The Trouble with Mark Hopper (16 page)

“Sure you can,” Mark said as convincingly as he could. “I mean, it's probably not your
strongest
part, but that's why I'm helping you.”

“I won't, okay? I know I won't. So don't bother telling me I will.”

“Okay, well, that doesn't mean that you shouldn't
go
to the final round at all. There's the interview,” Mark pointed out. “You'll do really well in that. And then you'll just do the teamwork part, using the tips we've been talking about.” Mark only grunted and turned away in response, so Mark continued. “The teamwork stuff really is easy, Mark. There's this one game where everyone gets a picture from a story and you have to put the story in order but you can't show anybody else your picture. I'm really good at that one. It must be easy if
I'm
good at it,” he joked.

Mark, who was facing the rack of paperback books, stopped spinning the rack absentmindedly and began thinking about what Mark was saying.

“I'll do whatever I can to help you,” Mark continued. “We'll work really hard until the tournament. You worked too hard to drop out now. Someone named Mark Hopper needs to win.”

I did work really hard, Mark thought. And someone named Mark Geoffrey Hopper should win. Both of us want Mark Geoffrey Hopper to win. . . . “Well, I guess we can just practice a lot,” he said slowly.

“Yeah! All right!”

“But you know I just don't have a chance.”

“Well . . .”

“I wish you could just go and do that part for me.” Mark laughed.

Mark laughed, too. Then he widened his eyes.

Mark tried not to smile.

“Well,” the wide-eyed Mark said. He lowered his voice to an even softer whisper. “I probably
could
go and do it for you. I
am
Mark Geoffrey Hopper.”

Mark pretended to find this idea a surprise. “Oh yeah,” he said. “They don't know what I'm supposed to look like. They just check your school ID when you get there.” He knew that this—if they did it—was
really
cheating. Not that submitting Mark's painting wasn't cheating, but this somehow seemed worse. Sending someone in your place . . . Beth had told him about a guy named Derek Sanford who hired somebody to pretend to be him and take the SATs in his place. But they got caught because the proctor that day happened to be Derek's neighbor, and both Derek and the hired guy got expelled from school, and it went on their permanent records that they were cheaters, and it ruined their lives forever. (Once, when they were on a trip to New York City, Beth pointed to a large, bushy-haired homeless man who was sitting on the side of the street and mumbling to himself and said, “That's Derek Sanford!” Mark thought she was lying—how would she really know?—but he wasn't one hundred percent sure.) But Derek Sanford was stupid to send someone who wasn't also Derek Sanford, and that was why they got caught. If any of the Mastermind judges knew either of the Mark Hoppers, how would they realize that the one there was the wrong Mark Hopper? It was foolproof. And if he won, his dad would come to the awards ceremony, and then Mark could convince him to move back home. Mark took a deep breath. This part was the hardest to say. “If you did go, I bet anything you would win. You've done all this weird teamwork stuff before, and you were good at it. You're nice to everybody . . . even to
me
. And more importantly, everyone likes you,” he said. “If someone doesn't, it's only because they think you're me.” He sighed.

Mark looked at Mark with his mouth tightened in a combination of pity, nervousness, and excitement. “I don't know about that last part,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “But I
have
done the teamwork stuff.” He shook his head. His going to the tournament pretending to be Mark was a crazy idea. He felt guilty just thinking about it, even if he was good at teamwork games. “It's cheating, though!” he hissed, sneaking a quick glance at the librarian.

“But how would they ever know?” Mark pointed out. “You said someone named Mark Hopper deserves to win. And it won't be me if you don't help.”

“But then I'd have to do the interview, too . . .” Mark said. “And I wouldn't be any good at that.” That was true, and he figured it was a good enough reason to dismiss the whole idea before he might start considering it seriously.

Mark's leg began to shake. Mark was considering it! “Oh, that's no problem,” he said. “You've gotten so much better. You're almost not shy at all. I'll help you prepare some more. And adults like you, so you'll be fine.”

