The New Champion (4 page)

“Y
ou're sure we shouldn't wait until we see Spencer?”

“No time.” Cameron kept walking.

When they got inside section B, his dad's radar eyes went straight to the third row, and his legs followed. He sprinted down, kissed their mom, then grabbed Spencer in a headlock, ruffling his hair. “I knew you'd get it right!”

If that meant his dad thought Cameron was right, where was
his
headlock?

“How'd
you
get it right?” said Spencer.

“I used the hint and reasoned it out.”

“Only spelling-challenged wimps needed a hint for that question.”

“Wimp” might have been the nicest name Spencer had ever called him.

While the three of them had a happy family reunion, Cameron watched the people in the other sections, the ones about to leave. He hoped. Worst case? He and Spencer would head home together. But how often was Spencer wrong? Almost never. And not now.

Cameron jumped with his family. He high-fived strangers. He let loose until reality reminded him that hundreds and hundreds of people could still beat him. He sat.

“Are you okay?” asked his mom. She felt his forehead as if he might have a fever. “You look flushed.”

“Just excited.” He wished he had his camera to record the girl over there giving raspberries to the other five sections. Or that girl with the hiccups. Or that boy springing from row to row on armrests until a Golly person stopped him.

The people in the losing sections had barely left with their twenty-dollar Golly gift certificates and their chances to win ten thousand dollars when Randy Wright's voice rocked the arena again. “You're still here!”

More cheers.

“Listen carefully, contestants, because I will give these instructions only once.

“You all deserve a break. Bathroom break, food break, stretching break, whatever break you want to take. All the food in the concession area is free. Order whatever you'd like. But keep listening because this is vital.”

The place grew much quieter.

“Whether you get food or not”—Randy Wright continued—“you must visit one of the concession stands and have a worker scan the bar code on your bib. You will then get a souvenir Games pen and a receipt. Contestants, you personally need to keep that receipt on you at all times.

“Now go. Eat. Then sit wherever you want. We'll start again in forty-five minutes.” The video screen faded to black.

Cameron ordered two slices of pizza, an orange soda, Cracker Jack, and Skittles. Miraculously, his mom didn't tell them to get something healthier. Not even when Spencer asked for chicken fingers in addition to his hamburger, hot dog, pizza, and fries.

Cameron shoved his pen, his receipt, and some napkins into his right-front pocket to better balance the cardboard tray with his food and drink. His family found seats in section E, and Cameron snarfed down the pizza with half his soda. Then he dumped some of his Skittles into his Cracker Jack box despite Spencer's “So disgusting.” Yet Spencer was dipping his pizza into a ketchup-mustard combo like it was the most normal thing on earth. And he laughed when Cameron had to dig out napkins to wipe sauce that had dripped dangerously close to his leg.

It wasn't long after they'd thrown away their food trash and taken a bathroom stop that Randy Wright gave them a five-minute warning. Three hundred seconds later he came back.

“We know you will talk among yourselves, but a reminder that the more people you help, the more competition you'll have. Also remember, your neighbor might not be right. With that, let us continue,” said Randy. “Assume there was one Golly worker for every four contestants who got a free pass for the first question. How many people were on the floor of your arena during question number one?”

Cameron focused on the screen.

A. 980

B. 1,960

C. 1,764

D. 1,568

E. 935

F. 1,683

Spencer and his mom and his dad were all staring at him. “What?”

“You're the math guy,” said Spencer.

They just assumed he remembered the number. Fine. He'd do the math for the family. He pulled his pen from his pocket, but where was his receipt? He checked every pocket. If he'd lost—

There, on the ground with a trampled napkin. Was that it? Yes! He picked it up, sauce smudged but intact.

He shook out his nerves. It was math time. First, his new least favorite number. He wrote 784 on the back of his receipt. Then divided it by 4 because there was one Golly worker for every 4 contestants. Under 784 he wrote 196 and totaled them. There it was! A. 980.

He opened his mouth to tell them where to go. His mom was staring at him. His mom! She'd been on the floor. Each contestant had had an adult down there. He added in another 784. Now he was right.

W
hen they got to section C, a few people were still scribbling on napkins, on hands, on pants, on anything. One girl was fighting with her mom over which was right, D or F. Cameron smiled. Either way, gone! Still, the drama had him gripping his armrests until the wrong answers disappeared.

His parents' whoops drowned out Randy Wright's announcement of the parting gifts, but they quieted in time for his next words. “How many of you are left?”

