The Gollywhopper Games Page 5

  Curly Guy started making a beeline for Bianca, but a man in a green vest stopped him. Another green-vested person herded Gil and Bianca to seats behind a long table on one side of the stage next to Thorn, Rocky, and Genius Girl. The remaining five contestants sat at a table on the other side of the stage.

  Bert Golliwop thanked everyone still at their desks and instructed them to pick up a signed Skorch CD and one hundred dollars in cash as they exited.

  One hundred dollars? That would probably mean nothing to Thorn, but if Gil could come away with one hundred dollars in cash? Jackpot!

  Mr. Golliwop addressed the wave of reporters and TV cameras that rolled toward the stage. “Let me introduce you to our survivors.” From the cards in his hand, he read off the names of the five kids to his right. “And to my left, Thornton Dewitt-Formey, Rocky Titus, Lavinia Plodder, Bianca LaBlanc, and…” He quick-turned his head at Gil then turned back. “Gil Goodson,” he said, his voice a half note higher.

  “Excuse me,” he said, picking up a glass of water. “I think I may have swallowed a bug.”

  A few people laughed, but Gil just smiled.

  Mr. Golliwop cleared his throat. “All right now. We’ll take fifteen minutes for questions from the press, then let these kids go. It’s been a long day.” Bert Golliwop’s stare zeroed in on a local reporter who had been particularly nasty to Gil’s family in the past. “And, please, ask general questions that can and will be answered by all our contestants.”

  The local reporter gave a slight nod back. “How old are each of you?” he yelled out.

  Bert Golliwop exhaled before he cleared his throat. “We’ll begin with the young lady to my far right.”

  All ten answered. Lights shone in their eyes, TV cameras pointed toward their faces, and photographers clicked away. The questions came fast and furious.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Describe your feelings in one word.”

  “Do you think you’ll get any sleep tonight?”

  “What will you do if you win it all?”

  Gil fell into step, hoping the questions would remain easy, and they did.

  When the press conference ended, Mr. Golliwop came from behind his podium and faced the ten of them. “Those of you who don’t already have hotel accommodations in town, please see my assistant over there. We’ll make arrangements. Also see her if you need extra tickets for additional family members. And try to get a good night’s sleep. You need to be at Golly headquarters tomorrow morning by nine o’clock, with parent or guardian, and dressed comfortably for competition.” He looked at Bianca’s shoes. “You might want to rethink those high heels, young lady.”

  Bianca laughed.

  “Now I want each of you to look at the others at your table. The five of you need to become best friends because you’re now a team, and you’ll be competing against the other five. That’s all I can tell you. Before you leave, take a minute and introduce yourselves.”

  They stood and formed a little circle, but Gil didn’t listen to the introductions. Instead he studied his team.

  Bianca. Bianca was great. Bianca made him smile. And maybe she knew more than it seemed. Somehow she’d made it on stage.

  Lavinia was the biggest question mark. Gil hoped her mother was cautious because she wanted to protect a genius-sized brain and not because she was a six-year-old in disguise.

  Rocky looked even stronger than he used to be. Great if there were physical challenges, but the team needed to stop him from cheating or they’d all risk elimination.

  Thorn? Ditto on the cheating.

  The cheating. Gil had to do something about the cheating. He’d tell someone, but who would believe him? Bianca might. Or Bianca might yell, reporters might come running, and Gil might have to answer thousands of questions. He’d figure out something by tomorrow.

  Gil got an extra ticket for his mom, then walked toward the stands with Bianca and Lavinia. “Okay, Bianca,” he said. “How’d you figure out that last question?”

  “It was easy,” she said. “I mean, it was hard. I figured out most of it and came up with fourteen thousand something, but the number didn’t feel lucky, so I went with some luckier numbers. I used my age today: fifteen. Then eight because my birthday’s in eight days, plus sixteen because that’s how old I’ll be. Fifteen thousand eight hundred sixteen. Get it?”

