

NERD WORLD

## by

## Andrew Johnston

##

This book is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. This entitles the end user to reproduce, modify, or produce derivative works of this text, including for commercial purposes, so long as the user attributes the work to the author (including name and URL) and releases it under the same CC BY-SA license. More information is available at:

### www.findthefabulist.com

##

## A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

The following story is entirely fictional. The characters are not real people. The school is not a real school. The competition, while it resembles any number of actual events, is similarly fictitious. To the best of my knowledge, nothing even remotely this absurd has ever happened at any scholastic competition. Trivia is a safe, fun and educational pastime, suitable for adults and children of any age. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar; may their retribution be swift, pitiless and agonizingly exquisite.

Thank you.

# Phase I: Hype

## PAUL

I've come to the conclusion that "trivia" is by far the most terrifying word in the English language. I've been through this three times, paged through all the records and accounts in Aukland's, chatted up plenty of my fellow competitors, and I still can't explain just why it is that this little game of ours is so unhinged. No, not all of the crazy stories are true – people just love to add their own bullshit to the mix. But enough of it _is_ true, enough to be weird and terrifying.

I'm rambling here, something I tend to do when trivia comes up. Let's start from the top.

My name is Paul Liston. Seventeen years old. Senior at Northwestern High, an insignificant school in one of those little regional hub towns that's just big enough to make the atlases. There are tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of people just like me in this country of ours. I sit across from a few hundred of them every day. Of course, most of those people are normal. Most of those people didn't get an early Wednesday morning wake–up call enticing them to speed towards school hours before the first bell rings, all as part of some ritual they've come to despise. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

High school is strange in many ways. No matter how much society mutates, no matter how the trends change, high school remains more or less the same. It hasn't changed all that much since my parents were my age, and I imagine it'll be the same when I'm well into senility. There's a certain hierarchy in high school that resists all attempts at change or reform. No one acknowledges it, but everyone who grew up in this country recognizes it. It's like a cross between feudal Europe and some sort of sci–fi dystopian novel – we all have our place, one to which we're assigned the first day we enter the building, and we are powerless to change it.

There's a myth about people not fitting in during adolescence. We all fit in somewhere, it's just that most of us don't like where we fit in. The people at the top – the popular kids, the rich kids, the trendsetters – are perfectly happy, of course. So are the entertainers – the athletes, musicians, and pranksters – all of whom have their own special roles to fill. Far beneath them are the misfits, the poor bastards who look different or act different, who come from the wrong families, have the wrong friends or just have rotten luck. They have a place too, it's just not a happy one.

But I'm not the cool kid, or the funny kid, or the bad kid. I'm the smart kid. I've always been the smart kid, as long as I can remember. That's what they used to call me – There goes that smart Liston kid, I'd hear in the hallways. Sometimes, it wasn't so nice. There goes that Liston nerd. Yeah, I heard that one a few times, too. It's cool, though. As the smart kid, I fill a somewhat privileged position in the high school pecking order. It's not that anyone likes me, but I am extremely useful. Someone needs to pass a test to keep peace with his parents? He comes to me. Some official wants the school to look good to his superiors? No better way than finding a pack of smart kids and putting them to work doing smart kid stuff.

So it's a role that comes with some perks, but there is one big downside. Most of the time, I'm effectively invisible. The high school nerd is not a pariah, but he's not a champion, either. He's just there, inscrutable, solitary, far beneath anyone's notice.

There is one exception, though.

Northwest, like most other high schools, participates in the national Scholar's Bowl. You've heard about that, I'm sure – find a couple smart kids with nothing better to do over the weekend, then send them to other schools to compete in trivia contests with other teams of smart kids. Now, most schools just pick their teams out of the gifted program, but the administration of Northwest High has a bit more flair than that. A few weeks before the start of trivia season, they have a special school–wide event. It's called "Trivia Master" and it's basically a scaled–down version of the Scholar's Bowl that's open to all students of Northwest High. The matches are held in front of the assembled student body, and the winning team goes on to represent Northwest.

God, do I love Trivia Master.

Most people look at Trivia Master and see just another sawed–off game show – a quirk of the school, a novelty. However, if you're one of those invisible smart kids, this is the one chance you get to shine. I'm far from the only person who loves Trivia Master. This event is a huge deal. I'm not sure I can even begin to describe how big. Attendance at the matches is up there with homecoming pep rallies, and the behavior of the audience is equally raucous. It sounds bizarre, but it's the absolute truth.

For the two weeks of Trivia Master, everything changes. For those two weeks, I am an important man. When I walk through the halls, people greet me with open arms. They discuss me over lunch – hell, they fight to sit next to me, just so they can get an inside track on the matches before everything goes public. For two weeks, I am not only visible, I am a goddamn celebrity. I'm a beacon, all eyes on me. It's an awesome time, for me and all the other smart kids who live in silence.

Of course, there are always a few people who take things too far. That's the dark side of Trivia Master, the part that no one ever discusses. Everyone likes to imagine that this event is a scholarly competition between mild–mannered dorks. People who believe this have never spent any time amongst the greater North American nerd. Yes, we go to great lengths to get along, but push one of us even a little bit too far and the claws come out. And with dozens of smart kids vying for attention, there's always someone pushing.

That's the real reason I'm hauling ass towards Northwest. It's not because I really care about the rules of the competition. I'm sure they've changed, but it hardly matters to me. I'm more worried about the people who do care, who are eyeballing those rules for weaknesses.

Yes, friends, people cheat. They sabotage and backstab in ways that would leave you awestruck. I could tell you stories – the rumor mill at Northwest is as robust as it is in any other high school – and I imagine that before this is all over, I'll have a few brand new shockers. But here's all you really need to know: For the two weeks of Trivia Master, those smart kids who are being treated like the popular kids start to act like the popular kids – and then they get worse.

For my part, I try to avoid that sort of cloak–and–dagger madness. It's not always easy, however, and with my particular friends it's often impossible. I guess that's why I decided to chronicle this, my final Trivia Master competition. Any other year, I'd never have agreed to do anything like this. But after last year? After all that insanity leaked out to the normals and everyone found out what an asylum this place is? I think the world deserves to know the full truth, to see just how our kind behaves when the social structures that keep us in check are broken down. I'm not trying to tear anyone down, I just want to dispel some of the creaky old myths that people still hold.

Okay, maybe I do want to tear a few people down. Sue me, I'm not immune. And maybe this wasn't the best day to start this. I'm a little cranky. After all, Ken Greevey – my perennial teammate – called me at an absurd hour this morning to remind me that trivia season was upon us.

Actually, that's a good place to start, because Ken falls squarely inside the "takes it too seriously" camp. Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy and we've been friends for years. We teamed up in three consecutive competitions. We never won, though, never even made it to the finals. And every time we lost, Ken responded by redoubling his efforts the following year. He's so fixated on this that I'm honestly a little afraid of what he might be planning this time.

I don't want to give you the wrong impression, though. Ken doesn't play dirty or anything like that. He's just a touch obsessive. This isn't the first time I've received a wake–up call because he wanted to discuss some insignificant change in the rules on team registry or read me a long list of stats on the other teams. That's Ken's nature. He puts 200% of himself into everything he does. Lord knows he could be worse. A lot worse. Yes, I'm thinking of someone in particular, but I'm not prepared to start slinging mud just yet. Besides, I've still got to deal with Ken and his latest plan of attack. I don't show up on his schedule, he has a conniption. You think I'm exaggerating? You have no idea.

To summarize: Trivia Master is a fantastic competition that displays the best in us but brings out the worst in us. It's my favorite time of the year, but I also dread it every time it comes around. It's a simple game, but it's also deadly serious.

And there's always a reminder of just how serious it can be. This year it was Ken, hopping up and down and waving like he hadn't seen me in years, clutching a messy two–inch binder that resembled the operations manual for a Naval GPS system.

This is my world. I didn't quite choose it, it was there long before I came along, but it's mine now.

And damn it, I could use a break.

## KEN

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Kenneth Greevey, a student at Northwest High School where I have maintained a 4.0 GPA every semester save one. Mandatory practical arts classes are a cruel joke. I partake in few extracurricular activities, preferring to use my free time to socialize with my friends, enjoy a vintage video game, or build my collection of books. Oh, but I will not bore you with the details of my life or the minutiae of my daily routine; there will ample time for this as we proceed. For the time being, I will merely set the stage for the drama that is to come.

The Northwest High Trivia Master competition consists of two parts: the entrance exam and the tournament. The tournament proper is a sixteen–team, non–seeded, single–elimination bracket. Starting from the quarterfinals, matches are public. Each round consists of two standard sets of ten questions each, two team–participation wager questions, and one sixty–second lightning round. Assuming no challenges or unusual events, a Trivia Master round lasts approximately ten minutes.

Registration for the competition opens one week before the beginning of the tournament. Most people gather their teams in the week prior to that, at a time when serious contestants have been planning their team–building strategy for months. That is what it takes to win in this contest. In many ways, the game is won or lost at registration.

I realize that this is a bold claim, so allow me to present my case. Last year, we fielded a superb team that was widely favored to win, but we fell short in the semi–finals. This was not a failure of skill, however, as any objective record of our performance will conclusively demonstrate. It was a failure of planning. We encountered a collection of questions that were well outside of our collected field of expertise. I had successfully gathered the smartest team possible, but it was a team with similar skill sets. Our range was excessively narrow, and that cost us a shot at the finals. We were victims of foul luck and short–sighted planning.

Many people do not acknowledge any of this this. They refuse to even consider the role that strategy plays in victory. My good friend and teammate, Paul Liston, is among these people. Paul is a fantastic competitor – with an accuracy rate of 98% and an average reaction time of under 300 milliseconds, he is among the best in the state, if not the country. What he fails to recognize is that, at this level, performance is inadequate by itself. He even becomes visibly irritated when I bring up strategy and has even been known to respond with some rather biting invective.

To spare his sensibilities, I restrained myself from speaking of Trivia Master with Paul until one week before registration opened. Even as I placed the call that morning, I suspected that Paul would be cross with me.

"Ken, what did I tell you about calling me early in the morning?"

I was correct. "You told me that you get up at 6:45. I called at 6:50, so I know I didn't wake you up."

"Do you really have to be that literal? I meant approximately 6:45."

"Well, did I wake you up?"

"Fine, fair enough." I suspect that he was humoring me. Paul is a very even–keeled person, always keeping himself in check and minding decorum. Consequently, it is difficult to tell when he is angry. I have become quite skilled at sensing his subtle tells, though. "Just tell me why you were calling me."

"This year's rules came out today. Check it out." I handed him a three–ring binder containing the unabridged rulebook. The rules are easily accessible on the school's website and printed on posters all over the building, but I appreciate the utility of a copy that I can pull out when I need it, that will not break or malfunction, and to which I can freely add my own notes.

He let out an extended sigh – one of his tells. "This is why you called me early? To see the rules? The rules don't change that much from year to year, you know."

Paul is smart, but not very thorough. "Of course the rules changed! Under this year's rules, our sophomore team would have been disqualified. These things are very important to know."

"You've already...How long have you been studying this?"

"Since last night." I flipped open the binder and held it up for Paul. "See? Because we switched teammates at the last minute. They won't let you do that anymore."

"Can we talk about this upstairs?" he said, rubbing his temples. Paul does this frequently, more so during trivia season. He should talk to a medical professional if he continues to get these headaches. "I want to stash my stuff and get somewhere quiet before that asshole shows up."

"I finished running the model."

"Please tell me you're joking."

We were talking about a statistical model. After last year's embarrassment, I took all of the questions asked, classified them according to subject, and fed them into a computer program. Three hours later, I was holding all the data I needed to emerge victorious.

I paged through the binder to the beginning of my personal notes. "No, it really worked. I ran the program on Saturday, and it worked just fine. I would have told you sooner, but I wanted to double–check it myself to be sure. Here's the breakdown from last year: Science, 19.7%; History, 17.5%; Literature..."

"You really don't need to read all of the numbers," said Paul.

"Literature, 14.8%; Math, 13.7%; Geography, 10.7%; Popular Culture, 6.8%; Sports, 6.3%; Current Events, 5.8%; Fine Arts, 4.2%."

Paul nodded and turned slightly away – a possible sign of derision, though I have never conclusively determined if this is another tell.. "Great. Now, what do we do with that information, exactly?"

"We use it to plan our team. Between the two of us, we have about two–thirds of the questions covered. You've got us handled on history, geography and current events."

"I've got current events?"

"Well, you watch the news," I said. "That's all they ever ask about, really. I've got math covered, of course, and we can both field science. That leaves just a few small, yet crucial gaps in our knowledge."

"All right, I see where you're going with this, but let's walk and talk, huh?" Paul can be very fickle, complaining about being called in early one minute, then in a terrible hurry the next. He was headed up the stairs before I even said anything. I can usually keep up with Paul, but sometimes I fall behind due to his slightly greater height giving him a longer stride. Some may argue that I am out of shape, but I feel that this is fallacious.

I caught up with Paul at his locker. "I have a few candidates in mind, but I wanted to run these names past you, get a little feedback."

"Sure. Run those names past me and..."

Paul froze in mid–sentence. I followed his gaze and immediately knew why. The library doors stood open, and Aaron Baines Bellamy was walking out.

"Morning, Paul," he said with a smile. In nature, animals smile to show their teeth.

"Hello, Aaron," said Paul. He was visibly anxious.

"You doing Trivia Master this year?" said Aaron.

"We do Trivia Master every year," said Paul.

Aaron showed us his teeth again. "Good. It's going to be quite a year, you know. I'm glad to know that you're in the mix, I was afraid this year you might step out, it did get a little messy last time."

Paul could barely bring himself to look at Aaron. "...It is my last chance. I couldn't pass that up."

"Good. Contests like this just aren't all that fun without real competition, and there's so little around here. Well, I'll leave you to it." As Aaron walked away, I could hear him mutter something that sounded like "See you at the finish line."

All of this calls for some explanation. Trivia Master should be a gentleman's competition between intellectuals, but there are some people who treat it as a matter of blood and honor. Aaron Bellamy is one such person. He too has a strategy, but his does not account for the rules of the competition. He does not respect the game, nor his rivals. He sickens me, as he does all decent people. Fortunately, Aaron has never secured victory with his tactics. Unfortunately, he knows of no other way to play, and he will do so again.