Mark sighed. He knew how much winning the tournament meant to Mark. And even more than that, he knew how much having a real friend—one who would do anything to help him—meant to Mark. Jasmina couldn't go to the tournament in his place, so she didn't count. Mark had really helped him raise his math grades. And he did like playing teamwork games; he was great at them. The interview would be tough, but it was a good challenge for him to work toward. He glanced around the library furtively. Then he grabbed a paperback and opened it. He whispered to Mark from behind the book, “When is the tournament?”

“December first,” Mark whispered back.

“You're sure it's not the second? That's the day my painting is going up in the library, and I'm taking Grandpa Murray to go see it. And my dad will be in town, too.”

“My dad said he'd come to the awards ceremony!” Mark said excitedly. He didn't say anything about the painting. “Of course”—he shrugged—“that's only if I win.”

“What time? My dad is getting in that afternoon.”

“It starts at eleven,” Mark said. “And only goes for about two hours.”

Mark did some calculations, which Mark thought took him far too long, but he kept quiet about it. Finally, Mark spoke, and his eyes widened with surprise at his own words: “Okay, I'll do it.”

Mark grinned. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. He thought about the painting and wondered if he deserved such a good friend. Mark was willing to cheat to help him, and Mark was now cheating twice to help himself. “You know,” he said, “you're the best friend I ever had. Probably a better friend than I deserve.”

Mark shrugged and took a deep breath. “Now what about those bugs?” he said.

The rain was coming down by the bucketful the afternoon of November 21. Mark and Mark stood in the lobby of Ivy Road Middle School, staring out the window at the downpour and waiting for Grandpa Murray to come pick them up. It was time to plan Operation: Mastermind.

Mark didn't know what to expect from Mark's grandpa, even though he had seen the drawing of him. He wondered if Grandpa Murray would be like a television grandfather, one who took Mark fishing and taught him to play chess. Or maybe he'd be one of those movie grandfathers who spoke grandly and said wise things. Mark had two grandfathers, but neither of them ever took him fishing or spoke grandly. He had never even met Grandpa Charlie; he used to imagine what he might be like from his handwriting on Christmas and birthday cards, but those stopped coming even before Mark's dad left. The other, Grandpa John, was very old and smelly, and whenever the Hoppers visited, he didn't even get up from his old and smelly armchair in his older and smellier apartment. Grandpa John had a full-time nurse who tried to be funny by asking Mark how old he was and saying, “But you're sure you're not thirty-five?” when he answered her. Once, Mark asked the nurse how old
she
was, and his mother yelled at him so loudly that the people in the apartment downstairs started banging on the ceiling with a broomstick.

Grandpa Murray's enormous, boxy car looked more like a boat than a car driving up to the school. And he did drive up to the school: over the curb, onto the pavement, and right up to the string of doors. “Oh, geez.” Mark laughed. “I told you he was crazy. Come on.”

The other Mark muttered, “Does he know how to drive?” He debated walking in the storm, but Mark had already hopped into the boat of a car and was waving through the open door for him to jump in, too.

“How'd you like that door-to-door service?” Grandpa Murray asked as he reversed down the curb and back onto the street.

“First-class,” said Mark.

Mark didn't say anything.

“Where to, men?”

“Home please, driver,” said Mark.

“Are you sure you don't want to make any pit stops?” Grandpa Murray asked. “For an ice cream cone maybe? Or a movie? It's a good day for a movie.”

“But it's a school night,” Mark said incredulously.

“Ah, I forgot,” Grandpa Murray said with a wink.

“It's Wednesday,” Mark said.

“You're right. Express service to the Hopper residence, then.”

“Thanks for picking us up, Grandpa.”

“Of course. But I really only did it to try to get some information out of this young man about my top-secret birthday present.”

“Then you wasted your time,” Mark said. He motioned for Mark to keep quiet. “Mark has been briefed, and if he lets even one detail leak, he will suffer grave consequences.”

