The Trouble with Mark Hopper (19 page)

Mark also floated on air throughout Thanksgiving weekend. Though he wouldn't admit it to Beth, even he was impressed with how smoothly Operation: Bug Dump had gone. He got a hundred, as usual, on the hardest math test yet, and if Mark's stellar performance on their prank and in the principal's office was any indication of how he'd perform on December 1, he was on his way to Mastermind glory. Even the fact that his dad wasn't there only brought him slightly down. And the fact that when his dad actually called, on Saturday, Mark didn't even get a chance to speak to him, but just jumped up and down and tugged on his mother's shirt until she reminded his dad that the Mastermind awards ceremony was on December 2, only brought him down a little bit more. And the fact that he wished weren't a fact—that after he walked away, content that his mother had reminded his dad about the ceremony, he heard her say “divorce papers”—only made him more sure than ever that Mark's performance the next weekend could make everything better.

On the morning of Saturday, December 1, Mark got ready to go to the tournament as though he were going himself. He put on his crispest pair of khaki pants and his shiniest brown shoes. He tucked in his new collared shirt his mother had purchased for the occasion, and he followed directions from the Internet in order to tie his new tie, since his dad had not shown him how before he left. Looking in the mirror and putting the final touches on his neatly gelled hair, he regretted that he wasn't going to get to show the judges what a Mastermind he was. But then he had a clever thought: I rigged this tournament so that I will win even though I am not even going. Now
that
truly shows I am the cleverest middle schooler in the whole state. Those judges, he reasoned with a smirk at himself in the mirror, wouldn't even know what hit them.

“Oh, look at little Marky Mark going off to his little competition,” crooned Beth. She was spread out over the couch in her pajamas. She spit a wad of gum into the air and caught it back in her mouth.

“Have a good day watching baby cartoons,” Mark said, “while I am off proving how smart I am.”

“Looking sharp!” said his mother. She tousled his perfectly placed hair. Had Mark been planning on actually competing that day, he would have yelled at her and gone back to fix it. But since he wasn't, he just smoothed it with his hand and said, “Let's go. We're going to be late.”

There was a large billboard at the entrance to the college where the tournament was taking place. It said WELCOME, STATEWIDE MASTERMIND FINALISTS! Mrs. Hopper pointed at it and said she wished she had her camera.

“Just bring it tonight when it says, ‘Welcome, Mark Hopper, Mastermind Winner,'” Mark said.

“That's the spirit,” his mother said. “Do you want me to come in with you to register?”

“No. Just pick me up here at two.”

“All right.” She reached across the front seat and gave Mark a hug. “Good luck, hon. What do you have to do today?”

“Some teamwork thing and the interview.”

“Okay, then. I'll tell you the key to that stuff: just be yourself.”

Or in my case, Mark thought as he jumped out of the car, just let someone else be me. He went inside and hid in the bathroom until he was sure his mother had driven away. Then he walked back out and headed down the street to the public library, where he planned on spending the time until his mother picked him up. When he got there, he saw a sign that read PORTRAITS BY IVY ROAD MIDDLE SCHOOL ARTISTS on a wall that was prepped to be adorned with paintings. After the awards ceremony, he would bring the painting here and have the librarians hang it with all of the others that weren't yet up. Everything would go according to plan.

 

Meanwhile, Mark put on his nicest khakis, which had only one large crease running from the back of the right knee to the back right pocket, and his crispest collared shirt, which was only moderately wrinkled. His mom was working an early-morning shift at the bank, his dad hadn't yet arrived for the weekend, and Grandpa Murray was convinced that Mark needed a ride to Marius College for something related to his surprise birthday present. But Beth and two tree frogs also needed a ride to a classmate's house to work on a tree-frog project. “Why are you dressed already?” Beth asked at breakfast. “Did you forget it's Saturday?”

“Ready to go, kiddos?” Grandpa Murray asked.

“Where do you need to go?” Beth asked Mark.

This was going to be hard. Mark was never dressed before noon on a Saturday, and, more importantly, he never lied to Beth. He had never kept anything from her, except for once in fourth grade when he told her his teacher hadn't graded their science projects instead of admitting to her that he got a C on his. This was why he had hoped she'd be gone or sleeping when he had to leave. Mark glanced at Grandpa Murray, who raised his hands and said, “I know, I know, I can't listen to this conversation.” He left the room.

