The Trouble with Mark Hopper (21 page)

Mark shifted his gaze from the painting to the judges. So Mark wanted to win this competition
this
badly, he thought. So badly he'd cheat
twice
and risk losing one of two people he could actually call a friend? He knew he should feel angry. Furious. But instead he just felt sad. Gut-wrenchingly, heart-crumblingly sad.

He shook his head. “I'm sorry,” he said to the judges. He spoke as confidently as he could, directing his words mostly at Professor Clugg and remembering everything Mark had taught him about projection and authority. “I just, um, panicked a little because I
did
forget that I submitted that painting. And it's supposed to be hung in the library tomorrow so I can show it to my grandpa as a surprise birthday present, and I'm worried now that it can't be.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Latchky, looking extremely relieved. “Well, we only need it for the rest of the day, so I'm sure it can all be worked out. You can take it home after the awards ceremony tonight and to the library in the morning. Are you all right to continue on with the interview, then?”

Mark nodded. He was ready.

It was only 12:50 when Mark was finished interviewing and ready to leave, and Grandpa Murray wasn't going to arrive until 1:30. By the time Mark walked to the public library and found an antsy-looking Mark in the reference section flipping through a book called
The 50 Greatest Minds of the Twentieth Century,
it was just after one o'clock.

This morning in the library had felt like the longest three hours of Mark's life. He toured aisle after aisle and opened book after book, but no matter the book, he just couldn't seem to keep his mind on it. He thought constantly about how the competition was going. From ten until eleven he had worried that Mark had overslept, or he'd not been able to get his grandpa to drive him, or he'd gotten lost on the way and got there too late to register. He worried that they would quiz him on his address and birthday on his way in, and that they'd be found out right away. But eleven had come and gone—slowly but without word, so from eleven until twelve he wondered if Mark was doing well in the teamwork portion, or if the task they gave them was something really tough and mathematical, and he should have gone himself. He wondered what the other finalists were like, and how many of them were sixth graders. And from twelve until one he worried about the interviews. Would Mark just sit there staring at the panel of judges like they were ghosts? Or would he speak so softly and hesitantly they wouldn't hear him? All of these thoughts were interspersed with fantasies about reuniting with his dad, for good, at the awards ceremony. He pictured his dad's face glowing with pride, and his mother and sister melting at the sight and deciding to become a proper family again. He couldn't
stand
waiting.

So when he looked up from
The 50 Greatest Minds of the Twentieth Century
and saw Mark sitting next to him, he nearly choked on his own excitement. “You're done early! I thought I wouldn't talk to you until later. That was really smart of you to come here. How'd it go? Tell me everything, but mostly the important parts.” Mark just stared at him, but not with any readable emotion. It made Mark even more nervous. He said, “Come on. What happened? Was it really bad? How was the teamwork thing? Was it stupid?”

A librarian shushed Mark sternly. “Let's go outside,” Mark whispered. “You probably shouldn't tell me anything in here where people can hear anyway.” He hurriedly put on his coat and gloves and led Mark into a small vestibule near the back door of the library. Once they were there he pressed him again. “Say something, for pete's sake. Even if it went really badly, just tell me—I can take it,” he lied. “How was the teamwork part?”

“The teamwork part was fine. I think I did pretty well.”

“Great! And the interview?”

“The interview went fine for the most part. I used all the techniques we went over, about speaking loudly and clearly, and making eye contact, and I wasn't nervous.”

“Okay. But it was only okay for the most part? Did they ask you what you think the most important middle school skill is?”

“Yes,” said Mark.

“I knew it. Did you give the answer we planned?”

“Yes.”

“What else? What else did they ask you? Did they ask about the bassoon at all?”

“Not much about the bassoon; more about art.”

“Perfect!” Mark clapped his hands. “You know a lot about art.”

“Yeah,” Mark said. “And they asked a lot about the painting that you submitted.” He looked Mark square in the eye, just the way he had taught him to.

Mark froze. He tried to look casual. “Oh, they asked you about it?”

“They had it there,” Mark said. “In the room.”

Neither of them spoke for a whole minute. An old woman walked between them in the vestibule to leave. Then Mark spoke again. “I just don't get it. How come you stole it? You knew it was my grandpa's birthday present, and that I wanted it to go in the library.”

“You weren't ever going to find out,” Mark said. “I was going to bring it to the library on time—”

“I lied to my grandpa for you, and I lied to my sister, all because I thought we were friends. And you were just lying to me.”

“Listen,” Mark said. “I did that a long time ago, before we were friends. And it's not like I felt good about it.”

“
Before
we were friends?” Mark asked. “Meaning right now we are friends?”

“Yes,” Mark said. “I mean, I hope so.”

“I don't believe you. I think you were just using me to help you cheat. You just pretended to be nice because we have the same name. You probably had this planned all along.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yeah, right. You pretended to be nice to me so that you could learn all about my painting, and then you pretended to be nice so that you could convince me to go in your place today.”

“No, I wasn't just pretending.”

“Yes, you were. You were faking it. And you know what?” Mark stiffened. He found the anger that had been blocked by sadness during his interview. And he found the words to express it. “You aren't very good at being nice, even when you're faking it!”

“Shut up!” snapped Mark reflexively. “I told you, I wasn't faking it, and I wasn't planning it all along. I took the painting when I still hated you and thought you were ruining my life.”

“When you
hated
me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I hated you, too! And I should have never stopped hating you! All you care about is being the best, but if you're really the best, how come you couldn't even win this dumb competition without my help?”

“It is not a dumb competition,” Mark growled.

