The New Champion (23 page)

W
ith thoughts of Hollywood dangling in front of his nose, Cameron was ready to leave the “farm.” That wasn't an option. It had nothing to do with dragging Spencer and Walker away from the Cannonball Competitions or his dad from the gourmet cooking classes or his mom from the waterskiing. It was the final rule.

At first it seemed lame, especially when they had Lavinia talk to him about facing the world after coming in second. She couldn't know how he felt. No one could. He supposed, though, this was part of Golly's mandatory class, How to Act like a Normal Person When Your Entire Life Has Been Broadcast All Over the World.

After a while, though, he had to admit she made sense. “If you do only one thing,” she said, “be prepared with answers. You'll hear all sorts of advice on what you could have done differently, and it's easy to get defensive and give snarky replies. Like, ‘Let's see you get as far as I did.' And ‘If you want to see how easy it is, strip to your underwear and sit in the school cafeteria taking a test you never studied for.'”

After that they had a good time coming up with lines no one should use. Everyone around the pool joined in. And the days pretty much flew like that, most of the time, just hanging around, getting to really know the rest of the contestants, this year's and last year's, in a normal—well, noncompetitive—setting. Except Rocky, who wasn't there, and Thorn, who, for some reason, seemed to be wherever Cameron wasn't.

The Gollywhopper Games were to air on TV two consecutive nights. The Golly people held a premiere party at the farm's theater with red carpet and fancy clothes for the first night's episode, which showed the regionals and the Stadium Round. But the second night before airtime, the contestants and their families had already boarded planes. The plan was to whisk them home before the credits rolled.

It's not that Cameron and his family missed seeing the show. Golly had loaded the private plane with a DVD. Cameron prayed they'd skip over his throwing away the million dollars, but they showed everything. He would have won if there'd been a different picture on the ceiling.

Now, though, he had nothing to hide.

They got home about an hour before the show ended. Already there were thirty-five messages on their answering machine; all the so-excitings and congratulations and I-don't-know-what-you-won-yet-Camerons, but-could-you-give-me-a-thousand-dollars-hahahas.

Cameron would have been fine without seeing the Games on TV again, but Walker had turned it on. It was at the part in the Rainbow Maze where they found their first packs.

“I don't get something,” said Walker. “Why did you always go the wrong way after you picked up the packs? Didn't you see the arrow?”

“What arrow?”

“The packs were arranged in an arrow to show you which way to go.”

“They were? Who told you that?”

“No one did,” said Walker. “I saw it on the monitors when you were running it.”

Cameron laughed. “If you keep noticing stuff like that, maybe you'll win the million dollars in two years.” He nudged Walker, then headed to his room, where his life would be almost normal.

Golly had arranged for a team of guards to keep anyone away for the next forty-eight hours, which was great. Cameron wanted just one quiet night in his own bed before he faced the barrage of people who, according to last year's contestants, would come.

He downed a handful of the sweet 'n' salty snack mix from the giant food basket Golly had sent them and—

Doorbell? Hadn't the guards guaranteed no one would bother them?

Might as well get this over with. Cameron peeked around the corner, where he could hear and see everything but be mostly invisible himself.

One of the guards handed Cameron's dad a phone. “It's Mr. Golliwop.”

“I understand,” said his dad. “No problem, but why?” Pause. “Really?” Pause. He motioned for Cameron. “Absolutely!” Pause. “And yes, we do. Thank you!” He handed the phone back to the guard and held the door open for three camera people.

“What's going on?” asked Cameron's mom.

Their phone rang. His dad hit the speakerphone button. “Hello?”

“This is the White House operator calling for Cameron Schein. Is he there?”

Cameron nodded.

Spencer nudged him.

“Um, yes. This is Cameron.”

“Please hold for the president of the United States.”

“The who?”

His dad nodded. “This isn't a joke.”

And it wasn't. It was the president's voice. “My family and I were sitting here watching the show tonight, and we kept shaking our heads, saying, ‘Who does this? What kind of person turns down a million dollars?' We wanted to find out who.”

“I guess I do?” said Cameron.

The president laughed. “There are few people with the integrity to turn down that much money, Cameron, and that's why we want to meet you. We'd like you to come to the White House for lunch next week if you could find the time. Golly Toy and Game Company will pay your way here, and we'll treat you right. Would you do that?”

Would he? Um, yeah. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“We'll get that all arranged, then. And thank you, Cameron. It's an honor.”