“What do you have to do involving Grandpa's present?”

“I can't tell you,” Mark whispered.

“Why not?” Beth asked, hurt. “I know what the present is.”

“I know, but I just can't.” Mark looked at her with his large eyes pleading.

Beth crossed her arms. “What are you up to?”

“I just can't tell you. Can you please play along and pretend I have to do something for Grandpa's present? I'll tell you later.”

Beth sighed. “Fine. But you'd better not be up to anything that could get you in trouble.”

The three of them piled into the car. Mark patted his pants pocket to make sure he had his school ID and Mark's—his—fi nalist letter. Even though his birthday was tomorrow, Grandpa Murray was still trying harder than ever to find out what his present was. He made guesses all the way to the college. A textbook? An honorary degree? A blind date with a college professor? Both Beth and Mark kept their lips zipped. When they got to the college, Beth looked at Mark in utter bewilderment. Mark shrugged.

“Welcome, Statewide Mastermind Finalists,” Grandpa Murray read. “Are you a Statewide Mastermind Finalist?”

“No,” Mark said. “Can you pick me up at one-thirty?”

“You bet.”

Beth raised one eyebrow. “See you later,” she said before they drove off.

Mark waved as they left. He took a deep breath. He felt miserable about lying to his sister and his grandpa. And he had no idea what to expect once he walked through those doors. Maybe I won't even get past registration, he thought hopefully. Then this will all be over.

A boy about his age walked up with what must have been his parents. He was wearing a suit and a clip-on bow tie. “Stand next to the sign, honey,” his mother said.

“Yes, right there next to the sign,” said his father.

The boy looked at Mark, who was standing next to the sign. “Can you move?” he said.

Mark looked at the sign and his position. “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

The boy stood next to the sign and smiled while his father looked through the viewfinder of a minuscule digital camera. “Smile like you've already won!” the mom said. The boy smiled wider, showing off a mouth full of metal.

The father zoomed in and out. “Move a little to the right. No, the right. Oh, okay, your left. But don't stop smiling! Harrison, smile!” The boy—Harrison, Mark figured—shifted and smiled so wide Mark thought his lips might break. The dad was still zooming in and out.

“Dad!” Harrison said through his clenched smile. “Just take it!”

“Well, how can he take it when you're moving your lips?” his mother said. The father zoomed out a bit. “Oh, for goodness' sake, Bob, it focuses automatically.”

Mark watched the scene with his eyes so round and absorbed that after the father finally snapped the picture, Harrison looked at him and said, “What are you looking at?”

Mark blinked. “Nothing,” he said. The parents ushered Harrison into the building, fussing with his hair and unclipping and reclipping his tie and giving him last-minute practice interview questions. Mark stared after them. He wasn't nearly that prepared. All he had to go on were his background in teamwork games, lessons on talking to adults from the other Mark Hopper, and a rudimentary history of the bassoon. This is an adventure, he reminded himself. It's like I'm in a video game. He remembered the last-minute advice Mark had given him:
Be yourself, and kick everybody else's butt
. He took a deep breath, knocked on the billboard for good luck, and walked in.

“Mastermind tournament?” asked a young woman in a chair just inside. Mark nodded. “Registration is down that hall, turn left.” Mark thanked her. This was his first challenge: Level One, Registration.

Two smiley women sat at a desk behind piles of papers, clipboards, record books, and, Mark couldn't help but notice, a basket full of candy. Harrison, who must have just finished checking in, walked into a room nearby, and his parents stood at the door waving.

“Good morning!” one of the women chirped. “Name, please?”

“Mark Geoffrey Hopper,” Mark said. He felt his ears go red, even though it wasn't a lie.

“Don't be nervous, Mark,” the other woman said. She smiled warmly. “Everyone's a winner who's gotten this far.”

Mark gulped.

“Okay,” said the first woman. “Mark Geoffrey Hopper. Well, you didn't have to travel far this morning! Some people had to take a plane or drive a few hours, but you're from right here in Greenburgh! I just need your school ID and your finalist letter.”

