The Gollywhopper Games (3 page)

“G
il. Gil! GIL! You alive?”

Gil bolted upright. People. Grass. Tree. “Huh?”

“Hey,” said Frankie, one of those head-shakers from football practice.

In his haze Gil pictured Frankie diving into the pool at the house that should have been Gil’s. The house—south of town, with a media room off the den and a bathtub so big you could swim in it—was nearly finished right before The Incident. Gil’s parents had been grateful that Frankie’s bought it from them so quickly, but every time Gil saw Frankie, he also saw the zipline that should have been his own. And he couldn’t forget that day at football practice.

Gil gave Frankie a nod, and Frankie apparently took it as an invitation to sit on the sleeping bag. “I saw you sleeping here a couple hours ago, and when I came back, you hadn’t moved a muscle. I was checking to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“Wishful thinking?”

“Crud no.” Frankie brushed his dark hair away from his eyes. “Why’d you think that?”

“Football practice last year. The twins practically kicked me off the team. You shook your head and walked away.”

“Because they were jerks, and I couldn’t believe what they were saying.”

“I thought…”

“You thought I wanted you off the team?” Frankie shook his head. “I was hoping you’d come back. My mom said you probably would if I gave you a little time. And I’ve tried the time thing, but today I decided this has been ridiculous.”

“Huh?”

“You’re never anywhere anymore. Not football or baseball. Not even at lunch during school last year. Where’d you eat? The bathroom?”

“Gross, Frankie.” And it was, the one time he’d tried it. “I ate in the science room.”

“Which could be gross, too.”

“Not if you avoid the rabbit droppings.” Gil smiled again, wondering why this felt so easy.

“So now that I found you,” said Frankie, “I’ve gotta tell you, football league practice starts next week, and we need a wide receiver. You were the best.”

Gil dug at some dirt underneath his fingernails. “Rocky was always the best.”

“Rocky was always a jerk. Probably still is, but he’s long gone. You know that.”

Gil snapped his head up.

“You didn’t notice he was gone? Man. You have been a hermit. If you believe Rocky, his dad got this perfect new job a bunch of time ago in Maine or Wyoming.”

“How can you confuse Maine with Wyoming?” Gil laughed.

“Don’t care enough to remember. Anyway, the dad left first, and when he got settled in some mansion, Rocky and his mom moved there, too.” Frankie groaned to a stand. “But I don’t want to
talk about him anymore. Gotta get back to work.” He pointed to his yellow Golly badge. “Can you believe they’re actually paying employees’ kids to hang around in case people have questions? Have any questions?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Okay. Football field. Next week. Be there.” Frankie turned and walked away.

Gil’s gut said to stop Frankie and ask what day, what time, what field. Ask if the twin giraffes would be there. And whose side the other guys were on. Instead he watched Frankie disappear behind the hot dog smoke billowing from a grill.

Food. Gil needed food. He reached into his duffel, hoping to pull out an eight-course meal, but he came up with his three Golly notebooks instead. Those notebooks had been his sport for the last six months. After he made that deal with his dad, Gil started collecting every shred of information he could find about Golly, then studied the company like another subject.

He opened Volume 1 for the millionth and maybe last time.

Exactly fifty years ago today. Should have wished the old man a happy birthday. He flipped to page three.

After a while, he found himself reading page ten for the fifteenth time, not because it was complicated but because he was distracted from it by
whiffs of barbecued chicken and popcorn and now, pepperoni pizza so close he could almost—

“Here.”

Touch it?

Frankie was back, holding two slices and a humongous soda for him. “Thought you could use this. Don’t want our wide receiver wasting away in line.”

Gil smiled, but didn’t reach for it.

“C’mon. Take it. One of the side benefits of this job. We get all the food we can eat.”

“Seriously?” Gil didn’t want charity. “My money’s at home in the bathtub—don’t ask—but I’ll pay you back.”

“Now there’s an idea,” said Frankie. “Get free food and sell it. We could…Wow! Wow-wow! Of all the perfect dreams. Don’t turn now, but way over there, there’s this girl—”

“And she’s wearing an orange bikini top and unzipped jean shorts covering her bottoms, and she’s heading right for us.”