Cameron was still reeling when he went to bed. This would not be a normal night. He tossed and turned and got up and paced and maybe fell asleep around three in the morning.

Again he woke to pounding on his door. He was about to yell at Spencer, but maybe it wasn't Spencer. It could have been the king of Denmark, the way things had been going. “Yeah?”

“Dude!” It was Spencer after all. “Get up! You're trending!”

“I'm what?”

“You're trending. Online. Everyone's talking about you.” He barged in, pulled Cameron out of bed, and dragged him by his T-shirt to the computer.

“It's Clio,” said Walker, who'd joined them. “She started it.”

“Started what?”

“Dude,” said Spencer, “she wanted to give you half her money, but they'd make her forfeit everything if she did, so she did this instead.”

“Did what?”

“She got your whole team together. Last year's people, too. Bianca sends you hugs and kisses by the way, but they're all over the Internet, trying to get a million people to each send you one dollar.”

Walker grabbed the mouse. “And look! People are already doing it.” He clicked to a picture of a girl stuffing a dollar into an envelope addressed to Cameron in care of Golly Toy and Game Company. Then he clicked to another picture. “It's Thorn, and he's sending ten thousand dollars!”

“Why would he do that?” Cameron said. “Why would anyone? I'm not a charity case.”

“Listen to you,” said Spencer. “Such a doofus. You turned yourself into a hero. You're going to be a millionaire after all.”

He was? “I am?”

“You are,” said Walker.

He was? But with everything else that had happened, all the people he was going to meet, all the opportunities coming his way, did it matter now? Did all that money matter?

Maybe it did. Or not.

He'd figure it out, one step at a time.

Acknowledgments

T
his page starts with the usual thank-yous, but ends with the reason these particular acknowledgments even exist.

Thanks, first, to my Greenwillow editor, Virginia Duncan, who has given me this gift to write more episodes of
The Gollywhopper Games
. She took a simple comment from me (“I'm in the mood to write another contest book”) and turned it into one of the best rides of my life. Thanks to her, too, I am privileged to work with the amazing Sarah Thomson, who really gets me, gets my characters, and gets a huge gold star for tugging on my sleeve to pull out the best of this story. My gratitude extends throughout the Greenwillow family to Lois Adams, who fielded my copyediting issues with patience, generosity, and overall loveliness; to Paul Zakris, who brilliantly handled the overall graphic elements, the cover design (fabulous art by Max Kostenko!), and who allowed me a sneak peek (though maybe he wishes he hadn't) at the interior illustrations by the talented Victoria Jamieson (Vicki, you're terrific!). Thanks also to those who have worked so hard behind the scenes of these chapters.

It's impossible to let go and write the fun parts unless you're surrounded by family and friends who make your life as carefree as possible. Thanks, specifically, to my husband, Dick, and his full-on support; to Cassie, who helps me find even more humor than I thought possible; and to Paige, whose amazing insights into my work help me realize the full story. And she doesn't think it's weird when I directly launch into character issues as if they were, in fact, real.

In that vein, thanks to my critique mates Cinda Chima, Debby Garfinkel, Martha Levine, Mary Beth Miller, and Kate Tuthill, who understand that it's kind to be cruel and who also make exploring random U.S. cities so much fun.

And always to Jennie Dunham, who deals with the business and leaves me free to imagine.

Now comes the thanks to those of you—and that probably IS you!—who have made these particular acknowledgments possible. In 2008, a brand-new book by an unknown author found its way into the world. One minute
The Gollywhopper Games
was walking side by side with a myriad of other titles, and the next, you gave it a chance. Whether you are a bookseller, a teacher, a librarian, a parent, or a reader(!); whether you borrowed
The Gollywhopper Games
or bought it for yourself or to share; or if you included it on a summer reading list; or read it to your class; or nominated it for your state reading awards; or reordered it for your store; whether you let me into your schools, your stores, your libraries, or your conferences; whether you wrote a report on it, made a video because of it, created your own puzzles, suggested it to one friend or dozens . . .

You provided the fuel to turn this little story into The Book That Could. It was only by your word of mouth that
The Gollywhopper Games
demanded a book two and a book three. And I will be grateful always.

Excerpt from
The Gollywhopper Games: Friend or Foe

The games continue. . . .

Turn the page for a sneak peek at

T
o hear his friends describe it, it had been a thing of beauty—Zane's soaring sideways, in slow-motion they swore, to make an epic catch. Honestly? It had been stupidity. When the baseball shot the gap between second and third, Zane should have let it go. This was gym class, and this was
not
football. But his instincts had taken over, which caused his chin to hit the ground and his teeth to clank together.