Cameron wasn't the only one to stand and count.

Randy Wright laughed. “This is not a test. It so happens, there are seventy-three thousand fourteen of you. An average of about seven hundred thirty at each of the one hundred sites from coast to coast to Alaska and Hawaii!”

The screen divided into postage stamp–sized squares of people cheering.

“It's time for the great divide again! All adults, head to section A. You have two minutes to vacate your current section. Go!”

Cameron's mom and dad gave them each hugs.

“You two stick together,” said their mom.

“What if we can't agree?” Spencer said.

“Try.” Their parents headed out.

Spencer's knees were jiggling up and down faster than the time he'd decided to ask Dana Caine to the freshman dance last year. Maybe he did want this more than Cameron did. Not that Cameron would let Spencer win, but maybe he could stop Spencer's dumb impulses from taking over. Like when Spencer worked up the nerve to call Dana Caine. At six-thirty in the morning. And Cameron had dared to grab the phone away before Spencer'd finished dialing.

Spencer nudged him. Their parents were in section A, waving with giant motions.

“They're a little too happy sometimes,” said Spencer.

Cameron laughed. It relaxed him for a moment. Then Randy Wright came back.

“Contestants? You are on your own. Any mistakes will be of your own making. Victories will be yours alone.”

Cameron wished.

“Before the next question, you must follow my directions quickly and exactly. First, take out your receipt from the concession stands.”

Cameron nearly panicked over what might have happened. Panicked a little more over whether he'd be penalized for having written on his receipt. Or for having it sauced.

“If you forgot to get a receipt, move to section B. We'll take care of you there. If you lost yours or if your adult has it, move to section D.”

Several people around him moved toward the concession area. Some others searched their pockets and inside their shoes, then left, too.

“If you have your receipt, please check the number in the upper-right-hand corner. If your receipt has a ten, move to section E. If the number is one hundred, move to section F. If your receipt shows one thousand, remain in section C. Go!”

Cameron and Spencer compared receipts. Cameron's had one thousand, Spencer's, ten, but Spencer sat there.

“Why are you still here?” Cameron asked.

“They only want us to spread out. Anyway, Mom and Dad said to stay together.”

Cameron nodded. Um, no. “What if this is a test?”

“Like they're gonna check every receipt.”

“They might.”

Spencer looked at his ticket, looked at Cameron, and looked across to his parents giving them the thumbs-up. He stood. “See you later. But if I'm right, you owe me an extra ten percent of whatever you win.”

“Ten percent of what?” said Cameron. “You'll get your own prize.” But Spencer was already too far away to hear.

Across the arena, his parents were standing, palms up, mouthing,
What's going on?

What was going on? Cameron had saved his brother. He knew in his gut; otherwise, they wouldn't have made such a big deal over a receipt. When Randy Wright came back, Cameron knew it for sure. The ones who had forgotten to get receipts, eliminated. Lost receipts, out. Left them with adults, good-bye. Then Golly workers came around, checking receipts against bibs, kicking out kids in the wrong sections.

It was an “I told you so” moment if there ever was one. Too bad Cameron couldn't rub it in, but it was better this way. Each of them, as Randy Wright said, was on his own.

T
he kid in front of him turned around but bypassed Cameron to high-five another boy about six feet away. Several other kids were yammering with their near-disaster stories; Cameron, though, held back.

If he could keep this up, he'd be one of 9—just 9—from this regional to face 991 others. And those others would include Jig Jiggerson.

Jig, last year's first alternate, had gotten nearly as much TV time as the contestants. He was dubbed the Minute Man, ready to jump in if someone got hurt or disqualified. But Rocky had gotten kicked out too late for Jig to take his place. When Golly announced the new season, they also announced Jig would automatically join the field of one thousand in Orchard Heights. It felt like all America had cheered for the guy who missed the cut by one in the desk challenge.

But now Golly people were coming up the aisles, handing each kid a pencil plus a mini clipboard with a bubble-style answer sheet that had two sections:
Bib Number
and
Answer
.
Answer
had seven columns of numbers, zero through nine. This was a math problem. The desk challenge without the desks! The final question!

Spencer's legs had to be jiggling like crazy. As smart as he was, he froze at math word problems. For almost a year he'd had Cameron feed him some every once in a while, hoping he'd get immune to them. It had been annoying, but now Cameron couldn't help himself from sending Spencer extra brain waves, reminding him to take one step at a time.

“On your bubble sheet,” Randy Wright said, “you'll see a seat location at the bottom. Please find that seat.”