“You psychic, Gil?”

“Yeah. Call me Magno the Magnificent.” Gil
smiled. “No. Her name’s Bianca. She’s my next-door neighbor here. She’s fifteen, so stop drooling.”

“I can dream, can’t I?” Frankie pulled his attention away from her. “Gotta go, but I will return.” He looked over his shoulder three times before he was out of sight.

“I’m back, everyone,” Bianca said, “but I’m not too happy.” She flopped onto a lounge chair next to Curt’s. “I couldn’t find out anything.”

Gil took a bite of pizza and slapped Volume 1 closed.

Bianca pointed to the notebook. “Whatcha doing?” she asked. “School stuff? It’d be a crime if you were one of those people who study before school starts. Those, those yolk-heads.”

“It’s eggheads, Bianca,” said Curt.

“Whatever.” She leaned over and grabbed Volume 1. “So what is this?”

Gil explained the notebooks.

Bianca read a chunk of the history, flipped through the stock market pages, then lingered on the newspaper articles that interviewed some of the instant winners. “Wow! Gil!” she said. “I didn’t know we’d
have to know anything. I just thought…I don’t know what I thought I’d have to do. Hey, Double G, I’m gonna stick with you. Mind?”

Gil shrugged. “Watch my stuff?” He got up to use one of the Porta Potties. Yeah, he did mind. He’d been clever enough to figure out what to do. He’d made and studied the notebooks. He’d worked all sorts of puzzles his dad had copied and brought home from the library. But he didn’t need to make another enemy.

He went back to his spot, trying not to look mad, and when he saw two water bottles and some Laffy Taffy ropes in the shape of an
F
, he actually smiled. Frankie had struck again.

Gil took a bite of candy and sat there. Saw Bianca crack open Volume 2 of the notebooks.

“It’s like watching paint dry,” said Curt. “C’mon, Gil, let’s go play volleyball.”

And risk someone else kicking him off another sports team?

“C’mon, Gil. Bianca will watch our stuff.”

He got up. Why not? The twins were working. Most other kids from school would be, too, if they
were even here. Their parents still had jobs at Golly. Lucky them.

In spite of everything, Gil missed going to Golly headquarters on Saturdays with his dad. He remembered one particular morning when he was nine. They’d opened the door to his dad’s office and there, sitting like a person at the desk, was a life-sized bear, pretending to type at the keyboard. The screen invited Gil to come to the testing room and bring his friend. Using the bear as a chair, Gil spent hours testing a huge loop-de-loop car track that collapsed into a carrying case without needing to break down into a million pieces. He wanted to take that home so badly. He wondered why Golly never did make it. It was amazing.

So was the volleyball they were playing with. Gil didn’t know if Golly sold this one yet or if they were watching today to see how it tested out. It was regulation white, until you hit it. Then depending on the spot, it glowed a different color. He couldn’t wait to see it at night.

Gil got into the game fast. Set. Set. Spike. Dig. Set. Spike. Score! The rhythm of the game seemed
as natural as breathing. He did miss sports. Even as hot as it was, he didn’t want to take the rotation out, especially because both Lonnie and Donnie were on the sidelines waiting for him.

“Now what?” said Gil.

“Lonnie told me you were here,” said Donnie.

“And?” Gil said, putting on his best I-dare-you face.

“And nothing. Just didn’t believe you existed anymore.” He looked at his brother. “He’s still got game. Shouldn’t be here, though.”

Lonnie shook his head. “You know you shouldn’t be here, Gil.”

“I checked the rules,” Gil said. “None of my relatives
have worked at Golly for more than a year. I’m eligible.”

Lonnie shrugged. “They should’ve added a Goodson rule, you creep. Let’s go, Donnie.”

Gil felt sorry for the volleyball. Knew he’d smash the air out of it the next time it came his way. Set. Set. Spike it right at the twins. Score.

Would this always be his life in Orchard Heights?

T
he announcement came over a loudspeaker at 8:30 the next morning. “Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! It’s Gollywhopper Day! All contestants and their guardians must be in line in five minutes. A team of Golly representatives will lead you to a designated registration area where we will issue the remaining tickets.”

Gil jumped up. “This is it,” he said to his parents.

