The Trouble with Mark Hopper (22 page)

“Tell your mother to have her lawyer give mine the papers. She'll know what I mean.”

Of course she would, Mark thought. It didn't take a genius to know that that meant divorce papers. He reached his hand up to his face and felt his black eye. He thought about what Mark had said before he pushed him:
Why would winning a competition bring someone back?
Why would it? Why would anyone even think that it would? What would that trophy do except remind him how he could win at everything except things that matter?

His mother was looking at him with a sad smile. He muttered a good-bye into the phone and pressed end. He reached over with the intention of handing the phone to his mother, but found himself hugging her tightly instead.

Grandpa Murray opened the door to find Mark on the stoop—side-parted hair, gravelly freckles, black eye and all. His bicycle was in the driveway with a helmet dangling from one of the handlebars. “Can I help you?” Grandpa Murray asked.

“Is Mark home?”

“Are you the one who socked him?”

Mark nodded slowly. “Did he tell you?”

“Nah, he's no snitch. Lucky guess. Did you come to apologize?”

Mark nodded again.

“Who won, then?”

Mark tried not to smile. “Mark Hopper,” he said.

Grandpa Murray laughed heartily. “Good answer. Mark's not home. All the Hoppers went out and left me here to stand guard in case Mark's attacker figured out where he lives.”

“What are you supposed to do now that I'm here?”

Grandpa Murray shrugged. “You know, I don't know. Do you want to come inside? It looks like you've had a rough day.”

Mark thought. He had something he needed to accomplish, and it would be ten times easier to do with a car rather than a bicycle. And if he was going to get a ride, it had to be from someone who didn't ask questions. “I know I really don't deserve any favors, but do you think you can help me with something? It's something I owe Mark.”

“It's not another punch in the nose, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“What do you need?”

 

On the drive to the college, Grandpa Murray kept perfectly silent. Maybe it was because he didn't ask, or maybe it was because Mark had told Mark that Grandpa Murray was good at forgetting things you wanted him to forget, or maybe it was just because Mark needed to talk. Whatever the reason, he started telling Grandpa Murray what had happened to him that afternoon. He told him about the phone call to his dad, and about how his plan to win him back had not just failed miserably, but caused him countless other miserable failures. “Why,” Mark asked, his voice shaking, “why would someone leave his family?”

“Because he's stupid,” Grandpa Murray said.

Mark's eyes widened.

“If some turkey leaves his family,” Grandpa Murray continued, “it's because it's him who has a problem—not any of his family members. And a turncoat like that needs to figure it out for himself. Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't. But it's not worth trying to catch someone who's not ready to be caught. You're better off just being thankful for what you've got.” He paused. “That's why I never try to look for underwear I leave behind somewhere in the house after I shower. I'm just grateful to have a fresh pair of underwear to put on, or at least a dirty one I can turn inside out until I do some laundry. That's always been my approach. And that's why my daughter finds me so impossible and my grandchildren find me so funny.” He paused. “Why was I talking about underwear?”

Mark smiled. “Park right here,” he said. “I'm going to go in and get something . . . but it's something you're not supposed to see yet.”

“I'll close my eyes.”

“Not while you're driving! Just . . . if you do see something, you have to pretend tomorrow that you're seeing it for the first time.”

“You got it.”

Mark jumped out and walked as confidently into the college as he had into the art wing a few weeks ago. The only trouble was he didn't know where to look this time. He walked down a long hallway and peeked in every room, but he didn't see anything. Turning the corner, he saw a table with a sign that said MASTERMIND hanging off it, but the table itself was empty and there wasn't anyone in sight. He looked into the room right by the table, but there wasn't any artwork in there. He heard a door opening and voices flowing out into the hallway. “I'm pleased with our choice,” a woman said. He ducked into the open room and pressed his back up against the wall. Shoes clacked on the hard floor as the people passed, still chatting. “Yes,” a man's voice said. “He was my first choice from the start.”

The footsteps approached the room where Mark was, and scooted behind the door and held his breath. “Where'd the artwork go?” a woman's voice asked.

“Oh,” another woman responded. “They must have already brought it all into the auditorium for tonight.”

“That was quick,” the first voice said.

“Nah, it's been a few hours since all the kids left.”

“It has, hasn't it? That teamwork thing made the day fly by.”

The voices and footsteps moved away from the room until Mark couldn't hear them anymore. He slipped out of the room and walked as calmly as he could toward the auditorium, remembering the map of the building that had come with his finalist information packet. He opened a door and found himself on the auditorium stage, staring into a sea of empty seats. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to pretend all of those seats were full—the first few rows with press—and that he was up there being handed a trophy. He wondered if he and Mark really were going to win. He spotted Mark's painting across the stage. It was at the end of a line of other artwork, center stage. It was by far the best of them all. He took it and carried it proudly out to the car.

Grandpa Murray covered his eyes while Mark placed it carefully in the backseat. Mark came back up front and they drove down to the library. Grandpa Murray covered his eyes again when Mark jumped out, took the painting, and closed both doors. When Mark left, Grandpa Murray was bursting with pride. The birthday present was so good, he thought he was looking at himself in the rearview mirror.

Mark carried the painting to the hallway where it was to be hung. A few librarians and Mark's art teacher were arranging other paintings on the wall. Mark slipped Mark's portrait into the hall while they fussed over the placement of a picture of a woman with a guitar. He then hid behind a stack of books, crossing his fingers and waiting for them to discover it without him having to reveal himself. They did.

“Here!” shouted the art teacher. “This is the portrait that was missing from the bunch! Oh my, I am
so
glad I don't have to tell Mark that I lost it. Look! Look! Isn't it just wonderful? A sixth grader painted this of his grandfather. He's just about the nicest boy in the world, too. Mark Hopper.”