“Yes it is! You just don't think it is because it's all you have. Maybe if you actually knew how to be a normal person, you wouldn't have to care so much about winning stupid contests, because people would actually like you.”

“Oh yeah? You're just jealous because you couldn't win anything that requires an ounce of brains. You would be flunking the sixth grade if I wasn't wasting all of my time helping you!”

“You'd be the most hated person in the whole town if some people didn't think you were me!”

“And you'd be in all the stupid-kid classes if you hadn't accidentally gotten
my
class schedule!”

Mark stopped. Was that true? Was he only in honors classes because he had gotten Mark's schedule? He remembered his surprise and delight when he saw his schedule that day in August, before he knew of the other Mark Geoffrey Hopper or anyone else in Greenburgh. Of course he didn't deserve to be in advanced classes. Why hadn't he realized that until Mark said it just now? He really was stupid. He really couldn't figure out anything without Mark's help. He felt completely deflated, like a shriveled-up balloon. He turned around before Mark could see his round eyes well up with tears, muttering something about needing to get back to get picked up.

“Hey,” Mark said. His voice quivered. He did only have the contest, especially now that Mark hated him. Mark would tell Jasmina and Jonathan and he'd lose his last microscopic speck of friendship. Who was he even kidding when he thought he could make and keep a friend? He couldn't even keep his own dad. Mark was right—he needed the stupid contest more than ever. “So you told them the truth? Are we in really big trouble?”

“Go to the awards ceremony and see,” Mark said quietly.

“You didn't tell?”

Mark shrugged.

“So I—we—could still win?”

Mark faced Mark and crossed his arms. “What is
wrong
with you?”

“It's just . . . I just . . .” He swallowed. He closed his eyes. “I need to win to bring my dad back.” He opened his eyes back up and looked at Mark. “You understand—because your dad left, too.”

“Left? My dad just couldn't move here with us until he got a new job and sold our old house. I think he's moving back this weekend. What do you mean
left
? And why would winning a competition bring someone back?”

Mark felt lied to and cheated, raw and exposed. His breath came heavy and furious, and his eyes were hot. Looking at Mark—this Mark whose dad was moving back this weekend—made him furious. He threw down his gloves and lunged at Mark, pushing him up against the building. Mark pushed him back, and it wasn't long before two boys who had never thrown a punch before in their lives had given each other matching black eyes.

“What happened to you?” Mrs. Hopper demanded.

Mark flipped down the passenger seat's sun visor and looked in the mirror. His right eye was swollen into a squint with a bluish half-moon underneath it. His head was throbbing and his nose was still a little bloody, but he somehow felt the best he had in months.

“What happened?” Mrs. Hopper repeated. She put the car in park and refused to drive until Mark answered. “What were you doing in there, Mark?”

“I was at the tournament,” Mark said.

“Mark Geoffrey Hopper, people do not fistfight at the statewide Mastermind finals. Especially you. Did you provoke someone? Did he attack you? If you won't talk, I'll take you to the police station.”

“I think I really might win,” Mark said cheerfully. “We need to go to the awards ceremony tonight.”

“That isn't funny, Mark. Get out my cell phone from my purse beneath your seat. I'm going to call your sister and tell her I can't bring her to the mall because I'm taking you to the police station.”

Mark reached into his mother's bag and found her phone. He began to scroll through the phone numbers she had stored in there.

“That is private, Mark. Hand it to me. Mark,
now
.”

But Mark had stopped in the
C
s. “Chuck.” He clicked on the entry to view the number. It was a local area code. His father had a phone number with a local area code, and his mother not only knew that he had it, but had it stored in her phone. Yet she had never told him so that he could call him whenever he wanted to instead of waiting weeks, sometimes months, until he had almost given up hope that he would pick up their house phone and hear his dad's voice on the other end. “How many people named Chuck do you know?” Mark asked.

His mother's silence answered for her.

“Why didn't you tell me that you knew Dad's phone number?”

His mother sighed and slowly lowered her forehead to the steering wheel.

“Mom! Why didn't you tell me?” Mark demanded. When she didn't answer, he pressed send.

“Mark, please, honey . . .”

Mark held the phone up to his ear. It was ringing. After three rings someone picked up. “Chuck Hopper,” said his father.

“Dad!” said Mark. “It's me, Mark.”

His mother sighed and looked out the window, her expression vaguely hopeful.

Mr. Hopper sounded surprised, which didn't surprise Mark. “Oh, hi, Mark. How did you get this number?”

“Mom's phone. Dad, I think I won the Mastermind tournament! It was today and it went really well, and I am practically one hundred percent sure that I won. So I'll see you at the awards ceremony tonight? It's at eight o'clock at Marius College, right in Greenburgh.”

“Oh, that's great, bud—”

“I know! You won that tournament every year in middle school. I'll get a trophy that matches yours, and then next year I'll get another one, and then the next year I'll get a third.”

“That's the Hopper way. But listen, Mark, I'm really very busy right now.”

“I know, so I'll just see you at the awards ceremony. Tonight.”

“Mark, I don't know if I'm going to be able to make it.”

“There'll be newspaper reporters there and stuff—”

“Mark, I need to go.”

“You said you'd come. It shouldn't go for very long.”

“It doesn't matter,” Mr. Hopper snapped. “I can't come. I'm out of town.”

Mark heard something in the background. It sounded like a woman laughing. His head started to throb and his black eye began to twitch. “Okay, well, that's okay. When will you be back? You can come home and see the trophy. I'm going to display it right where you kept yours.”

“Yeah, I'll try,” Mr. Hopper said.

Mark's heart stung. That was what he had said about the awards ceremony.