Aaron's behavior is merely the opening salvo in his grand strategy. I have read much about these tactics of his. In military parlance, the term is "psy–ops," but you would probably call it "mind games." Mind games are a favorite maneuver in Trivia Master, but Aaron is especially skilled in this field. It is important to inure one's self to such tricks when seeking the championship.

I turned back to Paul. "As I was saying, I've compiled a short list of candidates for the other two slots. This part isn't as scientific as the rest of my strategy, so I thought we could have a little back and forth. Are you paying attention?"

"Yes, Ken."

"Brian Booker, Karen Schumaker, Terry Brown...Jane Anders..."

The last name woke Paul up. "Jane's on your list?"

This was a bit of a mean trick on my part, but a necessary one. It is no secret to me or to any other thinking person that Paul has a terrible crush on Jane Anders. When it is necessary to draw his attention, all I have to do is mention her name. It is not that I do not want Jane on our team. I would love to add her fantastic 78 point–per–round average to our lineup. However, it was simply not a realistic proposition.

"It would be awesome if we had her on the team, she's great for literature and would really make us unstoppable," I said. "But you know she'll be going in with her friends, just like last year and the year before." Paul needs these reminders from time to time.

"Yeah." Paul looked defeated, but he kept going. "Who else you got?"

"I've been thinking about those fine arts questions. There aren't many, but I definitely remember there being more last year. They're real killers, too. You remember how we got screwed by those questions about symphonic music last year."

"And Broadway box office numbers. I still can't believe that one."

"Exactly." I shuffled through my personal notes. "Now, there aren't many teenagers who are going to know a lot about the arts, so I figure we're going to need a specialist, someone who lives and breathes this stuff. That's why I want to get Scott Carroll."

Paul looked puzzled. "Amateur dramatics Scott Carroll? Drama club kids don't do trivia."

"Well, it'll take some convincing, I'm sure. I just want to know if you're okay with him being on our team."

Paul shrugged. "Hey, I have no problem with Scott Carroll. I'm just wondering who you have in mind to take care of literature."

"You really want me to talk to Jane, don't you?"

"I don't know...you could ask." Paul was always very poor at hiding his embarrassment.

"Maybe I will. See you later, Paul."

Paul is a dreamer. Some days, it is wise to humor him and leave him to his dreams while I take care of our serious business. I had plenty to do and barely enough time to accomplish it all, and I certainly had no time to reassure him about Jane. It is not as though I had much to say to him, anyway.

In actuality, I had already picked out our fourth member. He had precisely the skills we needed to win the tournament. My preliminary estimates suggested a healthy 86% chance of victory with the full team – admittedly one with a low significance, given that I do not yet know the nature of the competition. However, I knew that my choice would displease Paul, and maybe even make him angry.

There are some decisions that simply have to be made. For Paul's sake, I will not involve him.

## JANE

Trivia Master? It's this thing I do.

I'm known in these parts as Jane Anders. Jane the Parent's Dream because I get good grades and never went out and got myself a baby or an addiction. That's a hell of a low bar to clear, but that's how it is in these parts. Yeah, I'm exceptional in some ways, but really I'm more of a lucky slacker. Everyone thinks that smart kids are always obsessed with school, but that ain't me. I do what I have to do to get by. I don't even really do clubs or activities anymore – well, other than Trivia Master.

So here's the long version. Trivia Master is this contest that they hold at Northwest High to determine who will be on the school's Scholar's Bowl team. I guess they couldn't come up with a better way to identify the best and brightest other than having their own mini–competition, or maybe the people who run this place thought it would make them famous. But whatever the motivation, Trivia Master is a lot of fun. It gets us out of class, and it gives me a chance to spend some quality time with my friends. Competition is bonding, and there's nothing that strengthens bonds more than teaming up with your friends and facing down people who really, really want to win.

Yeah, I suppose I should talk about that, too. Ask around Northwest and you'll hear all sorts of rumors about Trivia Master. Some of them get repeated every year – so–and–so put laxatives in someone's food right before a match, or some kid and his buddies cornered a competitor after school to shake him up a little. My favorite rumor was the one about the guy who sent his girlfriend to seduce some other girl's boyfriend, hoping it would break her concentration. They're just stories, ridiculous little fairy tales that we tell each other.

But here's the thing – some of those stories really are true. I've seen some shit go down with my own two eyes. Every year, someone dreams up some brand new trick, or brings back an old classic. The nastier it is, the more they love it. This kind of thing is bound to happen – put a lot of tightly–wound people in competition and some of them are going to seek out an edge, even if they have to flex their ethics to do it.

There will be a lot of that I'm sure, but I can't imagine I'll be seeing too much of it myself – not with my circle. Right now, I'd like to focus on my own Trivia Master experience.

All of this started the week before registration opened, around the time the serious competitors are assembling their super teams. I was hanging out in front of the school with Isabel Morelli. Isabel is an old friend of mine, which has to look very weird to most people. The two of us have nothing at all in common and really don't even run with the same crowd most of the time. She's a queen bee, a real heartbreaker type. Behind the glamor, she's really pretty smart – at least smart enough to know how to get everything she wants. My crowd is a little more reserved. I'm the tagalong, or maybe the project girl that everyone tries to "fix."

Now that I think about it, Trivia Master is one of the few things we can do together. We've been on the same team for three years in a row. Competing with her friends is strange, though, because these are people I do not interact with on a daily basis. Every year, it's "The Popular Kids And That Jane Girl Who Looks Really Awkward And Out–Of–Place." It doesn't bother me, though. Honestly, it is nice to be able to hang with that crowd for a while. Makes me feel important.

This year was different, though. I knew it was going to be different after that Wednesday. Isabel turned to me and said, "You know what's coming up, right?"

"Sure do. You going to take care of everything this year?"

"Actually, that's what I wanna talk about. You think we could play with your friends this year?"

"My friends?" It was an unexpected request. I've spent a lot of evenings running after Isabel's friends, pretending that I fit in. I'm not sure that she's even met any of my friends, or even asked about them.

"Yeah, your friends. You know, try something different. It being the last year and all."

"Sounds good. Were you thinking of anyone in particular?"

"As a matter of fact, there are a couple people I was thinking of." Isabel pulled out a list, which is not something I saw coming. Lists are for the kids who build each year around this.

"You've been thinking about this?"

"Oh, just jotted down a few names I thought of in chem. I mean, you know them better than me, so you can make the decisions, but I would like to ask...oh, I don't know how to pronounce the name..."

"Hannah Bae?"

"Yeah yeah, her." Isabel was getting really animated – can't remember the last time I saw her that excited over anything, especially anything school–related. "So, you think you can talk to her?"

"Well, I have a class with her this afternoon, so that's easy enough."

"Great." Isabel stood up – not a wrinkle in the perfect little outfit of hers, which never ceased to amaze me. "You know, anyone you think might like to team with us. Hey, maybe we can even make it past the quarters this year, huh?"

Isabel isn't as subtle as she thinks she is. I don't know why, but this year she definitely wants to win. It was strange because she never really cared before, but I really didn't care why she cared. My friends ask to be on my team all the time, but they always lose out to Isabel's people. It's hard to overlook her motives, whatever they are, but I was willing to do it.

And then, she said something that made it extra hard to overlook her motives: "Maybe you'd even like to bring Paul on board?"

"You're kidding."

I haven't mentioned Paul Liston yet, have I? Oh, God. He's this kid who's been following me around like a lost puppy for years, ever since...well, I have a theory, but that's a story for another time. He can barely bring himself to open his mouth around, and I'm sure he thinks he's being real subtle and that I don't know what's on his mind. A lot of people think it's sweet, but then again they don't have to put up with it. Look, if he would just ask me out on a date, I'd probably agree to it if only so that he could move on, but he seems to prefer this weird, dodgy little game. I just don't get it.

Here's the thing, though: Isabel can't stand Paul. I don't think a day has gone by that she hasn't called him a loser or an asshole or something in that vein.

"Seriously, Isabel, you want to be on a team with Paul Liston?"

Isabel laughed. "Oh no, I was just kidding. Who wants that asshole around, right? Just pick whoever you like."

It was a weird conversation, but I did what Isabel asked anyway. Call me a sucker.

You might be wondering why a popular, charismatic type like Isabel would send me to recruit the team. To understand that, you need to understand Hannah Bae. She was a year behind us when her family transferred in two years ago, but she was also so far ahead of the game that we wound up in a bunch of classes together. Quintessential overachiever, you know how it is. She's also the most painfully shy person I've ever met in my life. I think she had all of one friend – me. In three semesters, I never saw Hannah talk to anyone else. So the hard part wasn't going to be getting Hannah on the team, but rather getting her on stage.

But one step at a time. We had a chem lab during third hour, and as usual Hannah was my partner. It was a perfect opportunity. I waited until near the end of the hour, when we had a little bit of downtime, and then I slowly broached the subject.

"You hear about the trivia competition?"

"Yeah, I saw it last year." She kept her eyes down, like she usually does.

"I guess you did. We're putting together a team – Isabel and me, I mean."

"Okay."

"She's letting me pick the team this time."

"Good."

If that sounds awkward, it's because it was. I am not good at asking for what I want. Normally, I just hint at things until the other person figures it out. Obviously, that wasn't going to work with the most reserved person in the world.

So I just said it. "Okay, I've been talking with Isabel and she really wants you on the team. Honestly, I do too. It's a lot of fun and I think it would be a great opportunity for you. What do you say?"

Hannah just kept on looking down at her feet. Neither of us said anything for a good ten seconds after that. That's ten seconds of dead silence with someone I've been handling with kid gloves for the better part of two years. Really, I just wanted to apologize for the imposition and bolt for the door.

But eventually, the poor girl managed to force out a few words. "I really don't do so well in front of crowds."

"Well, I don't either." Pause. "Let me put it this way: Yes, it's a large crowd, but it's not like you're out there all alone. You're in a group, there's a buffer between you and everyone else. Plus it's dark in the auditorium. You can't even see the audience from the stage."

She stopped to think for a moment. "Isabel asked for me?"

"Asked for you by name. She said, 'Jane, I want you to get Hannah Bae on our team.'"

"She got my name right?"

"Absolutely." I'm not sure, but I think I had a big, ridiculous grin as I said that.

"Well, I guess if I'm needed, I can give it a shot."

"Terrific! You're gonna have a lot of fun."

"But, um...I've heard some stories about some of the things that kids have done to win."

"Oh, they're all exaggerating." There was that grin again. "It's just a game, there's no pressure at all."

I am really a terrible liar, but Hannah bought it all the way. Was she really that naïve, or just playing along for my benefit? Or maybe it's self–delusion? In any case, I had her on the team. That made three members on our real–deal competitive team, and I still had several days to fill out that last slot. It was all turning out so easy.

Too easy, really. Nothing ever goes this smooth. I have a terrible feeling about this.

## AARON

"Trivia." I hate that word. More precisely, I hate that dismissive little tone people always apply to the word, that trace of a sneer at the end. When people talk about "trivia," they imply that gaining knowledge for its own sake is a waste of time. "Worthless knowledge," there's another one. That one comes from the same little minds that turn their noses up at the space program or research into the fundamental elements of reality. If they can't use it to make you a fancy phone, it's no good, huh? There is no "worthless knowledge," only worthless people who can't comprehend the true power that knowledge holds. Ungrateful bastards. If I had my way, all of them would be out huddling around a fire in some godforsaken waste until they learned the proper respect.

"Worthless knowledge." With those two little words, they dismiss my entire being. My whole goddamn life since I was old enough to put two words together has been about achievement in the intellectual realm. Aaron Baines Bellamy, seven years old, taking his first overall win at the science fair. Aaron Baines Bellamy, eleven years old, taking the ACT and outscoring half the college–bound seniors in the room. Aaron Baines Bellamy, fourteen years old, cleaning up at the state forensics festival with his paper on the philosophy of mind. And none of it matters. No matter how much I achieve, I still have to put up with these subliterate couch jockeys who open their noise–holes to utter that phrase "worthless knowledge" right in my face.

That's why, for all my achievements, the one thing I've always really wanted to do was compete in the national Scholar's Bowl. Picture it – a whole league of people like me, all of them looking to show the world what a superior mind can do. A chance to escape from this festering mire of mediocrity, if only for a short time. But no, I never got a shot, and why? Trivia Master. The pursuit of knowledge turned into a cheap spectacle for the gratification of a braindead mass audience. Question lists bloated up with real trivia about pop culture fluff. They'd let us clear a round or two, then feed some easy queries to the other team and smack us right back down. We never had a fighting chance.

But I'm over that. You see, this year is different. It isn't about the competition, or Scholar's Bowl, or the pursuit of knowledge. It's about justice. It's about my chance to right a wrong that I've lived with for more than six years. It's about what I owe to one treacherous little worm, a backstabbing bastard whom I was once foolish enough to consider my friend, a scrawny little turd who thinks he can get away with anything because of who he is. Everyone knows what this year's Trivia Master is about. That's why they're all watching us. They're waiting to see us go head–to–head. They want to see blood. I don't plan on disappointing them.

And that is the only reason I actually sat down with that weasel Brian Booker.

"Aaron, are you with me?"

"Yeah, Brian."

"I know you're skeptical, but I've run the numbers on this."

"You've told me."

Let me set the scene for you. We're sitting in the library – me and Brian Booker and some kid named Sid Richardson. He's supposed to be a real hot–shot local musician, one of those garage band heroes that everyone fawns over. Personally, I've never heard his work. It all sounds the same to me, anyway. Brian swears up and down that the kid is smart, though. Normally, I might accept his judgment, but I think he really just wants to hang out with a guitarist.

That day, he was still trying to convince me. "I've been talking to this guy, and he knows more about music than anyone I've ever met. You know how they pack those lists with music questions? Sid here will get us an extra twenty points a round, minimum."

The rocker piped in. "Yeah, man. And I can cover you on movies, sports, I'm pretty good on geography..."

"All right, Sid." I waved him off. "You don't need to sell me on this. Brian vouches for you, that's good enough for me.."

