The Trouble with Mark Hopper (12 page)

“Beth,” Mark warned.

“How about this, does this embarrass you?” Beth asked. She grabbed two long, thin packages of cookies and held them above her head like antlers.

“Grandpa!” Mark hissed. He glanced down the aisle to make sure Laurie and her mother had gone.

“Come on now, Beth,” Grandpa Murray said. “Enough teasing your brother.” He held out his hands.

“All right,” Beth agreed, grinning. She gave Grandpa Murray the boxes of cookies and tousled Mark's hair again. “But really,” she said, “I'm glad you're making friends. She seems really nice.”

“Beth!” Mark said.

“What?” Beth laughed. “I just said she seems nice.”

Grandpa Murray put the cookies on his own head like antlers. “Hello, Beth and Mark,” he said in a robotic voice. “I have come from another planet.”

Beth and Mark both scrambled to remove the boxes from their grandfather's head. They looked at each other and walked as far away from him as they could.

Mark was nervous. He wondered if Mark remembered what they were supposed to talk about once they finished the math.

Mark was nervous, too. He wondered if Mark remembered what they were supposed to talk about once they finished the math.

Mark slowly filled in the last answer on the math homework (423), and Mark slowly checked it (it was correct). Then they looked at each other.

“Thanks,” said Mark.

“Yeah,” said Mark.

“That's a good place to start,” Mark said quietly.

“What?”

Mark spoke a little louder. “That's a good place to start preparing for the teamwork part of the Mastermind tournament.”

“What is?” Mark asked. His lip was curled and his eyebrows pointed down.

“When someone says ‘thanks,' you should just say ‘you're welcome.' Instead of ‘yeah' or something. At the tournament at least.”

“I know,” Mark said defensively.

“I know you do. So just don't forget to do it,” he said earnestly. “And you probably know this, too, but when someone gives you a tip, like I just did, you could try saying ‘thanks' instead of ‘I know.'”

“I
know
. Geez.”

“I know,” said Mark. “But even if you do know, you should still say ‘thank you,' because it makes them feel like you want to be on their team.” He thought for a moment. “And I'm sure the judges will be looking for something like that when you do the teamwork thing. You'll probably get points for it.”

“Whatever,” Mark said. “They're pretty dumb if they're going to pick the winner based on a few ‘thank yous' and ‘you're welcomes.' That stuff doesn't even matter! What matters is that they ruined everything by changing the rules. Just watch—after they try it this new way a few times and see how much it stinks, they'll change it back, and by then I'll be too old to enter.”

Mark sighed. What was the point? Mark didn't want to listen, and what did
Mark
care if Mark won or lost the contest? In fact, he hoped Mark
did
lose. He needed to realize that he was not automatically the best at everything, that no one thought he was but him. He put his math book in his backpack and stood up.

“Where are you going?” Mark asked.

Mark crossed his arms. “I'm trying to help you out, but you don't care. You think that no one can teach you anything, but really they can and you just won't let them. You
asked
me for help, Mark. I spent a lot of time this week putting together stuff that would help
you
prepare for
your
tournament. But no matter what I say, you just say you know it or it doesn't matter. So there's no point in me staying.” He paused to catch his breath, and in doing so realized what he was saying. His eyes grew wide and his ears grew red. “Sorry,” he said.

“No,” said Mark. His eyes were wide, too. And his mouth was expanding by the second.

“No?”

“No, don't apologize. That was really good. You just defended yourself! You didn't just stay quiet and dumb—no offense. I mean”—Mark burst into his form of a grin—“you weren't shy!”

“I—I guess I wasn't.”

Mark laughed. “No, you weren't! If only you had that much . . . conviction with everyone. That was awesome.”

Mark smiled. “It was?”

Mark nodded enthusiastically.

Mark laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “I know it was.”

“Don't you mean ‘thank you'?” Mark asked.

Mark laughed harder. “Thank you,” he said, but it sounded more like “Ha-th-ha-hoo!”

“You're welcome,” Mark spit out through laughs, making them laugh harder.

When Miss Payley came to check on them, she found one Mark Hopper kneeling on the floor, laughing so hard his face was bright red, and the other Mark Hopper roaring with laughter, his head bent back and his hand banging on a desk. She stood in the doorway and watched for a while, a curious smile playing on her lips. Then she said, “I wish all my students had this much fun finding the volume of spheres.”

Both Marks looked up. They looked at each other and calmed down a bit.

“It is fun,” one Mark said.

“Yeah,” said the other. “Thank you for teaching it to us!”

The first Mark snorted.

“You're welcome,” said Miss Payley.

The two boys broke down once again. Miss Payley shook her head and went back to the teachers' lounge.

Both Marks were so busy that the next few weeks passed quickly. They met every Wednesday right after eighth period in Miss Payley's room to study math and learn the basics of teamwork and speaking up. Mark couldn't believe that week after week, no matter how easy the topic was, Mark still needed help understanding the concepts and doing the homework. And Mark couldn't believe that no matter how much he thought he understood the topic, the other Mark made him understand it better and do the homework quicker. And for the most part, the next few weeks passed without a hitch.

Well, for the most part. The Mark who was too shy to speak to teachers, let alone try to be their best friend, once found a note that said “Kiss-up!” stuck to his locker and a group of kids he didn't know running away and laughing. But he just crumpled up the note and pretended it didn't happen. The Mark whose notebooks were filled with gold stars and the letter
A
was called down to his guidance counselor to talk about his failing grades in English and science. But he just promised the guidance counselor he'd do better and offered to check the other Mark's English and science homework after they had finished the math. Many Ivy Road students didn't even realize that there was more than one Mark Hopper, or that there was one who did not match their idea of what Mark Hopper was like. But for those who did know of them both, it seemed as though each Mark had forgotten that the other was ruining his life.