Cameron moved three rows down and five seats over, his own knees like rubber.

“You each have a seat,” said Randy Wright. “You each have a pencil, a clipboard, and a bubble sheet. And now, instructions.” The screen gave a tutorial on filling in answer bubbles; then Randy Wright came back.

“The next challenge will be answered with a number. When you have derived that number, fill in the correct bubbles on your sheet. Note that there are seven columns. Your answer may or may not be seven digits long. If it's not that long, fill in zeros to the left of your answer. If your answer is fifty-one, for example, you would fill in zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-five-one. If you did it the other way, you would give us an answer of five million one hundred thousand. Quite a difference. But you must fill out all seven columns or your card will be rejected by the computer and you will be eliminated.

“Because this round will require some math, you may use the blank side of your card for your calculations. Any marks on the front: computer rejection again.” Randy Wright then gave them time to bubble in their bib numbers.

“From here on out,” he said after a few minutes, “the directions will be more crucial than ever. So follow each to the letter. Stay quiet. No standing. No kneeling. No leaning. No cheating. And here's the question:

“Take the total number of Gollywhopper Games contestants who started the day in arenas across the country.

“Divide that by the number of arenas involved in the Gollywhopper Regionals today.

“Subtract from that the number of snowflake points in a gross.

“Subtract from that the number of players in the starting lineup on a professional baseball team plus the number of starters on a professional basketball team.

“Add the number of pages in the Golly Dolly instruction book inside each box.

“Reverse the digits in your current running total.

“Multiply that by the average (or arithmetic mean) age, in months, of the contestants left in this competition nationwide.

“Fill in the bubbles to show us that number.

“Time starts . . . now!”

Just like he'd coached Spencer, Cameron told himself, one piece at a time.

Total number of contestants today.

He turned his bubble sheet over and wrote 999,900.

Divided by the number of arenas. Whoever had the wrong answer so far deserved to be eliminated. It was the same number that started in each of the 100 arenas today: 9,999.

The number of snowflake points in a gross.

Cameron loved this. One day Walker had dumped his orange juice and turkey bacon into his oatmeal so he could eat his whole breakfast with a spoon.

“You're gross,” Cameron had said.

“No, you're gross,” said Walker.

“No, you're gross.”

“You know what's gross?” Spencer yelled over them. “One hundred forty-four. That's gross.”

Cameron and Walker looked at each other and burst out laughing. Sometime after Walker had thrown that mess into the garbage, Spencer told them that 144 of something was called a gross, and they had called one another One Forty-four until it got old. So 144 times 6, the number of points in each snowflake. He subtracted 864.

Now sports teams. Basketball. Easy. Five. Two guards, 2 forwards, 1 center. Baseball? Nine, right? Three on the bases, the catcher at the plate, the pitcher on the mound, and 3 in the outfield. Eight. Why did he think 9? Where would a ninth guy play? Backing Cameron up, that was for sure. Cameron could swing the bat, but you couldn't count on him to field the ball. So 5 plus what? Eight or 9? One number couldn't keep him out, could it? He subtracted 13.

The number of pages in a Golly Dolly instruction book? That doll didn't talk or pee or fetch snacks. It was Golly's original doll with a zillion different outfits. Trick question? Had to be. There was no manual. He added 0 and circled 9,122.

Reverse it: 2,219. Uh-oh. One baseball player would make a huge difference after all. If a team had 9 players, his running total would be 1,219. Go with 8? Go with 9? Shortstop! Go with 9. He scratched out 2,219 and wrote 1,219.

The next piece would separate them all, and it was anyone's guess. The average age of the contestants. If they ranged from eleven to fifteen, the average would be thirteen. And in months—Wait! Your sixteenth birthday could be tomorrow. You could be fifteen years and eleven months. Cameron wrote down the range of possible months: 132 to 191.

He jotted down 161.5, the average of those numbers. But there'd be more older kids, right? How many just-turned eleven-year-olds would stand a chance?

Should he play it safe: 161.5? His gut was screaming at him. Too young! A year older? Too old! He split the difference: 167.5. He multiplied: 204,182.5.

He reworked the math again and a third time: 204,182.5. Good enough. Except he needed to round it up or down, and he had only a minute and a half to bubble in his answer. Up or down? Up or down?
Ack!
Down. He liked the way the number started with a 2 and ended with a 2. He bubbled in 0 2 0 4 1 8 2.

Cameron exhaled. He'd done everything he could.