"Awesome!" said Sid. "Hey, you got a fourth guy yet? 'Cause I met this kid Leon who's looking for a team."

"Thanks." If I wanted your opinion, I'd ask for it. "I think we're going to pick out our fourth."

"Cool, man." The rocker stood up to leave, and not a moment too soon. "Hey, Aaron, want to trade numbers? I got Brian's but not yours."

"That's okay, Sid, I deal with all the team stuff," said Brian. I don't know if he sensed that I was getting irritated or if he just wanted another excuse to fawn like some starstruck sixth–grade girl. "I'll call you later, all right?"

"All right. Talk to you later, my man. And nice to meet you." Sid shot me some goofy little finger gun, and then he was gone.

Then it was just Brian and me, and I could already sense that he wanted to talk strategy. Brian can't seem to get it through his head that I don't care about strategy. That's his fixation, not mine. It's not like I enjoy his company, I brought him on board to serve a specific purpose. The whole reason he's here is so that he can worry about strategy and statistics and all that crap while I focus on the important parts. But no, I have to get daily briefings on what everyone else is doing.

"I've been keeping tabs on Jane Anders. Her team's going to be tougher than I thought."

"I'm not too worried." Brian seems to think that I should be scared of Jane. Why? I'm faster than her. I have a greater breadth of knowledge. I'm smarter in general. Why should I worry?

"You should be worried. Word is that she recruited Chong!"

"You mean Hannah Bae?"

"Well, yeah."

Scholar's Bowl participants love to give each other nicknames, but they're usually not this racist. Hannah and her brother were on a team when they were in middle school that swept the regionals. Some of the idiots on the other teams – who had evidently never seen Asian people before – started calling them "Ching" and "Chong" and it stuck. Small minded pricks. The two of them aren't even of Chinese descent.

I wasn't about to start a fight over this, so I played it off. "What's your point, Brian?"

"We should get the brother...uh..."

"Andrew. His name is Andrew." Our strategist can't even remember the names of the people he wants to recruit. Racist little troll, I can't believe I'm going to share a stage with him. "I'll talk to him. There must be something he wants that I can get for him."

"Great! Let me know if he'll do it, because we don't have much time and all the good candidates will be taken soon."

"I'll tell you this afternoon."

I hate this. Competitions like this aren't supposed to be about gamesmanship or strategy. They're supposed to be a meeting of the minds, a contest of wills. In a just world, we wouldn't have to put up with any of this. It would just be me and Paul, _mano e mano_ before the entire world. That's the only thing I'm interested in planning – just what I'm going to do to that backbiting pecker. It's not enough to beat him, not by a long shot. He has to be humiliated. I want him to limp off the stage in shame. I want him to hide the clippings from his children because it still stings him.

Damn it, I'm getting off track again. You're going to have to forgive me, this is all I can think about this time of year.

Andrew Bae was not an easy man to find. I heard he used to be a serious overachiever – enrolled in a half–dozen clubs at any one time, competitions most weekends, the whole nine yards. Then he moved here, and just faded right into the background. No more clubs, no more meets, nothing. It's such a waste, but not everyone can handle the pressure. Hell, this guy – the king of the Junior Scholar's Bowl – didn't even enter Trivia Master last year. People asked him, but he always turned them down.

But he said yes to me. It's just like I told Brian – everyone wants something. It's just a matter of figuring out what it is.

The only time I have to talk to Andrew is between classes. That meant staking out his locker, something I don't like doing but which is necessary at times. It gave me just five minutes to bring him around to my way of thinking. It took me a few tries before I ran into him, and once he did I didn't waste time with long introductions, I went right into my pitch

"Andrew? Aaron Bellamy. I don't want to waste your time, so I'll get right to it. I'm putting together a trivia team, and I need you on my side."

He just shrugged me off. "Sorry, I'm really not into that sort of thing."

"You used to be into it."

"I got tired of it." He didn't even look at me.

It took every ounce of willpower at my disposal to keep my frustration in check. "It's different here. I think you'd enjoy it."

He slammed the locker shut. "I watched it last year. No thanks."

There's no way I'm letting this bastard walk away from me. Immediately, I jump into his path. He's got a few inches on me, but I really don't care. He's staying put until he gets my full pitch.

"If it's about going out on the road, I understand. I just need to finish this school's competition. We get through four rounds here, I'll request an alternate when we go to Scholar's Bowl. Does that sound better?"

He sighed right in my face. "Maybe, I don't know."

I didn't have time for this non–committal crap, so I went for the closer. "All right, enough of this. This year's competition is deeply important to me. I don't have the time to explain why just now. All you have to know is that I'm willing to do damn near anything to get the team I want, so name your price. Want me to do your homework for the rest of the year? Help you cheat on a test? Get someone else in trouble for cheating on a test? I'll do it."

"I don't think you can do what I need done."

"Try me, Andrew. I have ways."

I could see the wheels turning in his head. Clearly, he had something in mind. "Can you get everyone to stop calling me 'Ching'?"

"I think I can manage that."

He put on this weird grin, like he thought I was crazy. "And how would you do that?"

"Simple." An idea was already taking form in my head. "I can do something horrible to the next person who calls you 'Ching'. Word will get around."

"Uh..." He scratched his head. "Something horrible?"

"The less you know, the better."

He played it off like he's still chewing it over, but I know I've got the guy. "All right, I'm game."

And with that, we were ready. The team is assembled, the die is cast. In another week, the tournament begins. That's just one week to put everything in place. Brian is already dealing with the mind–numbing daily aspects, the kind of thing he's crazy enough to enjoy. That frees me up to deal with the part I enjoy – the personal touch, the part of the game that everyone else swears they hate even as they tackle it with such aplomb.

Damn. I'm going to enjoy this.

## PAUL

Between covering trivia rule minutiae with Ken and keeping an eye on every corner for Aaron, Wednesday was a long day. Well, longer than normal, anyway – every day is a headache in its own way. It's this media myth that smart kids must love school, based on the fallacy that if someone is good at something he must really like it. The school–dwelling nerd is a cliche that's older than me and will probably live to throw dirt on my grave. No, I don't like school, and not because of anything dramatic like bullying either. Like everyone else, I feel that there are other things that are a better use of my time. And 99% of the time, those things are waiting back in my own little private space.

My family lives in a rental property about eight blocks from school. There's a bus route that leads there straight from the school, but I usually walk if the weather is decent – it gives me a chance to clear my head. There's not much to see on the way. I pass a few anachronistic corner stores, some little family restaurants, a few weird little buildings that needed to be torn down a long time ago, and a lot of boring old Solace. Solace is a pretty boring place in general, not that that's necessarily a bad thing. I've known a few people who lived in "interesting" places and I think I actually prefer that every day is pretty much the same here.

My parents both work kind of irregular hours, so either one of them could be home when I turn up. Just my luck, both of them were there that afternoon.

"Hey, Paul!" said Mom as I flew through the front door. "How'd the day go?"

I paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Um...fine."

"You sure took off early enough this morning," said Dad. "Is something wrong?"

"Something to do with the competition, was it?" said Mom.

"Yeah, Ken called," I said. "He wanted me there early for...something or other, I really don't remember now."

"The rounds don't start for, what is it, two weeks?" said Dad. "Why would you need to show up so early?"

"That had to be Kenneth's idea," said Mom. "He's the one who always wants to talk to you about statistics, remember?"

I had to focus to stop from running up the stairs. "Yeah, Ken's crazy. I'm just gonna hide out upstairs until dinner."

"You need anything before you go?" said Mom. "If you skipped lunch again, we could make you something real quick."

"No, I fine, really fine. I'll be out a little later."

Just before I made it to the top of the stairs, I heard Dad call out: "Remember, we're both going to be at your finals!"

He's telling the truth, you know. They make an effort to show up at everything I do that's open to the public, and even some things that really aren't. I guess that should make me feel better, knowing that my family is behind me. But these days, it really doesn't. When I'm on my own time, I'd rather just forget about Trivia Master.

Once the door closes behind me, I can start to forget. There's nothing special about my bedroom, and it's not all that big – pretty cramped, actually – but it's me, for better or worse. Here's my little workstation where I do homework and work on all those personal projects that I talk about and then never finish. There are my rickety old bookshelves, packed with classic fantasy and science fiction novels and role–playing supplies. And there's the refurbished cabinet with my vintage video game consoles, with stacks of discs and cartridges that I buy at Game Raider on the cheap. Best of all, there's the door, which closes nice and tight and seals out the rest of the world. When I'm in here, I like to pretend that the outside world doesn't exist, that it's just me and my hobbies.

Except that I'm never really cut off because of that damn phone of mine. Some kids walk around with their faces glued to their phones, but I don't have much use for mine. I think I would have been happier if I wasn't expected to be in constant contact with everyone. By which I mean constant contact with Ken, the only person who ever feels the need to call me. Now most evenings, he gets caught up in his own bullshit and I don't hear from him at all. But if he gets worked up, he'll call me every time an idea pops into his head. It can be an enormous pain in the ass, especially during trivia season.

On the other hand, I do have Jane's number. Jane Anders – a natural beauty, unpretentious, funny, intelligent, everything I've ever desired. I can still see her in that simple blue dress with her chestnut hair down, on that night when it finally hit me. Every day I swear I'm going to ask her out, but it never happens. Okay, maybe calling her is a big step for me, but what about a text message? It would be a lot easier, but is it too impersonal? What would I even write? "How are you, do you have a date for the Fall Homecoming?" It just sounds so pathetic, like we're a couple of twelve year–olds prepping for our first group date. And yet every day I try to psych myself into sending that message, trying to build the strength to hit that little send button.

In fact, that's exactly what I was doing when the phone rang. Ken's house. Terrific. "Yeah, Ken."

"You took off fast."

"I wanted to get home. It's been kind of a long day because of your wake up call."

"Yeah, I guess I get that. Still, I was hoping you could come by and hang out."

"Hang out?"

"Yeah. Is there a problem? You have time, right?"

That was Ken's sly way of getting me to drop by his place and go over more stats, and the last thing I needed was to spend time in his little hovel going over computer models. Ken's room fits him, too. You see, he collects books – but not like most people collect books, where they look for rare books or works by certain authors. Ken collects any books, books by the box, mostly stuff from library closings and those penny overstock deals you see online. So you can imagine what he has: Decades–old textbooks, trade paperbacks without covers, manifestos from forgotten fringe political candidates, graphic novels by artists I've never heard of, self–published novels rejected by publishers for a reason, and (of course) big books of trivia questions. He keeps them all in a weird array of mismatched shelves, most of which look like they're ready to collapse from the effort of supporting his collection. There's not much room to move, not that Ken does too much of that. Two people make for an awfully tight fit.

So I wasn't really eager to spend a few more hours in there going over strategy. "Ken, I'd really just like this evening for myself, okay?"

"Sure, that's fine."

"And no early calls tomorrow, all right?"

"Don't worry, buddy, I won't call. See you tomorrow."

The line went quiet and it was just me again, alone in my own private space. I have to keep telling myself not to hold anything against Ken. I don't, not really, I just wish he could learn to relax.

But I couldn't relax yet, because there was a message coming in. Ken doesn't have any kind of cell phone, so that's not something I'm used to at all. For a moment, I wondered if it might be Jane, as unlikely as that might be. But it wasn't. It was anonymous, but I knew immediately who had sent it:

Even an Olympian needs his rest. Agree?

And suddenly I knew that he had my number. I don't know how he got it, if he used his parents' connections or just bribed someone at school, but he had it. This was Aaron's way of telling me that he could reach out to me any time he wanted and tap me on the shoulder.

After that, I put the phone in a drawer. Once I knew that I was cut off, my blood pressure dropped about five points. Shame it's going to go back up.

## JANE

So Thursday I woke up in a really good mood, which isn't typical for me, not by a long shot. It must have been a little leftover joy from finding out that Isabel was actually interested in my opinion. Little things like that can really do wonders for me. I slept well, beat the alarm up and hit the ground like a track start. Gave me a good twenty extra minutes to take care of my morning routine.

Ah yes, that all–important routine that I follow religiously every morning. Oh what, you think a beautiful rose like me just wakes up looking like this? Far from it. First, a few minutes at the antique vanity that mother insisted on giving me because "every blossoming young woman needs one." Still got those three pimples that refuse to go away even after several weeks? Well, good thing I've got all this flat and mousy hair to cover them up. Next, to the closet to pick out a nice ensemble, which today is a t–shirt for a band I've heard like twice coupled with the same jeans I've been wearing all week. Then, with the extra time, I can go over all the messages I've received from my many suitors. Or to do some touch–up on those personal stories that you don't get to read.

Okay, I'm being a little unfair here. This is kind of a game I play with my mom, who clearly had dreams of having a glamorous little princess that she could shop with and help with her makeup and dresses. Instead she got a skinny weirdo who writes stories online under the name "Erika Luxure." A real parent's dream, right?

But that's okay, I don't let it get me down – especially not that morning. After my sublime act of diplomacy in getting Hannah Bae to sign on with our team, I decided to take some initiative and pick out our fourth member on the spot.

Now, going into this I had a few names in mind. One was Clarice Adams, a junior I knew from some club a few years back. She usually sits Trivia Master out, but she's smart and honest and just in general the kind of person you'd want for something like this. But lately, she's been acting really squirrelly lately. Anyone so much as looks at her, she makes herself scarce and you don't see her for the rest of the day. If it was anyone else, I'd blame it on a guilty conscience, but Clarice? What's the worst thing that she could have possibly done? Maybe she just has bad nerves or something. In any case, it was obvious that I wasn't getting her.

My other choice was someone from years back, a girl by the name of Karen Schumaker who had asked me to be on her team back when we were freshmen. Weird as it sounds, I always felt a little bad about that. Yeah, it's no big deal, but I hate disappointing people like that. It just seemed like a good time to make things right.

Karen Schumaker really is the Midwest personified. You know the type – always grinning, greets everyone she sees, friendly to a fault. She was raised on a farm in some tiny little town fifty miles away from here and has more practical skill than everyone I know combined. She's really out of another time, when people did everything on their own. And she's nice, which is always a plus. People around here aren't nice. The student body of Northwest is truly dominated by rancorous assholes, and the fewer I have to put up with the better.