  Gil shook his head. Maybe Bianca was smarter than he thought. At least her luck was beyond belief. If only it would hold out through tomorrow and rub off on him. If only…

  Gil saw something shining where the field met the track. “A lucky penny,” he said. If only it were lucky enough to get him out of this cheating mess. It wasn’t so much Rocky who concerned him. He could probably handle Rocky. He didn’t know about Thorn.

  Gil reached for the penny, fumbled it between his sweaty fingers, and it pinged against the track. He picked it up again and smiled.

  Yeah. Now he could deal with Thorn.

  CHAPTER 9

  Gil stopped cold, then backed behind a bank of bushes near the top of their street. He gestured with his chin.

  “Ah. TV trucks,” Gil’s dad said. “Should’ve known.”

  Gil should’ve known, too. Reporters always come back. They’d camped outside Gil’s house for a week after the arrest. They returned during the trial. They stayed after the verdict until other news moved them to a different location.

  At first, they acted so nice, like they were trying to get the Goodsons’ side of the story. It turned out, though, they wanted to be heroes and find the one piece of evidence that would prove his dad guilty. Now they were back in force today, but with their national media buddies.

  “Well,” said his dad, “we have three choices. We call the police and issue a nuisance complaint, which will give us bad press again. We sneak around Jonathan Street and try to slip inside the back door unnoticed, but we already know that won’t work. Or…”

  “Yeah,” said Gil. “Let’s do the ‘or.’”

  “I think our official line is no comment,” said his dad. “That’s always safest. Ready?”

  The media swarmed toward them like a wave of gnats, flapping their cameras, recorders, notepads, and flashes.

  “How can you be eligible?”

  “How’d you know the answers?”

  “Is this revenge?”

  Gil kept his eyes on his target: the front door. If he could make it through, smiling and silent, he’d win this round.

  Gil’s dad put an arm around his shoulders. Together they strode onto their lawn and up the two porch steps. Instead of turning his key in the lock, Gil’s dad turned and faced the crowd.

  “I’ve been silent for eighteen months,” he said. “And I’d prefer to remain that way, but when you ask insinuating questions of a twelve-year-old boy, I can’t, as a father, remain silent. So all I will say is this. See this strong, young man who stands in front of you? He wants only one thing today and tomorrow. He wants to find some joy in life by playing a game. Playing a game. It’s as simple as that. So please leave him alone when he eats tonight. Leave him alone to sleep. And tomorrow morning, let him play, just as you’d want your own children to do. Now, good evening.” He turned, opened the door, and shuttled Gil inside.

  “You shouldn’t have, Dad,” Gil said. “They’ll put it on the news and in the—”

  His dad shook his head. “You didn’t notice, did you?” He nudged open a corner of the living room curtain. “Bert Golliwop’s limo. See? Behind the Channel Four news truck? This isn’t the publicity he wants. I guarantee.”

  Bert Golliwop, flanked on one side by a police officer and on the other by a woman in a suit, cut through the reporters and up to the Goodsons’ front stoop.

  Gil’s dad opened the door to let them in. “Bert,” he said. “Coming to arrest me again?”

  Mr. Golliwop let out a fake laugh. “No, Charles, no. I’m trying to quiet this little situation.”

  “Be my guest,” said Gil’s dad. “But why
the police?”

  “Me coming into a semifinalist’s house? Don’t want to give an air of impropriety. Officer Lane is here as a witness. So is Samantha Phillips from the commission that oversees rules and procedures.”

  “Officer Lane, Ms. Phillips, I respect your positions,” said Gil’s dad. “So please don’t take this as an attack on your integrity, but I feel the need to call in a couple witnesses of my own.”

  “Who do you have in mind?” asked Bert.

  Charles Goodson opened the front door. “Excuse me,” he called to the reporters. “Claire Dawson? Mike Owens? Are you there?”

  Reporters from the Orchard Heights Times and the Channel 5 News came forward.

  “Dad?” said Gil. “But those two—”

  “They were the fair ones. Tough, but fair.” He motioned them inside, told them why they were there, and asked them to turn on their recorders. “Now please, Bert, you were saying?”

