Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Hillandale.”
“Pride and Prejudice,” Jake answered.
“Correct.”
“In this novel, Cardinal Richelieu’s plan is thwarted by d’Artagnan and a small group of swordsmen.”
Shelby and I buzzed in at the same time.
“Fairview Prep.”
Shelby nodded for me to take it.
“The Three Musketeers,” I answered.
Murmurs grew louder at Hillandale’s table, drawing stares from everyone in the auditorium except for me. I couldn’t trust my face to remain neutral if I looked over and saw them inspecting the cut in the cord. I would give myself away in an instant.
The arguing grew louder.
I could barely make out Phillip saying “This isn’t right.” And by then, my palms were so slick I could barely get a decent grip on my buzzer. The granola bar I’d eaten a few hours earlier was churning in my gurgling cauldron of a stomach.
The moderator began the next question, but Phillip interrupted him.
“There’s an issue with my buzzer!” he called out. “It’s been broken this whole time!”
Well, there it was: the beginning of the end.
I could see my bleak future play out before my eyes. The police would be called; they’d investigate and see the cut in the cord. An experienced detective would know just how I’d achieved it. He’d sweep the art-room scissors for fingerprints, find mine on them, and then I’d get thrown into the clink. I could kiss my future goodbye. Adios, middle school; hello, juvie.
The moderators paused the questions. There was chatter and chaos. I stayed perfectly still, keeping my attention down, my eyes on my feet. While Phillip tried to explain the issue to the moderators, a bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. Shelby hissed at me to “Keep it together.” She knew if we were pulled into separate rooms for questioning, I’d crack like an egg within the first five minutes.
Eventually, exasperated that they weren’t taking him seriously, Phillip circled around his team’s table and tried to walk over to the edge of the stage in an effort to speak to the moderators one on one, but he never made it there. In horrifying slow motion, I watched his feet tangle with his buzzer’s cord, and then he tumbled forward and face-planted down onto the stage, hard enough to crack his glasses. As if to add insult to injury, when he pressed up off his hands, blood dribbled from his nose.
I didn’t even think before I rushed to help him up, ignoring Shelby’s scornful gaze and growl of agitation as I left my post.
When I reached Phillip, my hand wrapped around his bicep, and I tried to tug him up. He looked at me, dazed and embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—” Then I winced and shut up, realizing my contrite words were all but proclaiming my guilt.
It was too late to rewind, though. Phillip was nothing if not astute. His expression changed in an instant, closing off with hardened betrayal. He put two and two together easily enough. He knew his cord had been cut. He knew he’d been sabotaged. And right then, as I leaned over him, he deduced somehow that I was the catalyst to his demise, the source of this embarrassing middle school moment that would apparently bury deep into his psyche forever.
He shook off my grip and stood to leave the stage, presumably to find a bathroom so he could clean up.
When Phillip returned a few minutes later with toilet paper shoved up both nostrils to stem the blood flow, the competition picked up right where it had left off. There would be no investigation, no police presence. There would barely be a pause. These tired moderators (the ones who were volunteering their time) were unwilling to hear Hillandale’s continued arguments and were most certainly uninterested in a makeup match. Even if they were game to redo the first few rounds, the auditorium was promised to the chess club starting at 4:00 p.m. We had to clear out soon, no matter what.
They did acknowledge Phillip’s buzzer was broken and gave him a spare one, but it didn’t matter. We had a solid lead, and after the last round, Hillandale had no hope of catching us. We finished on top and progressed to regionals.
The moment the competition ended, I booked it offstage and out of the auditorium, running like I was headed for a getaway car in the form of my grandmother’s beat-up 1998 Pontiac Grand Prix.
I yanked open her passenger’s side door, tossed my backpack inside, and jumped in, slamming the door closed behind me like an afterthought.
“Drive!” I shouted at her.
With all the speed of sap drip, drip, dripping from a tree, my grandmother turned her head to look at me and cocked a haughty white brow. “Girl, I’m not sure who you think you’re talking to with that tone, but it ain’t me.”
Then she stubbed out her cigarette, took her sweet time fiddling with the radio until she settled on a song, and pulled away from the curb slow and steady. My knees were bouncing up and down as we edged out of the parking lot. I didn’t look back to see if Phillip was coming after me. I held my breath through that entire drive home.