Finding Karen is the trick. I swear that Karen has a sixth sense that enables her to find anyone who wants her, because she just turns up at the damndest times. But sitting and waiting is no way to find someone, so I started my day by scouring the school for her. I would have bet good money that she'd be early, but not that day. But who did I manage to bump into?

"Hey, Jane!"

"Hey, Ken." Oh boy.

Ken Greevey, of all people, was sitting outside some classroom with Trevor Galloway (in one of the rare occasions that guy was by himself), flashing one of his notebooks of doom. And of course he saw me before I could retreat.

"It's been a while, hasn't it? Oh, this is Trevor. You know Trevor, right?"

"Of course. Morning, Trevor."

Trevor waved at me. "Jane."

"Where's Duncan?" I said.

Ken cut Trevor off before he could mouth a single world. "Oh, he'll be along later. Say, I know this is a long shot..."

"I'm already on a team, Ken."

"Of course," said Ken.

"Of course," I said. "Hey, have you seen Karen Schumaker around?"

"Nope." Ken whipped out a pen and flipped through his notebook for a blank page. "So, Karen's going to be on your team?"

"Goodbye, Ken."

Oh Ken, it's not your fault that you cause narcolepsy. I learned the hard way not to get into conversations with that one. I'm the bright bulb who made the mistake of asking him about one of his projects while we were working on some group activity like four years ago. Hey, it sounded interesting at the time. Three consecutive class periods of him rattling off stats later and I realized how very wrong I was. And the last thing I'm going to do is tell him anything that he'll end up using in his weird crusade for the Trivia Master championship. Lucky me that he let me get away so easily.

I did eventually find Karen, but it wasn't that morning. It wasn't at noon, either, or between any of my classes. For a while I thought that she was gone, that I was completely wasting my time. Then, at the end of the day, I took a break outside of the building in preparation to grill all the clubs for her location. Sure enough:

"Jane Anders! It's been forever!"

"Karen! What do you know, I was just looking for you." Usually that's a lie, but not that day.

"Oh, you were?" She smiled, this preposterously big smile of hers. "How long has it been since we spoke? Last year, Spring Homecoming?"

"That sounds about right. I'm really sorry I haven't been in touch."

Karen laughed – she had a big hearty laugh, the kind you hear and recognize from down the block. "Well, we do live our own lives, don't we? But here I am, yammering away about unimportant things when you've been looking for me. What can I do for you?"

"Okay, you know that Trivia Master is coming up."

"Of course. Wow, I really wish I were in it this year."

That caught me a little off guard. "You're not participating?"

"No one's asked me." Her grin turned into this exaggerated pout. "You know, I used to go around, trying to put together my own teams, but it never really worked out. Now I just watch like everyone else."

"That's too bad. I had a slot open, and I thought you might be interested."

I never saw anyone's jaw actually drop before that. "Really? Me on a team with you and Isabel Morelli? Oh Jane, that would be terrific!"

"It's not like it's a big deal or anything..."

"Not a big deal? Jane, I have always wanted to do something like this but my friends were not interested. Not at all. And it does my heart good to know that someone as talented as you thinks so highly of me. Thank you!"

"Well..." Gotta tell you, that little speech put me off guard a little. "...I'm happy too. Oh, and Isabel likes to take the team out on the town before the tournament starts, so you might get a call."

"That sounds great! I look forward to it. Thanks again."

Really unexpected. What can I say? Never underestimate the power of trivia to bring different people together.

I was headed home when I spotted poor Paul Liston sitting a few yards away. Waiting for me, I figured. Yeah, real cute.

Maybe some tiny bit of this fixation he has is my fault. He used to be normal around me – or at least as normal as he ever is around people – and then it all went downhill. It was some school–sponsored social event they put on when we first got to Northwest. My mom bought me this dress for it – I think she saw it as an opportunity for me to get out and mix it up. So I went along, and you know what? I did enjoy it, that tiny bit of glamour I had that night. I really wasn't hanging out with Isabel yet and I didn't want to go in alone, so I thought it might be fun to get some boy to accompany me in. That turned out to be Paul. He was a good sport about it, too. We danced a few times, he listened to my crap, and I probably would have listened to his if he ever spoke more than five consecutive words to me. To me it was nothing, just a little arrangement so I could say I had a date that night. But it must have done something to Paul. That one little act of socialization apparently had some deep, profound impact on his psyche. An act of kindness was all it took to get me stuck in his brain.

So usually I just sidestep him when he does this, but every so often I think it's nice to talk to him a little bit. This was one time I should have just headed home. This time, I was the one making it awkward. But it wasn't really my fault. How was I supposed to know that his friend was keeping secrets?

## KEN

A typical Trivia Master teams is composed of four individuals drawn from the same social circle, usually friends or close acquaintances. When a team is comprised in its entirety of one's friends, the recruitment process is simple and informal. The offer – when it is not simply implied by the friendship – is extended casually in the social environment of the team leader's choosing. For a serious contestant, this simple procedure is not an option. They know that to succeed, they must seek recruits from outside of their normal social circles, and this introduces a host of new challenges along with an entirely new procedure.

I am lucky enough to have one of the finest trivia minds in the state as my close personal friend, which leaves two slots to be filled. Some individuals with less strategic inclination may be tempted to occupy these slots with less–skilled individuals, believing that their own skill is sufficient to carry them through to victory. They may choose individuals from higher up in the social hierarchy, hoping a broadly popular team will help them win with the crowd; or they may choose individuals with whom they want to have a closer relationship; or, wishing to expedite the process, they may simply fill those slots with whatever friends are readily available. These people are setting themselves up for failure, for while such a team may be successful in the early rounds, it will be easily crushed by any properly, strategically composed team.

By ourselves, Paul and I are more than capable of defeating most teams. The typical team at this level is capable of correctly answering 50% of the question list. The two of us come close to 80%, so by the numbers it is very unlikely that we will fail. This changes at the higher levels. Scholar's Bowl caliber teams can answer over 95% of all questions, and they do so with far greater speed and confidence than the lower–level competition. This means that at the higher levels, that 20% gap can easily add up to forty or fifty points, enough to secure a victory for the other side.

Put simply, if I wish to succeed at a top–level competition, it will require a team with a more robust base of knowledge. If my own circles lack that knowledge, I must go outside of them. I must recruit people who are mere acquaintances or even total strangers. This is not, by any means, an easy process, nor a simple one. If the recruit is well outside my own world, I must step into his world. I must learn about his interests, his goals, his friends. For a brief period, I must become his closest friend.

So what did I know about Scott Carroll, our all–important final recruit? He is a performer in the local Amateur Dramatics troupe – the Drama Club, to use the more common parlance. I do not know of any interests outside of this – he seems truly dedicated to his craft. Such a zeal is both a hindrance and a boon. On the one hand, his narrow dedication to one activity makes it much more difficult to draw his interests to an activity outside of his normal experience. On the other hand, there are ways for a clever negotiator to redirect that dedication. understanding his clique, their lingo and mores and structure and, above all, what they wish to achieve. A serious challenge to most people but, fortunately, understanding others happens to be a specialty of mine.

Timing was on my side, as the Drama Club puts on no major productions this early in the year. They still meet regularly to plan and practice for smaller competitions, in the auditorium on those occasions they can secure it. Knowing this, I charted out the Drama Club schedule and decided on a Thursday afternoon to make my appearance. I timed out the schedule precisely and arranged to arrive a few minutes before the meeting was to begin. I am not one to make a scene, so I quietly integrated myself into the room.

"Hey fatso, this is a closed meeting!" My ingress was interrupted when a short but very loud young woman spotted me. Drama Club kids, like many nerds, can become hostile when outsiders broach their territory. This would demand persuasion.

"It's okay. I'm here to talk to Scott Carroll."

"Wait until we're done," she said.

"But you haven't started! And this really can't wait. It'll only take a few minutes, I promise."

"Piss off."

"Come on!" It was time to do some acting of my own. "Would you turn away a poor lost soul seeking council? Would you slam shut the gate in the winsome face of a seeker of knowledge? Would you – "

"Oh, stop it. Are you for real?" The woman studied me carefully, no doubt trying to decide if I was to be believed. Finally, she let out an exaggerated sigh – for my benefit, no doubt. "Hey Scott, someone here for you!"

Somewhere in the front of the auditorium, a young man looked up from his script. "Who is it?"

"It's Ken."

"Ken who? I don't know anyone named Ken."

"Ken Greevey." I waved to him. "You know me."

He stared blankly. "Is that name supposed to be familiar? Because I can't place you at all."

"You remember me. We had an art class together freshman year. I was the one who painted those things with all the eyes and tentacles? I was kinda into a Lovecraft thing at the time?"

"...Vaguely?"

At that moment, as I approached the stage, it occurred to me that I had never actually spoken to Scott in person. I had some academic contact with him, as I had with most of the school, but this was literally the first time I had spoken to him at all. It was too late to concern myself with such trivialities, though. This was my one golden opportunity to recruit this very valuable candidate to my side, and I could not waste it.

"I remember you were doing a lot of things with dragons because you had that friend who gave you those Asian art books. Right?"

Scott stepped away from the stage. "Have you been stalking me?"

"Oh no, not at all. Is that what you think? I just wanted to have a quick word." I extended my hand, but he did not reciprocate. "Anyway, I am really sorry to interrupt you, but I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute about the upcoming trivia competition."

"Yeah, I don't do trivia." Scott leaned back against the stage, looking up at the ceiling, part of his well–orchestrated plan to look bored. "If that's why you came, then you should really just take off."

"Now hold on a minute." It was going to take more persuasion to bring him around to my way of thinking. "I realize that you've never done anything like this, but if you really think about it, it's a great opportunity. The rules are straightforward, I can teach you everything you need to know in just a few – "

"Look, man," he said, cutting me off. "I'm an artist. There's no art in trivia. It's just a bunch of boring virgin dweebs memorizing fact sheets."

"No offense taken." A bit of levity can be very effective in these situations. "And you're wrong about one thing. There is absolutely art in trivia. For example, last year, one of the matches hinged on a question about...what was it? 'Hair'?"

"'HairSPRAY.'" That awoke the passion in the man. "I can't believe none of you got that one. It was so obvious."

"So you watched us! Man, it's a shame you weren't on our team. We might have won the whole thing."

Immediately, Scott tried to dial back his enthusiasm. "So I like watching the damn thing. Doesn't mean I want to participate, or that I even can. You have any idea how many exhibitions we have coming up? I don't have time for any of this."

"Time? All you'd have to do is show up at one test and four rounds, and they're all during class time. Paul and I will take care of all the other little details on our own time. I certainly wouldn't expect you to go as deep as we do."

Scott had to think about that for a few seconds. "I can't be thinking about this now. It's all we can do to keep interest up. Our attendance numbers suck."

I nodded my head, a simple gesture of deference – albeit one with a subtle sardonic edge that any actor would catch. "You make a very good point. I certainly can't see how participation in a high–profile public competition could help with attendance. I'll let you get back to your meeting."

Needless to say, I had anticipated this argument. To drive the point home, I turned to walk away – often the best way to make a point in any negotiation. I had taken perhaps four steps when Scott spoke up. "I'll be in touch, all right?"

Scott was hedging his bets, but it was a very successful negotiation. He saw what he could gain by working with me and saw no reason to do otherwise. And with that, our masterfully balanced roster was complete.

All that remained was to speak with Paul about the team. I had planned to tell him later, at a time and place where I could assuage his anger. Unfortunately, I had just departed the auditorium when Paul found me.

"You son of a bitch! What did you do?"

It was an unusually volatile reaction. I had predicted this as well.

## PAUL

When it comes to competition, I'm really of two minds. Done right, competitive events can be a lot of fun – you get to work on your skills, show off your talents, and get in some time with peers you wouldn't otherwise interact with. I used to do a lot of these things – math club, debate team, science fairs, student journalism, you name it. I sank hundreds and hundreds of hours into my activities, for which I was awarded a scrapbook full of commendations and a few little trophies that are now sitting on a shelf in my closet.

So why did I quit? Different reasons, I suppose.

There's the time demand, for one. Clubs and competitions really cut into one's free time. There's weeks of practice to be balanced with homework, then months of tooling around the state to other schools or – God help us – cleaning, rearranging and stocking our school to host a competition. After a while, you start to miss the little things – getting up late on a Saturday, playing video games, reading a book that wasn't printed by a scholarly press.

There's also the pressure to consider. I don't think it's a coincidence that I loved these events when I was a kid and came to hate them only recently. In elementary school, competitions are nothing more than an excuse to give children something constructive to do. They're supposed to be fun little pastimes, a chance for the parents to fawn over their kids and take pictures. Then you hit your teens, and competition becomes deadly serious. Why shouldn't it? There's a lot more at stake. You've got ambitious students hoping to earn some awards so that they can list them on their college transcripts. There are the advisers, praying for a high–profile win so that the administrators don't slash their clubs during the inevitable next round of budget cuts. And the administrators are looking for something they can use to prove to the parents and the school board and the governor the everything's fine. Go down to a school that's hosting one of these events sometime. You can smell the nervous sweat from a block away and feel the tension right down to your bones. It's deeply unpleasant, and I finally decided that I just couldn't put up with it.

Trivia Master is different. I don't mind the time commitment and I've never felt any serious pressure. My problem here is wholly different. It all comes down to the behavior of the contestants. I mentioned this before, but I think some examples may be in order.

1993. The family of a student on a favored team received numerous hang–up calls in the middle of the night. The calls are eventually traced to competitors on three different teams who independently decided to harass their rival.

1997. A competitor, nervous over her team's chances, sends in a bomb threat in hopes of delaying the event long enough for her to thoroughly prepare.

2005. A competitor threatens to post details about a rival's sexual history on his blog unless she declines to participate.

Obviously, dirty tricks are not new, but the kids who pulled these stunts are nothing. I'm dealing with someone with a boundless penchant for designing novel cruelties.