The Mastermind finalists sat in a line in the front row of the college auditorium, clothes ironed, shoes shined, and teeth brushed. They said little to one another, except maybe a muffled “hi” or a fingers-crossed “good luck.” Grace had gotten there early and secured the seat at the aisle, since she wanted quick and graceful access to the stage when her name was called to accept the award. Harrison's parents fussed over him until he told them, through gritted teeth, to please go sit down in the back. There were twelve seats with “Reserved for Mastermind Finalists” signs masking-taped to them, but only eleven of them were occupied.

The committee sat on the left end of the stage in a line, Dr. Latchky looking prim in a fresh suit and Professor Clugg looking almost dapper with his large tummy tucked into a brown suit and a navy bow tie stretched around his large neck. At the end of the line of judges was Congresswoman Judy Shane, a petite woman with a big wave of hair above her bangs. To her left was the large Mastermind trophy, and eleven minds (and almost as many pairs of eyes) in the front row were fixed on it.

The judges' minds, however, were focused on the artwork at the other end of the stage. There was a line of familiar paintings, drawings, and one sculpture, but at the end of it, closest to center stage, was an empty space. Dr. Latchky had noticed an empty easel when she arrived for the ceremony a half hour earlier. Figuring out which painting was missing immediately—she could practically sense its absence—she began frantically searching the surrounding area. When the other judges and the tournament assistants arrived, she had them split up to join her in scouring the building. But it wasn't anywhere to be found, even in the cafeteria, which Professor Clugg searched scrupulously. It was extremely troubling. They had all fallen in love with that painting and the old man in it from the start—it was the rich, sweet icing that topped off an otherwise flawless competition entry—but it seemed to be the source of endless trouble today. First its artist, who had done so well in the teamwork games, nearly collapsed when he saw it. And now there seemed to be no answer but that it had been stolen. Dr. Latchky made sure the empty easel was cleared away so that it wouldn't be obvious that one of the paintings had gone missing, but she was sure that Mark Hopper and his family would spot its absence right away and barrage her with questions. She dreaded having to tell them that that brilliant piece of art was gone. But now that she looked out into the front row, where all of the children she had interviewed and observed that afternoon were anxiously awaiting the results of their efforts, she saw that Mark Hopper himself was missing. Dr. Latchky didn't like trouble. She hoped both Mark Hopper and his painting would appear before the night was over, and that no explanations would be necessary, except maybe to her from whoever had taken it. Throughout her welcoming remarks and introduction of Congresswoman Judy Shane, Dr. Latchky kept glancing into the darkness, hoping to make out the figure of a skinny, freckled boy with a canvas in his arms making his way to the front row.

But neither boy nor painting had arrived when Judy Shane concluded her speech, and it was time for the announcement of the winners. The congresswoman took an envelope from the pocket of her suit and placed it on the podium. “You are all unbelievable students and individuals,” she began. “The judges informed me that this group made it extremely difficult to choose a winner. So before I continue, I'd like everyone here to give these twelve fine young men and women a round of applause.”

Everyone did, but the students barely heard it. They were focusing on Congresswoman Shane, who had opened the envelope.

“I will first announce the two runners-up. For outstanding applications all around, impressive teamwork abilities, and warm brilliance in their interviews, I'd like to present runners-up certificates to . . . Harrison Naylor and Emily Wolen!”

The audience cheered and cheered while Harrison and Emily walked to the stage, shook Mrs. Shane's hand, and accepted their certificates. All of the seated finalists sat up straighter. Mark's seat remained empty.

“And now, for the presentation of this big trophy. This year's Mastermind winner blew away the judges before they even met him. He has a stellar academic record, a strong voice and command of words, which was evident in his essay, and a gift for music—he plays the bassoon. Among his many talents is advanced skill at painting; he took the committee's breath away with a painted portrait entitled
Grandpa.
” She pointed behind her, not realizing that there was no
Grandpa
to point out. “Yet despite all of this, our Mastermind winner remains a down-to-earth team player and modest, genuine young man. It has been a long time since someone in the sixth grade has won the Mastermind trophy. But it is my honor and pleasure to present this year's Mastermind trophy to Mark Geoffrey Hopper.”

The audience applauded, but no one came up to accept the trophy. After almost a minute, everyone began to look around. “Mark Hopper,” repeated Judy Shane. She looked back at the judges behind her. The room buzzed. Where was Mark Hopper?

“Well,” said Judy Shane after a moment. She looked incredibly uneasy. “It seems like Mark Hopper was unable to be here tonight.”

Everyone murmured louder. A woman tiptoed onto the stage from the wings and whispered in the congresswoman's ear. “I have just been informed that there is someone here who can accept the trophy on Mark's behalf and deliver it to him along with our congratulations. Mr. Doug Haverty? Principal of Ivy Road Middle School?”

Sure enough, Mr. Haverty was sitting in the center of the auditorium. He had received a call from someone from the committee informing him that one of his students was going to be named the winner. He had been proud of Mark, of course, and wanted to come to congratulate him, but he also was still hoping to get to the bottom of the bug business. Surely the Mark Hopper who would walk up onstage tonight would not be the Mark Hopper he had tried to catch last week. But now that this was happening, he wondered if the joke was somehow on him.

He strode up to the stage and shook Judy Shane's hand. “Thank you,” he said into the microphone. “I don't know why Mark wouldn't want to be here for this. I hope everything is okay.”

The audience murmured some more.

“I will be sure to get this trophy to him on Monday, and we will have our own awards ceremony at Ivy Road,” he said with a smile. The crowd applauded politely. “But first,” Mr. Haverty said quietly to Judy Shane, though the microphone picked it up. “Which Mark Hopper won?”