  “I was saying that I came as a courtesy to quiet the situation on the street. That’s all. I’m afraid you’ve wasted the reporters’ time.”

  “Don’t worry about our time,” said Mike Owens. “Now, off the record, Bert. Awkward situation, the son of a fired executive in the round of ten. Any comment?”

  Bert Golliwop stared at the reporters. “Off the record? Turn those recorders off.”

  They did.

  “Off the record, I have a multibillion dollar corporation to run and shareholders to consider. Any leader of any company would have nightmares from a situation like this.” Bert Golliwop pointed at Gil. “I wish he weren’t in the Gollywhopper Games. I don’t think it sounds right. I don’t think it smells right. I don’t think it looks right even if the officials say it’s all right. It’s not. It’s all wrong.” He looked at Gil’s dad. “How much did you help your kid inside the stadium?”

  “He didn’t help me at all,” said Gil. “And I have my own two witnesses to prove it.”

  “Gil, it’s okay,” said his dad.

  “No. I have three more witnesses.” Gil raced to his room, grabbed his notebooks and ran back, holding them high. “These are mine. I spent six months putting them together by myself. I memorized everything inside, just ask me. Your company discontinued five products last year including the Ping-Pong line. When GolTagaCo opened on the stock market, it sold for six dollars a share. What else? You, Mr. Golliwop, were born on August twenty-third, twelve days after the company opened for business, and the G of your middle name stands for Gilbert, which didn’t excite me when I found out. You want more?” He thrust the notebooks toward Mr. Golliwop. “I worked hard to get here, maybe harder than any kid in that stadium. I wouldn’t take anything I didn’t earn. Neither would my dad, and if you think you can go around accusing—”

  “Gil,” said his dad.

  “Hold on,” said Bert Golliwop. “I’m not taking you to court over this, son.”

  Son? So many words tried to race from Gil’s mouth that they stumbled over his tongue and struck him silent.

  “I simply want you to know, Gil, we have ten alternate contestants for the Gollywhopper Games. Except for the one winner, all of them will receive the same prizes. If you don’t want this heat, you can trade your spot with an alternate and collect your parting gifts.”

  Gil opened his mouth to speak.

  “Before you answer,” said Mr. Golliwop, “also understand that if you stay, you’ll have more TV cameras and microphones pointed at you than all the other kids combined, and there’s nothing I can do about that. It could be very uncomfortable. Think about it, son. It may be in your family’s best interest if you relinquished your spot.”

  “I understand everything,” said Gil. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Very well.” Bert Golliwop nodded, opened the door and walked directly toward the reporters, who began shouting questions at him. He held up his hands and brought his palms down, quieting them. “I was inside, talking to one of our contestants, assuring him he’ll be treated no differently than any other. So if you plan to retain your press passes for tomorrow and for any future Golly event, you’d be wise to pack up immediately and stay at least three blocks away. And people, keep your focus on the Gollywhopper Games, not on ancient history.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “I’m playing a game. I’m playing a game. I’m playing a game,” Gil kept whispering to himself the next morning. No different than chess or darts or tag.

  It’s just a game, he had said over and over to himself in bed last night when his brain kept nagging him for missing his chance to tell Bert Golliwop about the real cheaters. He didn’t remember sleeping, but here, in the bathroom, his mouth tasted like he’d licked lawn mower dirt.

  Gil loaded his toothbrush, pushed it around his mouth, and glanced down. His shoes were double-knotted. His socks matched. His fly was zipped. He spit and rinsed and reached into his right pocket to make sure the penny he had found yesterday was still there.

  Just a game. He moved to the kitchen and grabbed a handful of Lucky Charms cereal then dug out and ate as many extra horseshoes and four-leaf clovers as he could find. Gil stuck his mouth under the faucet and gulped some water.

  Just a game. He took a pair of scissors from the drawer and pulled the left front pocket of his jeans inside out. He snipped a couple stitches, stuffed his pocket back in and wedged two fingertips into the new hole to stretch it. “Sorry, Mom,” he whispered. “It’s part of the game.”

  Gil ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled. Looked out the window. No reporters today. He was ready.