This was it. The moment of truth. Mark reached into his pocket and handed them both over. While the second woman flipped through a pile of large name tags, the first glanced at his ID and his letter and handed them back. Mark couldn't believe it. She barely even looked at his ID! He could have given her his library card instead, or his Buy Five Doughnuts Get One Free card. This was too easy.

“Here is your name tag, Mark. It's kind of big, I know, but just put it around your neck so the judges and the other Masterminds will know who you are. And then you're all set!”

Mark put the name tag, which was the size of a piece of loose-leaf paper and in a flimsy plastic sleeve, around his neck and his ID and finalist letter back into his pocket. “That's it?” he asked.

“That's it,” one of the women said with a friendly chuckle. “Go into this room right here. You can get to know the other finalists for a bit. The judges will explain everything else in about ten minutes when they're ready to start. You can take some candy if you'd like.” She pointed to the basket. “Help yourself.”

“Good luck!” the other added.

“Thank you!” Mark said brightly. He scooped a whole handful of fun-size chocolate bars and individually wrapped mini licorice sticks. He couldn't wait to tell Mark that they hadn't even really looked at his ID. Why had he been nervous at all? If that was the kind of security they had for this tournament, they were almost asking for people to send other people with their names in their place.

He walked into the room to find about ten competitors sitting in a circle of chairs with desks attached, just like the ones at Ivy Road Middle School. They all looked slightly older, were dressed fancier, and were visibly nervous. None of them were talking, and only one of them was eating candy. Mark took an empty seat between a chubby Asian girl with circular glasses who was wearing a fluffy pink dress and a skinny girl with a ponytail of curly hair wearing black pants and a yellow sweater. Mark smoothed his shirt. “Hi,” he said. “I'm Mark.” He dropped his handful of candy on his desk and began to open one of the Twizzlers. He glanced around and pointed to his stash. “Would anyone like some?”

The Asian girl, whose name tag said Grace, didn't even look at him. The curly-haired one smiled and asked, “Really?” When Mark nodded vigorously, she stuck out her hand and grabbed a couple chocolate bars. “Thanks. I'm Emily,” she said. “What grade are you in?”

That's a weird question, Mark thought. Isn't this the sixth-grade part of the competition? “Sixth,” he said.

“Sixth!” said Emily. Almost all of the others in the room looked at him, too. Some looked impressed, while others looked resentful. Harrison got up, walked to Mark's desk, and took a peanut-butter cup. Grace snorted but still stared straight ahead. “Wow,” said Emily.

“Why, what grade are you in?” Mark asked innocently.

“Seventh,” she said. That showed how much Mark knew. Apparently everyone in middle school was lumped together to compete.

“I'm seventh,” said someone else.

“Who else is seventh?” Harrison asked the group. No one responded. “Eighth?” Harrison asked. Everyone but Mark, Emily, the other seventh grader, and Grace raised their hands. “You're in sixth then, too?” Harrison asked Grace.

“That's my business, not yours,” Grace snapped.

Mark laughed to himself. Mark might have come as himself after all. He and Grace would make a great pair. “So no one else is in sixth?” he said. “Except maybe you,” he said with a nod to Grace.

Everybody but Grace giggled and shook their heads. It must be nearly impossible to become a finalist in sixth grade, Mark realized. He suddenly had a newfound respect for Mark. He beat out a lot of older kids for Mark to be here, like Mark had done by being the only sixth grader whose painting was going to be in the library. On the one hand, he had a lot to live up to. On the other, if he didn't win it wouldn't be a big deal—to anyone but Mark, at least—because nobody would expect him to—except Mark.

A
clack-clack-clack
noise announced the entrance of a tall, wiry woman with pepper-colored hair and rimless glasses. She was wearing a cranberry-colored wool skirt and matching suit jacket. The clacking was made by her cranberry-colored heels on the hard floor, and it didn't stop when she reached the room, for she tapped her foot while standing outside the circle of competitors and reviewing the contents of a clipboard. “Good morning,” she said severely. Mark wasn't sure if he should say “good morning” back, so he was glad when she continued without waiting for a return greeting. “I am Dr. Latchky, and I will be running the competition today. I'd like to thank you all for coming and congratulate you on getting this far. The other judges are on their way, and we will begin shortly, first with the teamwork component and then, after that, lunch and the interviews. Are there any questions at this point?”