I've known that this year was going to be unpleasant ever since Ken and I ran into Aaron. Aaron Bellamy might require a bit of explanation. He's another perennial contender, and is probably my greatest personal competition. That much everyone knows. What few people understand is that he actually hates me on a personal level. What no one but Aaron himself understands is why. I've known Aaron for years – he didn't always despise me. Hell, we were friendly when we were kids. The hatred started six or seven years ago, when something happened that turned him against me. Having an enemy is always disconcerting, but having this kid as an enemy is downright scary. Aaron is one of these obsessively ambitious types who doesn't believe that the rules apply to him. Add to that the fact that this is final chance to humiliate me in front of everyone, and I'd rather not think about what elaborate little schemes he must be cooking up.

You take the good with the bad, though. I did have an excuse to speak with Jane Anders. What a rare and wonderful opportunity to have such an excuse.

It was a Thursday afternoon when it all came to a head. I waiting outside the school, taking notes on some meaningless project – just something to occupy my thoughts and break up the tension. But I must have gotten lost in whatever I was doing, because next thing I knew Jane was looking over my shoulder.

"Paul? What, you spending your free time outside of the school now?"

"Oh, Jane!" I crammed my things back into my bag – nothing worse than letting her see what a dork I really am. "Sorry, you caught me off guard."

"So I see." She has such a wonderful way of speaking – casual yet controlled, and always with a hint of levity. "You waiting for someone?"

I'm not quite so casual. In fact, my mind shut down for a second. "...No, I just had to do something for Ken."

"Uh huh." She looked distracted. "Some scheme from the trivia masters, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah." My thought were racing – _You're blowing it, Liston. Say what you want to say._ "Actually, as long as...um...you doing the competition this year?"

"Always do. Isabel's got me setting up the team this year. I guess she thinks we have a shot."

Damn it. "Well, if anyone's got a shot, it's you."

"Not like you guys. With you two and Trevor, it's really your year."

I was kicking myself so much over my failure that I didn't catch what Jane had said right away. "Trevor? Which Trevor?"

"Trevor Galloway. I saw Ken talking to him when I came in this morning. He didn't say anything?"

"...No."

"Uh..." Jane sounded nervous. "...That's not something he'd tell you about?"

"I, uh...Well, I'd think he would. Are you sure?"

"Oh...I guess maybe not? It's hard to say. Well, I got things to do, but I suppose I'll be seeing you around. Oh, did you want to ask me something?"

"Ask? Um...no, nothing to ask."

"Okay. Well, see you."

"Yeah."

Let me make this perfectly clear: What I feel for Jane is not a "crush." A crush is based on nothing more than youthful exuberance and inexperience with the opposite sex. I have considered and dismissed the possibility. The fact is that by any objective measure, the two of us would be perfect together. All I have to do is have to ask her out. It sounds like such a simple proposition, but it's not so easy for me.

As bad as I felt over missing yet another good opportunity, I couldn't think about Jane. I was too angry. I couldn't show it around Jane, but I immediately knew why Ken had been so evasive about our fourth member. He knew that I would be obliged to kill him as soon as I figured it out, and his only recourse was to hide it from me until it was too late.

Trevor Galloway and Duncan Washington are more like brothers than friends. I heard some rumor that they were born ten minutes apart in the same hospital in adjoining rooms. It's probably bullshit, but the truth of the matter isn't much less incredible. They were neighbors whose families went through some terrible shit together. They leaned on each other through the bad times, so Trevor and Duncan were basically raised together. It's rare to see them apart when they're on their own time. It does get a little weird at times, like last year at winter homecoming when they showed up with the Cashill twins. But they put up with the jokes about that. They put up with the cheap gay gags everyone makes at their expense. And that other rumor? The one where some asshole suggested that Duncan's skin was a shade too light, so their parents must have been swingers and they both had the same father? They put up with that, too.

The point is that they did everything together – road trips, athletics, and of course Trivia Master. I couldn't imagine that Ken could drive a wedge between them, but he probably tried and he was going to answer for it either way. Fortunately, he wasn't hard to find. I knew he was trying to con Scott Carroll into joining the team, so the auditorium was a safe bet.

I caught him just as he was coming out. "You son of a bitch! What did you do?"

It was clear from his expression that Ken was pondering whether to play dumb or start in with the excuses. He attempted the former. "Paul, what's wrong?"

"You know damn well what's wrong, Ken, so don't even try it."

"It's not a big deal. All I did was extend an invitation to one of our peers who knows a lot about literature. Where's the harm?" Ken smiled at me – he couldn't be that oblivious, could he?

"The harm?" I'd been struggling to keep my cool, as it was too early in the game to lose my shit. "First of all, you're getting in between friends, and that's not cool. Did you even mention this to Duncan?"

"Mention what? That they won't be able to do this one thing together? It's not like they have to stop being friends, Paul. It's two weeks. Seriously, I thought this through very carefully."

"No, you didn't. You never think things through, Ken." I was getting another headache – Ken can have that effect. "You compile data and run calculations, and that's not the same thing as 'thinking.' Here's a thought, Ken: We had two slots. Why couldn't we take them both?"

Ken shook his head. "Duncan's only good with history, and we didn't need that. Paul, you're being irrational. It's just one little event. Duncan will get over it, and so will you."

I could have smacked him across his "rational" face, but I kept myself in check. "So what, you were going to hide this from me until the sign–up? 'Oh by the way, Paul, I split up two very good friends to fill out the roster.' How could you keep that from me?"

"You may not believe this, but it was for your protection. I wanted you to stay hands–off so that if anyone got upset, they'd be mad at me and not you. See? I had it all planned out."

"You're full of shit, Ken. I gotta go talk to them about this."

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?"

"Duncan deserves to hear about this from someone other than you."

This is my problem with Trivia Master. In theory, it's the game that you play however you want. One one side, the people scrambling desperately for a victory; on the other, people having some fun with their friends. If that were how it actually played out, it would be a wonderful diversion. Unfortunately, it is inevitable that the fanatics and the fun–lovers will wind up in conflict. This never ends well, not for anyone involved in any way.

I tracked down Trevor and Duncan outside of the school. They're easy enough to find – any downtime during the day, they plant themselves on the steps and watch the world pass by. That's exactly where they were that afternoon.

Duncan greeted me first. "Paul Liston! Been a while since we've seen you hanging around here."

"Have a seat, man." said Trevor.

"Maybe for a minute." I took a seat. "I just wanted to talk to you guys about Trivia Master."

"Yeah? Well, what I've heard, this is gonna be a hell of a year," said Duncan.

"Yeah, I've been hearing that too," I said.

"I'm sure that friend of yours is putting together some kind of super team," said Duncan. "Well, we'll be waiting for them." Suddenly, I realized that he didn't know.

"Oh, shit, I didn't tell you?" said Trevor. "Ken Greevey wants me on their team."

"That's what I wanted to talk about," I said. "Ken...well, he's not really a people person. He really doesn't mean to interfere, it's just that he doesn't always consider what other people want."

"Don't sweat it, man," said Duncan.

"Yeah, it's not like we're not attached at the hip or anything," said Trevor. We can play on separate teams this one time, right?"

Duncan looked awe–struck. "So, you're actually gonna be on their team?"

"Well, that's okay, right?" said Trevor. "I mean, if you have a problem, I can always call it off."

"No, it's not a big thing," said Duncan. He was lying, trying not to start an incident.

"Cool. Well, I'm just gonna go find Ken and tell him that we're good to go." The two of them stood up, but Trevor gestured for Duncan to stay. "Hold on, this'll just take a minute. I'll be right back."

Trevor walked away, leaving Duncan and I standing alone. Up until that moment, I really didn't think it could get any more awkward than that meeting with Jane. I was horribly wrong.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I walked away, with as much calmness as I could muster.

This was a turning point for me. A lot of people had told me that it was going to be a "big year." At that moment, I realized just how big. It was bigger than I could handle, and too big to stop.

## AARON

God, the end of the week couldn't come fast enough. Those five days were one long root canal as far as I'm concerned. All the sound and fury over trivia mania definitely added to that, but every week is way too long. High school is such a waste of my time. Why do I even bother? I'm smarter than most of the teachers here, there's nothing more for me to learn about American history or calculus, and the social element? In Northwest High School? Please. Northwest is a toilet no matter how you look at it. I've known it since the first time I stepped into the building. There's no sign of intelligent life in this building, just a lot of casual binge drinkers, overprivileged gadget freaks, junkie pothead burnouts and low–forehead lost causes. All of them looking up to assholes like that neanderthal Leonard Vaughn, as though there was anything impressive about being able to throw a ball in a straight line.

Everyone thinks I'm a recluse because I don't go out on the weekend. Well, why the hell would I want to? With these idiots running around, wasted out of their minds, breaking shit for fun. I'll pass. Oh, I might go out for Isabel Morelli – she's probably the finest example of femininity for a hundred miles around, not that there's much competition out here in the sticks. But other than that, I'm happy right at home where everything makes sense to me.

And it's a nice home, believe me. Science and achievement have been very good to my family. Joshua Jameson may be a fundie nutjob, but he does have an eye for talent. Father's been working for Jameson Research since before I was born, and there's even talk about putting him in charge of this new laboratory complex they're building south of here. Meanwhile, Mother has probably saved Jameson ten million dollars over the last eight years. If this country were a real meritocracy, then it would be the Bellamys running the Midwest instead of that Bible–thumper and his runaway deadbeat son. But I can live with the nice house. It's not like we geniuses do what we do for money.

I knew my parents were home when I arrived. "Dad! Mom! I'm home." There was no response. "Hello?"

"...It's not a sure thing yet. I haven't spoken with him in a while." There were voices from the kitchen. I poked my head in and saw my parents at the table, hard at work on another deal.

"Then we'd better make a good impression," said Mother. "I can probably get reservations for L'Argent Fou. Do you know if Joshua is bringing all of his children?"

"I don't know if Ben's on speaking terms," said Father. "The girls will probably come along."

"What about Mr. Zhang?"

"He's headed to Shanghai to check up on his business."

"Right, that thing with the teacher. God, what a mess."

"No way he'll be back so soon."

"So that's seven without Ben?"

I cleared my throat. "...I'm home."

"Great." Mother didn't even look up. "Better make it eight, anyway. If we have to turn someone out because we didn't plan ahead, it won't look good for either of us."

"I put the team together," I said.

"Aaron, please," said Father. "We're busy. Come back when we have time."

"Okay, I'll be in my room, then."

That was okay, it's not like I expected them to get really excited this early. The game isn't won until it's won. I'm sure that once I make the finals and everyone gets really excited, then they'll turn up. Everyone else does.

My disposition always improves when I step into my room. Why wouldn't it? I designed the whole thing around a testimony to my achievement. Some people have an accent wall – I have a victory wall. First is a cork board covered in ribbons and photographs from academic meets and scores from various tests. Flanking that are plaques, framed certificates, a shadowbox to show off my medals. And below that – oh yes. It was once a bookshelf until I found a more splendid use for it. There are my trophies, a forest of them, all shiny and lined up with the utmost care. There is but one gap, one unoccupied spot in that beautiful line, and this is the year I finally fill it.

But there's still more to do, more preparations to make before next week. Everything I needed was carefully arranged on the bed – the laptop, the special notebook with all of my interpersonal research, the camera I borrowed from my father. I flipped on the television – a local station broadcasting some talking head and his theories that Trivia Master was the wave of the future and should be in more schools.

"Game shows based around trivia go back to the pioneering days of television. They're an enduring tradition. Now, we used to attribute the popularity to a vicarious thrill, people watching folks just like them win big money. But now we've got amateurs participating, we've got bar trivia nights, computer games, board games, people playing along at home. People don't do it for money and prizes, they do it because there's a genuine thrill there, weird as that is to say..."

I swear, people will say any dumb bullshit if it will get them attention. I guarantee that this prick has some profit angle in this.

"...Maybe what we really need to do is take some of that competitive edge and inject it into a higher pursuit. I see Trivia Master as the start of a whole new perspective on how kids learn and study, not just in terms of the trivia itself but also the metagame which has elements of strategy and analysis..."

I heard the phone buzzing in my bag. I muted the television and pulled it out – one of my contacts, someone I'd been dealing with.

"Yeah?"

"24 right, 8 left, 30 right."

"You're sure?"

"I tried it out myself, it works. Now are we even?"

"Yeah, we're even. Lose this number."

I really hate having to deal with so many dodgy people, but I really don't have a choice. There's going to be plenty more of this cloak and dagger foolishness before I'm done. It's a filthy world, and something you have to get filthy yourself. It's for the greater good.

I turned the volume back up on the talking head.

"...some critics think that with this approach that we risk trivializing education, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase, and that there is a risk of the kids becoming overcompetitive. I personally believe that this has been exaggerated by a sensationalist media. Ultimately, this is just a game."

Yeah, just a game. Just the only game that matters.

## JANE

So Isabel Morelli is a real social butterfly. There is basically nothing that she can't and won't turn into a party of some kind. I've lost track of how many little parties I've attended under the guise of "study groups" or "meetings" or whatever the hell she wants to call them. It's not my thing, but maybe that's because these are not my people. Maybe I'm just a little jealous that I can't call my old friends together on a whim, or that none of my get–together are considered a big deal.

Isabel's absolute favorite is the "girls' night out." It's an odd concept, isn't it? I guess modern social interactions are based so centrally around dating that any non–dating situation has to have its own name. Anyway, about once every month or two I get a call from Isabel asking me if I want to hit the town with her friends. Usually, I say yes, though I'm really not sure why. Isabel's other friends are operating on another wavelength entirely. As much as I have in common with any of them, they might as well be from another country – hell, another planet. A typical night out starts with dinner, where the girls talk about their boyfriends, which I don't have. If I'm lucky, they let me sit there in silence. On less lucky evenings, when they're in a mood for a project, they talk about the boys they could fix me up with. I let Isabel set me up once – now she knows not to do that anymore (long story – tell you another time). After that, it's only a matter of time before someone breaks out the booze. Well, that may be a bit strong, since they drink whatever they can steal from their parents and they aren't all that discriminating. There's nothing like watching a bunch of high school dilettantes guzzling Kahlua and pretending that they're wasted. The evening concludes with me driving my not–at–all drunk friends around town, stopping to let them yell at boys.

I'll admit that it's entertaining, if a little sad.

