.”

Gil shook his head. Did she think they got their water straight from the creek?

“All right. Do remember to follow this nice young man afterward.”

We’re really ax murderers,
Gil wanted to say.

“His name is Gil.”

“Yes, Mother. I heard.”

Mrs. Plodder turned to go off the field, and
Lavinia looked over at Gil with her large, brown eyes.
Sorry,
she mouthed.

“No problem.” Gil smiled, and that smile eased his shoulders until Randy’s voice blared again.

“Congratulations on making it to the last stop in today’s competition. Please pay particular attention to these instructions,” said Randy. “On your desks, you have a pen, a pad of paper, and a gadget that looks like a calculator. We call this your keypad.

“First, look at the number on your shirt. That’s your contestant number. Punch that exact number into your keypad, then press the enter key.”

Gil pulled out his shirt and rechecked to make sure the number still said 24682. He punched it in, looked up, and had to laugh. Some of the other contestants were contorting their shoulders, craning their necks, almost turning their heads upside down to read their numbers.

The announcer continued. “Now, get ready for the question.
The
question. Your answer to this question, one question only, will send ten of you into the greatest, grandest competition we could
conceive: the ultimate final rounds of the Gollywhopper Games.

“Your answer will be a whole number. You may use the pen and paper on your desks to calculate your answer. You may not use the keypad. It will not work as a calculator. It will only record your answer and transmit it to our computers. So punch in only your answer. Carefully. Once you’ve pressed
enter
, your answer has been recorded, and you may not change it. You will have ten minutes to accomplish this task. When time is up, your keypads will lock automatically.

“Our computers will determine the ten contestants closest to the correct answer. In the event of any ties, the winning spots will go to the contestants who entered their answers first.

“For this part of the Gollywhopper Games, you may not receive help from anyone. Do not stand up. Do not kneel on your chair. Remain silent. Any violation of these rules will result in immediate disqualification.

“The question will remain on the scoreboard for the full ten minutes. Here it comes.

“Add: the number of instant winner tickets that were available for the Games, the number of squares on a checkerboard, the date in August Golly opened for business, the number of people going to St. Ives, the number of contestants now remaining, the number of spots on a pair of dice,
then
“Multiply: that total by the number of different toys and games Golly introduced in its first year of business.”

Gil’s heart pumped so loudly he couldn’t hear himself think. His mind went blank. Don’t panic now. Settle down. Breathe.

He stared at the question. Add. Multiply. This was math. He was great at math. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six questions to answer, six numbers to add together. Then one more question to answer, and one multiplication problem to work. One step at a time…

The number of instant winner tickets.

Easy. He wrote, “500.”

Squares on a checkerboard.

Same as a chessboard, but he’d never stopped to count the squares. He’d count now. How many pieces spanned its width? Forget the pawns that all look alike. On the bottom row: two rooks, two knights, two bishops, one king, one queen. They took up eight spaces, times eight going the other way. He wrote, “64.”

The date in August Golly opened for business.

August 11, yesterday, on Old Man Golliwop’s birthday. Should’ve wished him happy birthday.

Whoa, Goodson. Stay focused. He wrote, “11.”

The number of people going to St. Ives.

Where was St. Ives, and who gave a flying fart anyway? St. Ives, St. Ives and lives. No, wives. The old nursery rhyme. Did he even remember that? Yeah, he did. He stared at a nick in the desk and ran the rhyme through his mind.

Seven wives times seven sacks: forty-nine. Times seven cats…Wait. No.
They
weren’t going to St. Ives.
I
was the only one going to St. Ives. Gil wrote down “1.”

The number of contestants now remaining.

He couldn’t have studied for that, but he could do some figuring. One hundred yards on a football field. Desks spaced every two yards. That was fifty rows. No, fifty-one. He had to include both end zones. But wait. Rows spilled beyond the two end zones, too. Ten yards per end zone for maybe ten more total rows, plus four more in each end zone past that. Now, how many desks in each row? Gil looked up and straight ahead, trying to make it clear he wasn’t cheating. The row several ahead of him held sixteen desks, but the row ahead of that had fifteen. And then there were the incomplete rows on either side of the main stage. About a thousand desks, minus the ones that were empty.

What now? What should he put down? He’d guessed eight hundred forty-two. His dad, five hundred fifty. Which one? His dad had been closer
before, but would it be cheating to use his number? Doubtful. It’s not like they knew that their guesses would be part of the Games, but Gil didn’t want to take a chance. Only one way to go. He added the two numbers and divided by two. Then he wrote his answer. “696.”

The number of spots on a pair of dice.

Too easy. He wrote “42” on his paper.

He added the six numbers. He added them again and a third time, then wrote, “1,314” on a clean piece of paper. Time for the final part.

The number of different toys and games Golly introduced in its first year of business.

How many? This was the most important question of all, the multiplier.

Gil closed his eyes and mentally opened the first notebook. Page three, at the bottom. He’d read those words a million times. “In the first year, introduced one new product each month.”

Gil set up the equation, did his multiplication three times, then punched the number into his keypad. 15768.
Enter.

He leaned back and allowed the tiniest smile to
brush his lips. He knew the exact answer for each question except one. And no one knew that answer unless…

Why did Rocky keep darting his head toward the stands?

Mr. Titus was there, moving his stare along the desks at the far end of the field. He turned his head straight forward, whipped out a pen and paper and scribbled something. Then he rubbed his nose and touched his chin and pulled his ear like baseball managers do when they flash signals to their players. He stopped and nodded.

Rocky entered an answer into his keypad then reclined in his desk chair, crossing his arms over his chest like he had just finished Thanksgiving dinner.

Gil couldn’t look at Rocky anymore. He shifted his gaze away.

About eight yards up, that rich kid, Thorn, was digging a finger in his ear. Gross. But it was like looking at roadkill. Gil couldn’t tear his eyes away. Instead of a sticky ball of wax, Thorn removed a flesh-colored blob. A hearing aid? So the rich kid wasn’t perfect. Thorn examined the earpiece, flicked
it twice then replaced it in his ear. Wait a minute! Who needed a hearing aid to think?