  He and his mom and dad spent the ten-minute drive to Golly headquarters in silence. His parents didn’t try to start conversation, and Gil couldn’t think of a thing to say. It all seemed petty compared to what his dad, in particular, must be feeling.

  This was the first time Charles Goodson would step into Golly since the day he was wrenched out in handcuffs. He never even got the chance to clean out his office. The police had seized everything, including Gil’s kindergarten artwork that had decorated the walls for years.

  The car climbed the hill that would give them the first view of the biggest building in Orchard Heights. Gil had been down this road dozens of times since The Incident, but the sight of the eight-story structure with its jumble of architecture—castle spires, modern angles, village awnings—shimmied up his spine like shock waves from an explosion.

  They dropped Gil’s mom off at the front entrance as specified on her ticket then swung around to the parking lot. A guard stopped the car, verified they belonged, then directed them around traffic cones painted like candy corn to an area of the lot reserved only for contestants.

  “What time is it?” said Gil.

  “We still have fifteen minutes.” His dad turned off the engine, but made no move to get out of the car.

  Gil stared at the building, too.

  “I’ve been trying to think of something brilliant to say,” said his dad. “Something to make the past year and a half disappear and allow you to go inside without all the garbage.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.”

  “But I’m a dad, and dads have to say something.” He shook his head. “The past few months, I’m afraid I’ve been too busy to say much of anything.”

  “It’s okay,” Gil said again.

  His dad gripped the steering wheel and shook his head. “No. It’s not. So I’ve been trying to think of something very philosophical, but my mind keeps returning to football.” He swiveled in his seat to face Gil and almost smiled. “You know when we watch a game and the referee makes a rotten call, and the people on the sidelines stamp their feet and throw their helmets and drop their clipboards?”

  Gil nodded. “And you can see the squiggly veins on the sides of their heads popping out?”

  “You got the picture. Now, the players on that team have two choices. They can let the call rattle them and blow the rest of the game, or they can channel their indignation into energy and action, and use it to work harder.”

&nb
sp; “And that’s what you want me to do.”

  His dad shook his head. “No. You’ve already done that, Gil. You prepared, and you played smart. Already, you accomplished more than I could have dreamed. And the fact that we can enter this building with our heads held high means we’ve already won. We have nothing left to prove. So throw away the garbage, and play that game. Don’t let anyone drain the joy away from you. Just have fun.” His dad grabbed Gil’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “Ready?”

  Gil nodded.

  He felt ready for something. A firing squad? A pack of wild dogs? An ejector pad to launch him through the roof after he stepped inside the rainbow-striped door?

  He was closest with the wild dogs. Hundreds of miniature windup toys barked and quacked and rattled around the entrance to the building. Gil tiptoed over and around them, careful not to step on the clown-faced rhino or the chattering teeth. And when he knocked over the duck-billed chimp, it promptly righted itself and turned three circles before it clattered away.

  Just the promise of coming here used to make Gil laugh. Around every corner, there’d always be balloons or life-sized stuffed animals or action projections of Golly’s newest video games. And when he’d stop and breathe in, his nose could always detect a faint smell of chocolate-chip cookies or popcorn or apple pie or other scents that made him drool.

  Gil’s dad sniffed. “Fresh-baked bread today.”

  Gil nodded. “How do they do that?”

  “I never wanted to know,” his dad said. “I was afraid it’d shatter the fantasy.”

  The fantasy. The building was like one big fantasy.

  Gil and his dad followed blinking arrows on the wall that led them through a narrow passage and into the biggest fantasy room of all: The Kaleidoscope. It wasn’t a handheld toy, but an entire circular room that rose the full eight stories, walls glittering with a mosaic of shimmering, shining glass panels more brilliant than Gil’s senses could take in.

  He couldn’t resist standing on the eight-pointed golden star in the room’s center. Arms extended, face toward the sparkling ceiling, he twirled until the kaleidoscope’s glass seemed to revolve around him. Then he stopped and wobbled. Let his knees buckle. Landed flat on his back, with the kaleidoscope spinning even faster.