His mom and dad had shown up early yesterday evening with carryout fried chicken—enough to share with Curt and Bianca—and for the rest of the night they ate, sat, talked, stared at the stars, listened to music, and watched the line grow longer and
longer. Somewhere between two
A.M
. and dawn, Gil managed to doze off. Right now, though, he was too nervous to be tired.

He rolled up his sleeping bag, and by the time he retied his duffel, a group of Golly workers was walking toward them. The Golly people led their section of the line to an enormous red-and-yellow banner over a long bank of tables with ten more workers stationed behind.

Line Cards #5501–#6500

REGISTER HERE!

“All right,” came a voice over a bullhorn. “Please take a place in any of the ten lines here. No need to push. Our computers will scan your cards and tell us if we’re accepting your number yet. Just have your yellow line cards ready. We have room for some of you.”

“How many?” Bianca shouted.

“How many?” came the echoes that went unanswered.

Gil wound up deep in one line with Bianca right next to him. An Orchard Heights High School
cheerleader handed them each a registration form and Gollywhopper Games pen. “Fill this out before you get to the table.”

It didn’t take long to reach the front of the line. “Good morning,” said the woman behind the table. “Your yellow cards and registration forms, please.”

Gil and Bianca passed their cards and papers to her as if they were a team.

The woman scanned the cards under a weird light. “We want to make sure you didn’t set up a little counterfeiting operation last night,” she said with a lilt in her voice.

Gil knew she was trying to be funny, but…

A light flashed green.

“We’re in?” Gil asked.

“You’re in.”

“We’re in!” Bianca grabbed Gil’s wrists, and they jumped in circles.

Gil hugged his mom, his dad. Bianca hugged Curt.

The woman handed each of them a set of rules, a souvenir ticket, and a numbered square, like the kind Olympic runners wear. “Stick these on, then go over
to Security. If you have any electronics, cell phones, PDAs, or other illegal items, you can check them there and retrieve them when you leave the stadium. About ten feet beyond that, we have room to store your camping equipment. Good luck!”

“That’s my cue to leave,” said Gil’s mom. “Call me at work when you get home.” She hugged Gil’s dad, then ruffled Gil’s hair before she kissed him on top of his head. “Go get ’em,” she said, then made a face. “That was lame.”

“Yeah, it was,” said Gil.

“How ’bout, try your best? Have fun? Think hard? Crush, kill, destroy?”

“Don’t take any wooden nickels,” Gil said.

“Look both ways before you cross the street,” said his mom.

“Chew before you swallow.”

“Don’t run with scissors,” his mom called, walking away with all their stuff.

Once they passed through Security, Gil and his dad and Bianca and Curt settled on a bench near the twenty-yard line, and not a minute later, the university band marched in. With the band providing background
noise, Gil read the instructions four times. If he understood them right, this part of the competition would be great for his legs that itched to run.

Too soon, the band headed for the sidelines, but before the last marchers left the field, they yanked away some tarps covering a center stage. Underneath were microphones, amps, guitars, and drums. Four guys in jeans and T-shirts streaked onto the field. One more strutted after them.

A couple people screamed. More and more did, too.

“Do you know who that is?” Bianca jumped onto the bench. “I love you, Skorch!”

The music started hard and loud with Skorch’s number one hit. A guy in front of Gil spun around. “If I lose,” he said, “I don’t really care now. I got to see the hottest concert in the world without paying for a ticket.”

Gil and Bianca and almost everyone else sang at the top of their lungs and jumped and danced to each of Skorch’s songs until he played his final number and ran off.

Instantly four men in neon green Golly vests took their places around the stage, precisely spaced as the
four main compass points. Simultaneously each grabbed the end of an upright roll of orange plastic construction fencing that had been secured to the field. Then each man marched straight ahead, toward the seats, up through aisles, pulling the netting and clamping it to posts every four rows until they reached the very top. They came down, raced back onto the field, and staked four immense banners to the ground, labeling one section A, one B, then C and D.

The stadium clock hit ten seconds, creating a contagious countdown.

“Three! Two! One!”

On cue, a booming voice resonated over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls. It’s what the world’s been waiting for. The Golly! Whopper! Games! Are you ready?”