Every year, we have a night out with the team, and I knew that this year was going to be the same. I had mixed feelings about that. It's a more sober crowd, so if nothing else I knew I'd be spared the sight of Isabel chugging a bottle of vermouth she blindly swiped from her house and then going into a tirade (another long story). It would also be a lot more comfortable for me – no more popular girls discussing their perfect lives, this was my crowd. But that's also what worried me. I really had no idea how Hannah and Karen would get along with Isabel, or with each other for that matter. Being the only one who knows all of them, I might have had to play peacemaker, and that's really not my role.

Was I too worried? I have a real problem with that.

That Saturday, Isabel set us up at this little Chinese place she likes. My job was to pick up the other girls. Isabel was always good at delegating tasks, so good that I never asked why she couldn't bring us all down there herself. It was okay – gave me a chance to inform my guests of a few things.

The Bae residence was my first stop. Much to my surprise, Hannah came right out – no awkward dealing with the family, which is obviously good. I popped open the door for her. "Hop in. We just have to swing by and pick up our other teammate, should only take a minute."

Hannah cleared her throat. "Maybe I should sit in the back."

That, on the other hand, I was not expecting. The back seat of my car is tiny and filled with a really unacceptable amount of junk. Were I still ferrying Isabel's crowd around, I probably would have cleaned it out, but this time it just skipped my mind.

"You...actually want to ride back there?"

"Someone has to sit back there."

"True, but I came here first. You have right of first refusal."

"All right. Help yourself." I got the feeling she wanted to stay out of sight, and I wasn't going to fight her over it.

Karen was my next pickup, and she didn't even wait in the house. She was out on the curb, waving for me when I drove up. "Hey Jane! Over here!" I didn't even have a chance to park before she ran up and hopped in the passenger seat. "Great to see you! Sorry, I guess I'm a little excited."

"No problem," I said. "Oh, Karen, this is Hannah. Hannah, Karen." I'm not great at intros, if you haven't figured that out by now.

Karen was halfway over the seat. "Of course! You're Hannah...um...Bay?"

"It's Bae," she muttered.

"That's right. Oh, my parents were going to introduce themselves to your family, but I guess it didn't work out." Karen nudged me. "You know how it is, right? You get caught up."

"Yeah, sure."

"So, where are we headed?" said Karen.

"Chinese place. Just a friendly get–together, should be a normal evening."

Karen looked puzzled. "As opposed to what?"

This seemed as good a time as any to introduce my friends to the Morelli experience. "Well...Isabel doesn't really know any of you. She's used to dealing with a very different group."

Karen laughed. "So she hangs out with a flashy crowd. It's not like she was raised in a castle or anything. What's she going to say?"

"Just...keep it in mind," I said. "If she says anything...silly, try not to hold it against her. She doesn't mean it."

I probably shouldn't have talked like that. Who the hell introduces people by hinting at how crazy one of them is? There's really no situation that I can't turn awkward in a hurry. I mean, Isabel isn't that bad, really.

"You got here in a hurry."

"Hit all greens. The reservation ready, or are we early?"

"Table for four, ready and waiting."

"Cool, because we're all here." I waved for Hannah and Karen to join. "Girls, this is Isabel Morelli, the one who brought us together this evening. Isabel, this is Karen Schumaker and I believe you already know Hannah Bae."

Karen reached out and grabbed Isabel's hand, something that Isabel clearly didn't anticipate. "I have wanted to talk to you for so long. Remember winter homecoming last year? Oh, you made such a glamorous entrance. Deep down, I really hoped you could give me some pointers." She laughed. "I'm not good at that kind of thing."

"Uh...okay." Isabel glanced over at me, that old _I need help_ look I've seen so many times before.

I jumped in. "Maybe we should head in. No reason to stand around on the street."

"Of course," said Isabel. "Oh, I always order in advance – you know, get everything out quicker. You ever been here?"

"Oh no," said Karen. "I'm just not that adventurous."

"It's nothing strange like that, I just never order off the menu. You get the best service when you know what you're doing." Isabel looked over at Hannah for this next part. "Of course, it's probably not as good as what you're used to."

"Goddamn it, Izzy," I said under my breath. I wonder if I've embarrassed Isabel in front of her friends like she did in front of mine.

Isabel had actually landed us a small room apart from the main dining area. That would be a bigger deal someplace like New York City, I suppose, but I was impressed. It was important to have a little peace and quiet, because Isabel and I had to explain how we did things. The rules on the Northwest website are only the tip of the iceberg. The important chunks are all informal and unwritten. You only know the real rules if you're genuinely in contention.

"All right, here's the rundown," I said. "Registration opens on Monday. It stays open for three days, but it's always a good idea to get it out of the way as soon as possible so that nothing strange happens."

Hannah meekly raised her hand. "What sort of 'strange things'?"

I never did figure out a good way to answer that question that doesn't make me sound crazy. So I took the coward's route. "Let's not think about that. Point is, we get the form in on Monday and everything's fine. We'll need your signatures, but one of us will take care of everything else."

"I'll take in the form," added Isabel. "It's not such a big deal, but it does get a little crazy around the office. You might want to show up early."

"Crazy?" said Hannah. "I don't like how this sounds."

"Well, it sounds like it's going to be a lot of fun to me," said Karen. "I do have one tiny little question. Have either of you ever had a match against one of your friends?"

"I don't think that ever came up," I said. "Why?"

"Oh, I've always wondered about that," said Karen. "It just seems really hard. I figured that maybe you'd know some ways to deal with that."

"Not in particular," I said. "Why? Do you have a friend on another team?"

"Oh, it's not for me. It's for her." She nodded toward Hannah. "Her brother is on another team, you know."

That seemed a touch strange. Andrew Bae was a real champ when he was younger, but he gave up trivia years ago. "Someone talked him into playing?" I said.

"Yeah," Hannah said. "He's playing with someone named Aaron."

Isabel and I groaned in unison. That had to be Aaron Bellamy, a little weasel with one hell of a Napoleon complex. I could write a thousand pages on Aaron Bellamy and still not come close to describing everything that's wrong with him. I could tell you that he's a pathological liar. I could list the many people he's sabotaged over the years for petty revenge. Isabel could tell you about the deranged crush he has on her, which led him to keep tabs on her boyfriends and pull some really bizarre stunts in a weak attempt to catch her eye. I'd actually be impressed by his intellect if he wasn't so goddamn evil.

"Is something wrong?" said Hannah.

"He's a nut, is what's wrong," said Isabel.

"Look, if Aaron comes over, stay away from him. He's a little...intense," I said.

"Let's change the subject, huh?" said Isabel. "There is one thing we still need: A team name."

"Yeah, we're never very good with those," I said. "Hope was that maybe one of you – "

"The Valkyries," said Hannah. There was another surprise – I'd anticipated having to prod her into the conversation, and here she joins all on her own.

"What was that?" said Isabel.

Hannah lost her nerve real quick. "Sorry, it was nothing."

"It's okay," I said. "Why don't you tell us? I'm interested."

"I just said 'the Valkyries.' They were the warrior women who escorted dead soldiers to Valhalla." Hannah looked away. "But you don't have to use it."

It was a simple thing, but it got the point across. "I like it. Isabel?"

"It's fine by me," said Isabel.

"I just think it's terrific, Hannah!" added Karen.

And that was how the Valkyries were born. It turned out to be a fine evening – other than Karen asking Hannah if the kung pao was "authentic," no one said anything too stupid and no one threw up in my car. It was the first time since we started gathering the team that I felt really optimistic about the whole thing. Everything was turning out splendidly. Yeah, everyone was saying that it was going to be an especially ugly year, but there was no drama here.

Oh, and as long as we're being honest, it was also the first time that I felt we could really kick some ass in this thing. In a fun way, though.

# Phase II: Intrigue

## KEN

Registration for Northwest High's Trivia Master is a very simple process. On the Monday one week before the start of the tournament, stacks of forms are placed in the school office and a handful of classrooms throughout the building. Each form contains eight spaces, one for each participant's signature and one for his or her name in block print. The completed form must then be submitted to the office between noon on Monday and noon on Wednesday. Doing this makes the team eligible for the entry test, which determines who will go on to compete in the preliminary rounds of the tournament.

Although registration is open for three days, over half of all teams register on the first day. The reasons for this vary from team to team, but the consistent explanation is a fear of poaching by competitors. Teams may be decided on handshake agreements the week before, but officially none of these teams actually exist until the form is filed and the names written into the record. During this period, any team can persuade a competitor to depart from his or her own team, leaving the original team with an unfortunate gap. Many teams are still forming during this period, so this is a definite risk. In fact, I have heard that in years past – when most teams filed at the last moment on Wednesday – some less scrupulous teams used this as a tactic. They would draw away the weakest member of a strong team, disqualifying his or her teammates unless they could find a fourth member on very short notice.

This seldom happens anymore, but registration is still vulnerable to various forms of chicanery. The simplest dirty trick is forging an individual's signature. Few teenagers have the skill to accurately replicate a person's handwriting, but even fewer administrators have training as forensic document examiners. In cases where there is some conflict between applications, the office rarely goes to the effort of seeking out the party in question to determine which signature was real. Rather, they will gladly accept the earliest received submission as the legitimate one. This is why it is crucial to get the form to the office as soon as possible. Even waiting until the end of the day on Monday means running the risk of poaching.

Only one person is required to deliver the form, of course, but it is not uncommon for whole teams to show up at the office. Consequently, the tiny administrative office – which, at any given time, contains perhaps six people – strains to accommodate the fifty or so students who have arrived to submit their forms. To keep the process somewhat orderly and timely, only three students are allowed in the office at a time. The rest of us wait outside the door in a large knot occupying half the hallway. The environment is tense but with no small amount of excitement – a good setting for trivia, I might add. It also happens to be a perfect opportunity to gather information on our rivals. There is much to be gleaned from such a setting.

Paul does not agree with me on this point. On registration day, he stays on the second floor and makes a conscious effort to avoid the office. While I would certainly prefer it if he would accompany me, I also can not blame him for avoiding the registration process. His exceptional talent makes him a target. During this season, he accrues no shortage of rivals and nemeses who hold a vested interest in causing him harm. Were I in his shoes, I would wish to avoid these gatherings as well. So, on the appointed day, I collect his signature and those of our teammates and head to the office myself.

As usual, the office was a terrible mess. I usually try to be prompt, but I was delayed that morning and found myself behind the members of at least a dozen teams. While this was frustrating, it also gave me time to conduct a scan of the crowd. It was a typically motley group, but there was clearly some talent present. True competitors always register on the first day – not since 2003 has a team that registered later than Monday made it to the finals. However, the crowd also contained a fair share of oddballs. Trivia Master attracts many individuals with agendas outside of competitive trivia. Some are young activists hoping to draw attention to their pet issue of the moment. Some are aspiring artists and performers, looking to "generate buzz" by naming their teams after their bands or collectives. There is one girl who creates a team each year, just to quit before the start of the tournament, all to make some point about the school system that I have never understood.

In front of me was a new student, destined to be so much cannon fodder against the well–coordinated local teams. Behind me was Brian Booker, a member of Aaron Bellamy's team. Brian is a skillful strategist, and I had briefly considered him for a place on our side.

Brian tapped me on the shoulder. "Ken."

"Brian! You know, I almost invited you to be on our team."

"I'd rather be on a winning team," he said with an arrogant flourish.

"You really think that Aaron's going to be your ticket to the stars? We outperformed him last year, you know."

"He didn't have my guidance last year. With his skill and my strategies, you two don't have a prayer, Greevey."

Suddenly, I remembered why I had never approached Brian Booker. Simply put, he is a prick.

"Nice to talk to you again." I turned away from him – no need to bother with such rabble.

"You know what I'm betting for our match?" he continued, heedless of my gesture. "A 200–point blowout. Bank on it."

I will admit, this statement got my attention. "200 points? You of all people should know how statistically unlikely that is."

"Oh? Then, how many points do you think you'll lose by?"

"I'm not talking to you anymore."

This is the problem with registration – you are sometimes called upon to interact with terrible people. Fortunately, there are always options. I noticed Isabel Morelli exiting the office. She was in uncharacteristically early. I raised my hand to draw her attention. "Hey, Isabel."

"Piss off," she said.

"Say 'Hi' to Jane for me!"

Sometimes, I suspect that there is some special property in this town that either breeds or attracts assholes. Perhaps large groups of unpleasant people exert some form of psychological pressure that affects those around them? I must conduct a study one day.

Ignoring the rudeness as best I could, I elected to introduce myself to the new student in front of me. "Hey, I haven't seen you around. Ken Greevey."

He turned around to face me. This was a perfectly ordinary young man, the kind of person who probably faded into his surroundings everywhere he went. He extended his hand. "Leon Mara. I'm new here."

"And already jumping into Trivia Master, huh?"

Leon shrugged. "Well, it looked like fun."

"Yeah, really fun." I did not have the heart to explain to him the true nature of this competition. No doubt he had experience with a similar contest at a school with more civilized students. "Um...You ever do anything like this at your old school?"

"Schools, actually. My dad moves around for his work. I've dabbled in trivia, though. Did pretty well, too, although I've never been in anything like this."

"Yeah, it's exciting, all right." The poor, naive fool. "You ever been to Scholar's Bowl?"

He shook his head. "No, I never had the time for any serious competition. Maybe this year, though. What about you?"

"No, but I have a good feeling this year." I could see the office emptying out. "It looks like we're up."

"Ah, so we are. Well, nice to meet you...Ken, right?"

"Yeah. Good luck, Leon!"

It was finally my turn in the audience. The tiny waiting area was surprisingly peaceful compared to the ruckus outside. As I had fully prepared my documents in advance, this would take little time – I merely had to confirm my identity for the secretary. At least, that's what I thought.

"Excuse me, you didn't fill this out," she said.

"Of course I did. I have all the signatures."

"You forgot to give your team a name."

The name! In my zeal to prepare for this year's match, I had completely neglected to create a name for our team. It had never even entered my mind.

This is not a minor point. The team name is a rallying point, a banner around which the team gathers its supporters. It is destined to appear on brackets in every hallway and on placards in the auditorium. It will adorn our picture in the paper and be forever memorialized in the annals of Northwest High.