Now at lunch, it was like his dizziness had teamed with the combo-smell of peanut butter, tuna fish, and French fries to create some super-scent. It weaseled up his nose and made the lights a little too bright; his turkey wrap, a little too salty; his friends, especially, a little too loud. It was like he could feel his brain and not in a good way.

His core group was deep in joke mode with the doofus managers of their football team, Thing 1 and Thing 2, who were sitting at their table today. Zane was spacing out on the conversation, but he knew the JZs—Jamaal, Jerome, Julio, and Zack—were using the Things to set up another inside gag. The Things deserved it. They always bragged that they were the heart of the team, but they pretty much stood around laughing at their own lame jokes until Coach yelled at them to do their jobs. Right now, though, none of it was amusing. Zane wanted to find a bed and rest his brain.

At least these symptoms felt different from last November's, and he could name the months of the year backward; even so, he needed to prove to himself that the headache and the overly bright lights were born from fear, just fear, because Zane could not afford another concussion.

He zeroed in on the conversation and stayed with it the rest of lunch. He nailed the vocab quiz in CommArts. He
habla'
d
español
when he was asked. But his head was still clouding as Mr. Longley droned on about the freezing point in Celsius. He propped his chin with his hand, willing the steady pressure to get him through this last half hour. Then he'd go home, rest—

Bzzz! Bzzz!

Thirty minutes already? Had he passed out? No one was rushing the door, everyone was asking about the buzzer, and the clock itself had barely moved. Zane breathed.

“And now we come to what promises to be an unfortunate waste of time.” Mr. Longley held up a thick, yellow envelope. “I have no idea what this is, nor its purpose, but when I hand out these sheets”—he paused to read the writing on the envelope—“‘You will have ten minutes to turn them over and complete as many questions as you can. Please put your answers in the blanks provided. You may use the margins of the paper as work space. If you can't figure out an answer, skip the question. This will not be graded; this will not go on your permanent record.'”

He looked up from the envelope, over his glasses. “This will, however, take valuable time from the seventh grade curriculum.” He slapped a paper on each desk. “Put your name on the side where it says ‘Name.' You'd think, by now, we wouldn't need to tell you that. When I say go, turn the paper over and begin.”

Zane would go. He would answer these questions. All of them. That would prove his brain wasn't bleeding, that he could play spring football, that he wouldn't be sidelined forever.

“Go!”

Zane turned over his paper. Math!

 

Question #1

* * * * * * * * * * *

Bob ordered a pizza with 48 pieces of pepperoni at 10 cents apiece, 30 pieces of sausage at 14 cents apiece, 26 pieces of green pepper at 6 cents apiece, three different types of cheese at $1.28 per type, and the $3.89 medium crust. The sauce was free.

 

Zane stopped to calculate the pepperoni and sausage. If he could do that in his head, he was probably fine. Okay. Four dollars and eighty cents in pepperoni. Then thirty times fourteen which—

His eye caught the last sentence of the question.

 

Write an A if Bob is an omnivore;

B if he's a herbivore;

or C if he's a carnivore.
___________

A. $18.19

B. $18.39

C. $17.19

D. $18.29

 

Since when had Zane forgotten to read the entire thing? Since the dive? He wrote
A.

 

Question #2

* * * * * * * * * * *

If you eliminate one letter from each name below, the remaining letters, in order, will spell a common word. Rearrange the eliminated letters to spell another common word.
_________________

 

Alice

Peter

Clement

Dewey

Albert

 

Rearrange letters with a rearranged brain?

He'd try. If he got rid of the
A
in Alice . . .

Okay. That was a word. Next. If he dropped the
P
in Peter, it'd be
eter
. No. The
E
?
Pter
sounded like someone spitting. The
T
! Next. Clement. Not the
C
. Not the
L
. Yes, the
L
. Not so hard, at least so far. Next. Dewey. Either
ewey, dwey, deey, dewy,
or
dewe
.
Dewy
? Filled with dew? That was the only one that seemed remotely right.

So far, the dropped letters could spell
late
, but he still needed one more. Not the
A
in Albert. Not the
L
. The
B
! L-A-T-E plus a
B
.
Blate
?
Bleat
? Was that what sheep did? Or was that spelled with two
E
s?
Belat
.
Betal
, like petal? Maybe it started with a
T
. A lot of words did. And a lot of words ended in
–le
. Or
-ble
? That was it!
Table
.