“Okay, okay,” Grandpa Murray said. “So, um, Mark. Will I like all of the songs on the CD Mark made me for my birthday?”

Mark started to say “What CD?” but caught himself. “Good try,” he said to Grandpa Murray.

“You kids are no fun. I have no choice but to be no fun in return.” He refused to talk the rest of the short drive home, even when Mark prodded him by asking questions about Murray's favorite TV game shows and saying things like “Grandpa, tell Mark about the time you won the turkey-eating contest.”

Once they reached Mark's house, Mark took Mark to his room and closed the door. “Thanks for keeping quiet about the painting,” he said. “It's a surprise because his birthday is on December second, which is when the painting will be in the library.”

“So you're going to take him to see it?”

“Yeah, I just have to figure out a way to get him to the library. It will look kind of suspicious if I just want to go, but if my sister's in on it, it'll be really easy. She goes to the library all the time. It's like she lives there.” Mark looked around. “But speaking of figuring things out . . .”

Mark nodded. He took out a piece of paper and a pen. The other Mark closed his door gently but firmly. They both dropped their voices. “Operation: Mastermind,” Mark whispered.

“Okay,” Mark said. “I double-checked all of this information. The competition starts at eleven o'clock on Saturday, the first. But registration is from ten-thirty till eleven. That's going to be the toughest part. Once you're through registration, you'll be in the clear.”

“Oh yeah,” Mark whispered back, unconvinced. “Sure.” In the clear except for the whole competition, he thought.

“So when you sign in, they'll probably check two things: my—well, your finalist letter, which I brought for you, and your school ID.”

“Should we switch school IDs?” Mark asked. He took out his ID from his backpack and looked at his freckled face and toothy smile.

“No, why would we switch?” Mark said more sharply than he intended.

“Because I'm supposed to be you.”

“But the whole point is you
are
me. Your ID has my name on it and your picture, right?”

Mark checked just to make sure. It said
Hopper, Mark Geoffrey.
“Yes . . . well,
our
name,” he said slowly.

“Right, sorry. Our name. So that's perfect. Think about it.”

Mark thought. “All right,” he whispered finally.

“Okay, so you check in and get your name tag. Then you'll go into a room with all of the other finalists—there are twelve total—and wait there for a little. They'll give you candy and stuff.”

“Candy! Are you sure you don't want to go?”

Mark rolled his eyes. “You can eat my share of the candy.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, so then at eleven you'll start to do the teamwork stuff while the judges look on.”

“How do you know the whole schedule?” Mark asked.

Mark shrugged. “I called and asked them for it.”

Mark nodded like he himself had just called a store to speak to the manager that morning, when really he was amazed that Mark had had the guts to call and ask all of these questions all by himself.

“So anyway, after the teamwork part, you go one by one to do interviews.”

“How long does the interview last?”

“Only about fifteen minutes.”

“Only?” Mark said, his eyes as round as capital
O
s. Fifteen minutes of just him talking to a whole group of adults without Beth or his mom or an excuse to go into the other room was like a whole lifetime. Maybe if he talked really quickly, it would be over in ten.

“Well, it used to be longer,” Mark said. “Like twenty-five or a half hour. But now that they're doing that stupid—that teamwork thing, they are spending less time on interviews.”

I guess I lucked out then, Mark thought. But then he realized that if there was no teamwork part, he wouldn't be doing this anyway. “What do I do while I wait to be interviewed?”

“Just wait,” Mark said. “I think they have all of the artistic stuff on display in another room—” He stopped himself. Mark couldn't go look at the artistic entries or else he'd see his own painting. “But you should just stay put and focus on preparing for the interview,” he added quickly. “If they call you and you're not there because you're in another room, then you lose your chance to interview, and then we'll lose,” Mark lied. He hoped he sounded convincing. “Plus, they give you lunch in there. And you should be toward the beginning because they go alphabetically.”