More than that, the choice of name speaks volumes about its creator. Does one select a name from pop culture, identifying with an icon, using the name as a statement? An intellectual name, to showcase knowledge and refinement? A humorous name, to rally the student body in laughter? An inside reference, to be shared with only a select few and laughed over for years to come? There were many choices, and each brought with it both benefits and detriments.

I wracked my brain for possibilities. Reusing a name from a past year was out of the question – that only demonstrates a lack of creativity, which would not augur well for us. An inside joke was always a possibility, but I feared that I might alienate a mass audience if I leaned too heavily on geek jokes. I needed a name that would reflect our ambition while still appealing to the masses. I needed a name that told the world everything it needed to know in one compact package.

Finally, it came to me – transgressive, satirical, with a hint of self–effacing humor. I scrawled it down into the blank and handed the form to the secretary. I knew it would take a bit of explaining, but Paul would come to like it. Understanding people is a specialty of mine, after all.

## PAUL

Ken and I have a bit of a tradition on Trivia Master registration day. On that Monday afternoon, Ken handles the paperwork while I hide in the library.

You need to realize that, for reasons I still don't fully understand, Ken loves every part of this thing, up to an including the registration. I guess he sees it as an opportunity to mix it up with the other teams, get some info – that sort of thing. I'm not sure what sort of information you're going to get out of that crowd other than that a lot of them are completely nuts.

Actually, some of you may already know this. Last year, Ron Janowski brought a camera to school and shot some footage outside the office on registration Monday, which he posted online under the title "Monsters of Trivia." It would have been better if it had stayed in obscurity like the rest of his projects, but no – this one caught the attention of some big deal Illinois blogger, started spreading through the media and then the country and next thing you know the damn thing has six hundred thousand views. It's probably closer to a million by now, not that I could bring myself to watch it more than once to find out.

I can't say that I'm shocked that it spread so fast. Train–wreck video is always popular, and he got some good stuff. No fewer than three students broke down crying while talking about the competition. One kid pulled out a stack of notebooks, half–black with pencil marks, and detailed his theory – based on the composition of the question sheets from the last three years – that the school was conspiring to hand certain favored students the victory. Another guy used the opportunity to go off on an entirely unprovoked rant about cryptocurrency, physically grabbing and holding onto Ron when he tried to move on. The crowning moment, however, was definitely Christine Hekkler, a lead member of the championship team. I'm not sure which was the best part – her belief that she was being stalked by dozens of students and faculty (she knew because they were all wearing red) or when she declared that she never drank anything onstage because she thought the school's water supply was adulterated with neurotoxins. I often wonder just how many of the other school's teams saw that video before they faced off against Christine.

My point being that it's a circus down there, and I never have liked the circus. I don't relish seeing what fresh madness Ron is going to capture this year, and I'm sure I'll have a chance to see it all in the comfort of my own room anyway. So I always spend my lunch break in the library. The library has been a regular sanctuary for me over the years. There's never anyone in there at noon, so it's whisper quiet. I can lean back, read magazines, and pretend that none of this nonsense is happening.

But of course, the library is not a sanctuary. It's a public space that admits everyone, whether I want them there or not. So when I walked in there on Monday and saw Aaron sitting in my usual spot leafing through an issue of Time, there wasn't much I could do about it.

"Something you wanted to say to me?" I asked him.

"What makes you think I'm here for you?" Aaron didn't even look up at me. "I'm just hanging out."

"Why aren't you downstairs at the office?"

"The registration? Oh, I've got one of my people taking care of that." He tossed the magazine aside and looked up at me with an odd little smile. "Personally, I enjoy having a little quiet time during the day, don't you? Just a chance to be alone with your thoughts."

"Your people, huh?" The subtext of that line never ceased to amaze me. "And you just happened to come here? To my place?"

"The library is not your secret hideaway, Paul. You don't own it, as much as you'd like to."

His smile grew wider as he spoke. That smile...it wasn't a friendly smile. Over the years, I've concluded that Aaron isn't capable of regular human emotions. Any time he expresses an emotion, it's always false and twisted. This was more like a "You have no idea what's coming" smile, or maybe a "I'm about to make you regret being born" smile. It's hardly the first time I've seen it, and always right before he does something truly awful.

"Cut the crap, Aaron."

"I don't understand where this hostility is coming from. Is there something you'd like to say? Get it off your chest."

"So what is this, some weird little strategy? Act all nonchalant, lull me into a sense of false security? You really think I'm going to buy that?"

"You're getting so paranoid, Mr. Sunshine." There were traces of rage seeping into Aaron's voice, like his phony act was about to break. "It's not all about the game, you know."

"Oh, don't even try it. You're forgetting that I know better than anyone how you operate. Aaron Bellamy plays dirty from the jump. And I don't have to put up with it."

I turned to leave, but Aaron kept on talking. "And of course, Paul Liston only uses good, clean tactics like splitting up two very old friends."

I stopped dead and spun around. "I didn't do anything!"

"Oh no?" He stood up and approached me. Aaron is a good two inches shorter than me, but he can be intimidating in his own way. "So that wasn't you talking to dear old friends Duncan and Trevor? I understand that after you spoke, they went their separate ways."

"Are you having me followed?"

"You must think a lot of yourself to imagine that you're worthy of being followed. News travels very fast around here, you should know that. Hey, I don't blame you. A year like this, you really have to pull out all the stops to stay competitive."

"Why does everyone keep saying that? It's the same people, the same teams every year. What makes this year different?"

"You haven't figured it out?" No sooner had those words left his mouth than Aaron's demeanor changed. The fake smile and fake geniality were gone. It wasn't two friendly rivals having a chat in the library. It was a rabid hyena eyeballing his blood enemy. "It's because of you and me. Three years we've done this, and we've never faced each other. Three years!"

"I hadn't realized that."

"Oh, you cut the crap, Liston. Don't tell me you haven't been waiting for it." Aaron was scowling now, staring holes right through me and digging his fingernails into his palm. "I mean, what good's a rivalry when you never get a chance to test your rival? And I guarantee that that's all these idiots are waiting for. After three long years, they're not going to be satisfied with a nice, gentlemanly contest. They want to see ugliness. They want to hear the bones break. Do you understand?"

Sadly, I did. "I'm gonna wait somewhere else."

"Fine. Go and find yourself another hidey hole. You won't be able to run when we're on stage! Flee while you can!"

He was still ranting and raving when I left. I imagine that he had that little speech ready and waiting for a while, and he was going to finish it even if no one else heard it.

The library isn't the only place where one can get a little peace and quiet. Over the years, I've found any number of hidden little spots in this building. There's a little–used classroom with a broken lock on the third floor – it smells funny, but I don't mind. The choral room goes unused after third period, so that's a good place to hide in the afternoons. If all else fails, there's one place I can always rely on. There's this weird little side stairway which very few people know is there. It's not all that comfortable, but it gets next to know foot traffic and it isn't close to any of the classrooms, so it's totally quiet, especially over the noon hour.

That's where I was sitting when he came down the stairs. First came the heavy thump of footsteps, then a massive shadow covering me entirely. I looked up very slowly, already afraid of who it might be.

"Hey there, little guy."

I was right. It was Leonard Vaughn.

Solace is one of those towns where football is a big deal. To be fair, we do have probably the best team in the state. I did stats for them for a semester (a sad attempt to garner some residual popularity) and they are very good, if that kind of thing is impressive to you. And if football is king here, Leonard Vaughn is the emperor. Varsity quarterback. Two–time Junior All–American. Lettered more times than I can remember. The Northwest Salamanders were a losing team when I was a kid, and Leonard gets a lot of the credit for turning it around. You know, though? He deserves it. I used to double– and triple–check his stats because I didn't think that anyone could be that good. No joke.

Once I saw who it was, I jumped to my feet and stepped aside. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was in your way."

"Don't sweat it, you're cool where you are. It's Paul, right?"

I like to think of myself as the kind of person who doesn't care about celebrity, who isn't affected by someone's status. I'm lying to myself. The fact that Vaughn knew me by name made me feel downright special.

"Uh...yeah, I'm Paul."

"So what's up? You're not doing the trivia thing this year?"

"...Oh, because I'm up here? No, I'm in it. My friend is signing us up."

He smiled – a casual, friendly one this time. "Cool. 'Cause, you know, after last year, you guys are a lock to win."

Vaughn didn't just know my name, he had an opinion about me. "You watched the tournament?"

"Well, yeah. Doesn't everyone?"

"I guess they do." I never quite got used to having fans. "Are you participating at all?"

"Nah, I'm gonna be real busy this next few weeks, so no time for that." He actually sounded disappointed – I swear by whatever deity you respect.

"With practice?" Once again, I failed at being nonchalant.

"Yeah, practice. But I'll be there to watch every round. All of us will. The offensive line's pulling for you guys."

I chuckled like an idiot. "Well, it's good to have supporters."

"Tell me about it. But I hear that there's some kid giving you shit? What's going on there?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"My older sister knows your cousin."

"Oh, Diana's talking about me now?"

That's another thing I never got used to. As the smart kid, I occupy a specific place in the high school hierarchy, meaning that I'm more visible that I would be otherwise. As a result, there are people I've never met discussing me on a regular basis. Since sixth grade, I've lived with the fact that, on occasion, a perfect stranger would come up to me, greet me by name, and start asking questions about my personal problems. It's strange, but I got past it. What I never got past was my family discussing me with people in other cities and states. It's a little disconcerting, knowing that somewhere out there is a group of college students that know all about my life.

"It's not that big a deal," I said. "There's just this guy who has some problem with me, I don't even really get it myself."

Lenny nodded. "Listen, I know a few things about people who play dirty, so if he keeps messing with you, talk to me or one of my friends. I'll deal with it."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Well, I'm off. Have a good one." And with that, Lenny was gone, and everything was quiet again.

A lot of people might be surprised by how civil that conversation was, but with the benefit of hindsight it makes perfect sense to me. I'm not so sure that this jocks vs. nerds rivalry is something that still longer exists, assuming it ever even did. The whole thing is based on stereotypes that originated in 1980's coming–of–age movies – the same movies that we're still watching thirty years later. It's become a cultural memory, something no one saw but everyone remembers.

Ken came up the stairs a few seconds later. "Were you talking to Leonard Vaughn?"

"Yeah."

"Really? Did he want something from you?"

"No." Cultural memories are hard to shake."Did you come up here to tell me something, Ken?"

"Oh, right." Ken dug through his pockets. "I got us all squared away. Took a few notes while I was down there. Some of these teams are going to be tough."

"The only one I'm worried about is Aaron Baines Bellamy. He was waiting for me in the library. I got a preview of his bag of tricks."

"I'm not surprised. You know he'll do whatever it takes to beat us."

"We'll deal with him when the time comes. Speaking of things we need to deal with, we never discussed our team name."

"That's because I forgot about it."

I couldn't help but laugh at him. "You planned every aspect of this team down to the finest detail but you didn't come up with a name?"

"I got a little distracted, you know how it is. I'm not perfect. So I had to come up with something on the spot."

Ken handed me a scrap of paper. Scrawled across it was The Raging Nerds.

"This is seriously what you wrote down and submitted?"

Ken shrugged. "It's not my best work, but it'll really stand out on the posters. Plus, you have to admit that it's catchy."

"I have to? You really want to compete under this name?"

"'Nerd' isn't really an insult these days, more like a term of endearment." He patted me on the shoulder. "Hell, I've heard you use it a hundred times."

"That's not the part that bothers me, Ken."

"Well, I know you don't have a problem with rage. Do I need to list all the times you got mad over a rules change in some tabletop game or a release delay?"

There's no point in arguing with Ken over things like this. Besides, it was already done and behind us. Also – and I'd never admit this to his face – he had a point. Trivia Master is a geek's game, one in which we hold court. Perhaps the best way to attack the game is to revel in our inner dorkiness, to own it and show the world what a nerd can do.

That's the real reason I keep doing it year after year. It gives me one real shot at a moment of triumph. I just wish it didn't entail dealing with some junior psychopath. Maybe I just need to get used to it.

## JANE

Ever since that first week when I recruited the team, I've been having some rough mornings. That morning I woke up with a song in my heart and a spring in my step? Total fluke, one–time only. Now it takes an hour for me to fall asleep, and then I have these really messed up dreams where I'm being chased through a garden by a woman riding a dragon or sometimes a whole bunch of crows. I can't people look for meaning in dreams, it's such a waste of time. Maybe this is just what competition does to your brain – all those highs and lows just stretch your sanity until it breaks. It would explain a lot about the people at Northwest.

The worst of it was Tuesday. It was a stormy day that produced a lot more rain that anyone predicted, but other than that it was pretty shitty. That's the second day of registration, one of the rare quiet days in the big Trivia Master ritual. All the crazy serious competitors (which included Isabel this year) show up on the first day, while the casual types wait until the last minute on Wednesday. So with the lull, I got a little too relaxed. I made the fatal mistake of assuming that I could walk down the hall without being ambushed by any crazy people. And I foolishly turned a corner without checking for any psychotic, overcompetitive pests.

"Good morning, Jane."

Aaron Bellamy. I really could have gone the rest of the year without having to deal with this specimen. "What is it, Aaron? I'm not in the mood."

"Bad night?" Aaron was smiling, which never exactly made me feel any comfort. "You seem a little out of it."

"Sure, it was a long night. Now why are you here? Something to do with Trivia Master, I assume?"

"I'm not that single minded, Jane. Actually, I was hoping you might make a little delivery for me." It was then I noticed Aaron was holding a sealed envelope. "I'm sure you'll run into the recipient, if you wouldn't mind handing this off."

I took the envelope out of his hand. "'To Miss Morelli, my queen.' Cute. A little old–school, isn't it?"

"I have an old soul."

I took a moment to examine the envelope – always a wise idea when Aaron is involved. If it was going to Isabel, then it probably wasn't blackmail. And this was at least a lot more low–key than his usual efforts. At least it didn't involve literal fireworks. Still, I had no interest in doing any favors for this one.

"Right." I shoved the envelope back at him. "Send it yourself Aaron, I'm not having anything to do with your shit."

Aaron shook his head. "What's your issue? We have a problem in common, you'd think we could get along just a little bit."