Mark Hopper spent afternoon after afternoon perfecting his portrait of Grandpa Murray. He studied him every chance he could get. One evening when Mark stared at Grandpa Murray as he read the newspaper on the couch, Grandpa Murray looked up and said, “You keep looking at me, Mark. Did I put my pants on backward again?”

Mark carefully redrew the pencil sketch on a canvas (he started one of them too low on the canvas, not leaving room for the coffee table with Grandpa Murray's newspaper, so he had to start over again). He mixed colors and brought the portrait to life with paint. He couldn't help but drop some hints to Grandpa Murray about how great his birthday present was going to be, and he even risked taking the picture home from school one day to show it to Beth. He slid it under his bed so Grandpa Murray wouldn't see it, and when he took it out, it had so much dust on it that he sneezed for five minutes straight. Even though he was still putting the final touches on it, Mrs. Irwin had already given him an A, and she told him that she would display it at the library. Everything was going according to plan.

Mark Hopper spent day after day forcing himself to say “thank you” and “you're welcome.” After a few days, he didn't have to force himself. Then he moved on to “that's a really good idea,” and “no problem.” As the words became more natural, so did his conversations with other people. He spent afternoon after afternoon perfecting his Mastermind tournament entry. He wrote three drafts of his essay, “An Open Mind Opens Doors for the Future” by Mark Geoffrey Hopper. He practiced answering interview questions in front of the mirror (“Well, I never really thought about what I consider to be the most important skill taught in middle school, but if I had to come up with something off the top of my head . . .”). He took his fifth-grade report card out of its frame on his wall, made a color copy, and had it laminated. He practiced his bassoon solo until he could play it by heart, and then he made Beth be totally silent for ten minutes while he played it into the microphone on their computer to make a CD (no matter how strongly Mark argued, his mother refused to pay to have the solo professionally recorded). When it was all done, Mark sat admiring it on his bed. He knew it was a strong application. Very strong. He could probably win the competition with it. But he would
definitely
win the competition if he had one more thing.

Now was the time to put his plan into action. The timing could not have worked out better. Mark had proudly told him that he was going to be completely done with his portrait the next day. And the Mastermind application was due in one week. But now he wasn't sure if he should go through with it. Mark was being so nice to him. He actually liked having Mark as a friend—he actually hoped, sincerely, that Mark considered him a friend—and he wouldn't want to ruin that by having him find out that Mark had stolen from him. But the painting was just going to sit in the art room until it was brought to the library on December 2, and the Mastermind finals were going to take place on December 1 at a college right next to the public library—how else could that be interpreted except as a sign that Mark should go through with it? If he did it right, Mark would never find out. And what couldn't he do right?

But he also knew how hard Mark had worked on the portrait, and how happy he was with how it came out. He wouldn't like it if someone tried to hand in one of his essays as his own; that would be cheating. But that was why he always took extra precautions against cheating, he rationalized. He blocked his paper with his arm in class, and he wrote his name all over his binders and folders. If Mark
really
cared about his painting, he wouldn't go around advertising the fact that as of tomorrow, it would just be sitting in the art room waiting to be moved over to the library to go on display.

At dinner Sunday night, Mark pushed around the french fries on his plate. Since he had the CD of his bassoon performance, his application was technically complete without the painting—one fry to the right. But if he had the portrait, he'd be sure to win—one fry to the left. Mark Hopper would hate him if he found out—one fry to the right. But Mark didn't have to find out—one fry to the left. Mark
wanted
Mark to win—he said it himself—and he was helping him prepare for the teamwork part—two fries to the left.

Beth took one of Mark's fries from the left.

“Hey!”

“If you're just going to count them, then I am going to eat

“Mom!”

Mrs. Hopper pointed her finger. But before she could scold Beth, the phone rang and she got up to answer it.

Beth took another of Mark's fries and held it up to her lips like a smile. “Saved by the phone,” she said.

“Oh, hi,” Mark's mom said into the phone with a tired and sarcastic tone.

Mark jumped up. “Is it Dad?”

His mother nodded and signaled for Mark to wait. She took the phone and moved into the living room. Mark tried to follow, but she pushed him back into the kitchen.

“Is it Dad on the phone?” Beth asked.

“Yeah!”

“I just lost my appetite.” Beth spit the fries that were in her mouth, half chewed, onto her plate. “I don't know why you like talking to him so much.”

“He's our dad,” Mark said.

“But he left us.”

“He'll come back.”

“I hope not.”

“Don't say that.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “Things are so much better without him here.”

“Shut up!”

Beth sighed. She reached for Mark's shirt and used it to pull him close to her. “All right,” she said. “I'm sorry. I know you miss him.” She tried to tousle Mark's hair, but it was gelled so tightly that not a strand moved. Beth laughed and pushed him back away. “But really, Mark, don't you remember what it was like when Dad was here?”

“It was great,” Mark said firmly.

Their mother appeared back in the kitchen and offered the phone to Mark. He ran into the living room with it and jumped onto the couch. “Hi, Dad!”

“Hey, Mark. How is everything going?”

“Good, Dad. I'm doing really well in school.”

“Good.” Mr. Hopper's voice sounded distant, as though he was speaking into the phone but looking another way. Mark thought he heard someone else talking the background. It was probably the television. “How's that little friend of yours? What's her name . . . across the street.”

“Jasmina?”

“Jasmina. Are you two still friends?”

“Sure,” Mark said quickly. “Dad, I'm applying to the Mastermind tournament. My application is all ready to go.”