"Yes, we do have a common problem. It's you. And Izzy doesn't want anything to do with you, either. Get lost, Aaron."

There was a buzzing sound from my pocket, loud enough for Aaron to notice. "Is that Isabel?"

"Probably."

"Are you going to reply?"

"Are you going to leave?"

Aaron narrowed his eyes. "You know, the day will come when you regret being so rude."

"Oh why? You gonna put my name on one of your little revenge lists?"

"That won't be necessary."

"Because it's already there?"

Aaron smiled again. "Good luck in the game, Jane."

Oh, the things I do to not anger psychopaths. "Give me the damn letter, I'll deliver it."

"Thank you." He handed the envelope back to me. "Oh, and if you were thinking about throwing that away as soon as I leave –"

"I wasn't."

"...If you were thinking of tossing it, you should know that there are ways of knowing if a letter has been delivered."

"...Sure." There was another buzz from my pocket. "I'll see that she gets it."

"See you at the tournament." Aaron turned to leave. "And answer your phone."

I stared at the envelope for a moment before going for my phone. Sure enough, it was from Isabel: _You there Jane? Please reply._ There were several messages backed up, all from her. She can be pretty damn persistent when she wants something. Once I was sure Aaron had left, I rang her up.

"Jane?"

"Yeah. Where are you."

"Back entrance."

"That's like ten yards away. Why are you texting me from down the hall?"

"I saw Aaron nosing around. I ain't walking around the halls until he's gone."

"Fair enough. I'll be right down."

"No, stay there. This is fine."

I'm glad she couldn't see the eyeroll. Times like this, it's really not productive to question her. "You wanted something?"

"Just wanted to tell you that I got us registered. You don't have to do anything."

"Thanks. Uh..." I glanced at the envelope. "Aaron gave something to give to you. A letter."

"Tear it up and ditch it."

I looked around – could he really know what I was doing? Was it worth the risk? "You do it. I'll take it to you, you throw it out."

"I gotta go."

"Izzy, I don't want to hold this anymore."

It was too late, she'd already hung up. I went and looked for her, but she was gone – no doubt hauling ass to her first class while Aaron was absent. I went ahead and held onto that letter for the whole day, just in case. Morbid curiosity made me curious about what Aaron might have written, but I decided that ignorance was definitely bliss in this case. I delivered it to a trash can halfway between the school and my house. A chill ran down my spine when I tossed it, but nothing bad happened...yet, anyway.

Crap like this is why I'm getting the hell out of Solace. Some days I swear this place is cursed.

## AARON

One of the many injustices in this competition is that, in the three years we've done this, Paul Liston and I have never had a chance to face each other.

The first year, both of our teams were washed out in the preliminary rounds. This was hardly a surprise, as it's quite rare for freshmen to make it far. Few fourteen year–olds have the maturity to grasp the subtleties of this game. On the second year, we were set for a match in the semi–finals, but we were both trumped by the champions – his team in the quarters, mine in the semis. That I made it farther than him was a cold comfort – I already know that I'm smarter than Paul, that's hardly the point. The important part is demonstrating it in front of everyone. And last year really seemed like it was the season that was going to happen. We were set for a climactic showdown in the final match, but Ken Greevey blew a bid in the semi–final and lost. I was likewise dragged down by inferior teammates, narrowly losing in the opposing semi–final round. This is one thing Paul and I have in common – we are both victims of other people. The difference is that I am his victim as well.

I have long dreamed of my on–stage retribution. When would be the best moment for my victory? In the final round, as I snatch victory away from his greedy hands? Or would it better to trump him in the preliminaries, denying him the opportunity to even reach the show? Dare I risk too many rounds, lest he be defeated by some team of lucky idiots before I have a chance to work my magic?

Of course, I have no control over the schedule, so this is all rather moot. But as I pondered each possibility, I realized that none of them are sufficiently humiliating. Paul has suffered three losses, as have I. Each failure was painful, but not painful enough. A boy with his deceitful and cruel nature deserves something more personal. He deserves a humiliation that will pay in dividends.

I spent months devising this plan. I'll grant you that it's a little elaborate, even a bit risky, but that smug bastard deserves every step.

I started the process on Monday. I sent Brian to the office to file our entry papers while I went to find my rival. Sadly, this meant that I missed Brian dressing down Paul's fat little lapdog. God, I can't stand that prick. In fact, I hate Ken nearly as much as I hate Paul. He probably deserves some punishment, both for his complicity and for being a boring, pedantic pain in the ass in general, but there will be plenty of time to deal with him later. Anyway, while Brian was handling the details I tracked down Paul so we could have a little man–to–man talk. I confronted him with his latest misdeed (a backstabber can never quite restrain himself, can he?) and laid out his future in detail. He played ignorant, as he always does, but I could see worry in his eyes.

This was merely part one. When the hammer falls, I don't want there to be any doubt as to why.

The registration closed yesterday. Tomorrow is the entrance test, the final gateway to Trivia Master. That left a single day with which to conduct my necessary business. And this plan of mine...you have no idea how happy I am with the way it turned out. This is a good two months' effort on my part. Paul is certainly capable of figuring it out, but the beautiful part isn't what it will do to him but how he's going to react. Oh, to get a picture of his face when the trap springs...

...Oh, but I dare not give too much away. I want everyone to see what happens at the same time.

The first stop of the afternoon was the office. I timed my arrival very carefully so that I showed up just a little bit after the bell. The place has been abuzz with activity for three days, but at that moment – just when it really mattered – it was desolate. The only person there was my contact, Clarice Adams. Clarice is a charming young woman with a solid GPA who does clerical jobs in the office for extra credit. She also has secrets – nasty, sordid, embarrassing secrets. Everyone in Northwest has secrets. Tug on the right thread, and a student's dirty laundry becomes public record. Clarice knows this. I haven't let her forget it.

I approached her very casually, as though we were old acquaintances. "You have what I asked for?"

"Before we do this, I need to explain some things." Clarice was clearly a bundle of nerves, ready to bolt at the first sign of movement. "I never actually planned on doing anything like this. What you saw...it's not me, I swear. I was talked into something –"

She was rambling, and I really didn't have time for this. "I really don't care, Clarice. I don't care about your reputation. All I care about is that." I pointed to the manilla envelope she's clutching. "And it had better not be damaged."

"I don't understand. Why do you want the office letterhead?"

"Does it really matter to you? It's a very simple deal. I get the envelope, you get this." I held up an SD card, gripped between two fingers just outside of her reach. "Do you really care what happens to that piece of paper?"

Now Clarice was wringing her hands so hard I think they might come off. "It's just...I don't want to hurt anyone. I can't be involved in that kind of thing."

"Oh, but you'll be involved in this kind of thing?" I wagged the card at her. "The only question you should be asking is what is he going to do with those photographs? Post them online? Print up some nice, glossy copies and mail them to your parents?"

"No, please!" She handed over the envelope. "Just take it."

It's not a difficult proposition. She hands over the envelope without a second thought. Clarice may be a scared rabbit, but she does what she's told – the papers she's delivered are exactly what I requested.

"Thank you." I dropped the card in her waiting hands. "I think the office has a heavy–duty shredder that can dispose of that. If you don't have an electromagnet, that's what I recommend."

"Hold on," she said. "How do I know you don't have copies?"

"Why would I keep copies? I needed those shots for one thing, and I'm now done. Your double life is no longer relevant to me."

"Well, how do I know that you won't say anything?"

People ask me that a lot. I always respond the same way: "You're not important enough for me to say anything."

My classmates are so egotistic. Do these people really think that any of them are significant enough to warrant a betrayal? Do they really think that I would compromise my own finely wrought plans just to expose them?

There was still a lot to do, and just barely enough time to get it all done. My next destination was the gifted education room, where the question lists are compiled and edited. The computers in the gifted room are the only ones in the building that contain the master lists, so during the tournament the room is always being watched by someone trustworthy. The school is less concerned with propriety during the preliminary rounds, though. The only person down there this afternoon is Davis Racossi, a weaselly little scammer who'll do anything for the right price. Apparently no one's aware that Davis is down there, because it would be an invitation for everyone to cheat if it were widely known.

"You Aaron Bellamy?" Davis has the distinct look and mannerisms of a liar. I can't believe that they trust him to handle this.

"No time for introductions today." I passed him a ten–dollar bill. Davis may well be the cheapest Benedict Arnold who ever lived. "Let's get to it."

He slipped the bill into his wallet. "Well, we're all ready to go, then." He set a disc on the table in front of me. "Burned this just before you came in."

"Put it on the computer so I can see the files."

"You don't trust me?"

"No, I don't."

"All right, fair enough." He put the disc on one of the computers. As promised, it contains an extensive list of questions and answers. "See? Are we square?"

"Print a copy of the first page."

The weasel shook his head. "Man, I told you when we set this up: No hard copies. It's too suspicious, they can catch that kind of thing."

"Davis, if you don't print this file, I promise you will regret it for what remains of your life."

"Okay, geez." He tapped a few buttons and the printer sprang to life. "This isn't a setup, is it?"

Another egotist. "No, you twit. And there's no one here, so hand me the damn printout."

"Okay, I believe you." Davis quickly slid the printout over to me. "Just...y'know, don't show it to anyone, all right?"

"Sure." I folded it up and cram it into my back pocket.

"Uh...aren't you going to look at that?"

"I pay you not to care. Now forget I was here and get back to what you were doing."

It's important to let these kind of people know who's boss, especially when it's someone like Davis. I hate dealing with his type. Aside from the oily sensation, there's always a risk in dealing with someone whose loyalties are so mercenary. If it wasn't for the overkill firewalls they keep on those damn things then I'd just hack in, but you do what you must.

My final stop was the library. The timing here is very important – it's early enough in the semester so no one is studying or writing a paper, but there also aren't any clubs holding meetings in there. The only person present was a dim–looking library aide.

I met her at the desk. "Good afternoon. Stuck here late?"

"What do you want?"

Typical low–class rudeness. Still, there are ways to use that. "Sorry, I can see that I'm bothering you. I'll wait, it's...it's nothing that can't wait a day, I guess."

"All right, geez, I'm sorry. Don't run off. What do you need?"

A touch of guilt goes a long way. "I'll be quick. I believe that there's an old electric typewriter around here somewhere. You know where it is?"

"Um...I think so. Follow me."

She lead me to a corner of the library with a few partitioned desks. "Excellent. I forget, when does the library close?"

"Thirty minutes from now, I think."

"Well, I'll have to be quick." Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone here. "Hey, are you doing Trivia Master?"

She stares blankly. "No, I never do that."

"And, you're down here every day?"

"Just Thursdays and Fridays. Why?"

"I might have a favor to ask. There's twenty bucks in it if you can help me."

"It's nothing weird, is it?"

"Not at all. I just need you to deliver something for me. Stick around, I'll tell you what I need after I'm done here."

Everything went like clockwork. In a few days, Paul is going to get the surprise of his life.

## KEN

Northwest High enrolls over six hundred students every year. Of those students, almost two hundred will sign up for Trivia Master. This adds up to approximately fifty teams. There are sixteen slots, so two–thirds of these teams will have to be dismissed before the tournament proper begins. To narrow this field, the tournament is prefaced by a timed entrance test. The sixteen teams who perform the best on this test are randomly placed in the tournament bracket.

The entrance exam never factors heavily into the pregame strategy. There are no tricks at play, and no real doubt as to who will score the highest. It is simply a minor annoyance, a stumbling block on the road to success. However, it can be an enjoyable diversion as well. The entrance exam is the last chance for the teams to meet in a casual environment, to treat each other with some degree of class. Alternately, it can be a chance to have a little fun at the expense of the other competitors. While perhaps not the most mature of pastimes, I must admit that I relish this part of the competition. It is a nice way to release some stress before the beginning of the serious part.

As it is unrealistic to handle two hundred students at once, each team is randomly assigned to one of three rooms, with the assignments listed on signs posted at each location. This year, we were assigned to the library, which was a welcome change. Last year we were in the gymnasium, an uncomfortable and all–around unpleasant place for a test. While the faint aroma of stale sweat is a minor distraction at best, the terrifying memories of dodgeball are far harder to ignore.

During the last period of the day, we are released early to go to our appointed rooms. The test itself takes just a small portion of the period, leaving a fair amount of time before the test starts. For me, this is one last opportunity to study the competition. Even at this late date, there is much to be ascertained by watching the other teams interact.

I was standing outside of the library when a familiar face appeared. "Excuse me, Ken? Ken Greevey?"

He was the student I spoke to at registration. "We met on Monday...Leon, right? What's up?"

"I was hoping you could help me out a little. I'm trying to find the room for the entry test. Is it here?"

"That depends. What's the name of the team?"

"The Praetorians."

"I think your team was assigned to the choral room. There should be a poster around here somewhere..." There are flyers noting the locations of the rooms, but they are seldom well–placed. The closest one is over a water fountain. "...Yeah, choral room."

"Thanks. Oh, where is the choral room?"

"It's downstairs, on the far right."

"Thanks again! You've been so helpful." Leon started to depart, but turned back to me at the last moment. "Maybe this is...I don't know, untoward to ask someone I might face down the line, but how does this entrance exam work? It's a little new for me."

"I thought you'd done some trivia before?"

"I have, but they were much smaller schools. You know, it wasn't such a big productions."

"Yeah, we really go in for the big show here, but this part isn't a huge deal. Just answer the questions they give you. I'm sure you'll do fine."

"Thanks. Hey, you might kick yourself over this if our teams face each other."

Ah, the naivete of the newly–arrived competitor. "Well, good luck."

"You too, and thanks a lot."

In a competition like this, it is nice to meet a decent person now and then. Of course, it can also hurt if you are later tasked with defeating them in the tournament. Conquering a newcomer with big dreams and a pleasant demeanor is never enjoyable. I do not envy the team that faces the Praetorians.

A voice came from behind me. "Find a new friend?" It was Paul, in an uncharacteristically sunny mood.

"Just helping a kid I met at registration."

"So Trevor and Scott haven't shown up yet?"

"Oh, they're here. I've got them inside, staking out a table near the reference desk. I figure that's where they're keeping the test, so we'll know exactly when it comes out."

"Nice." Paul was scanning the crowd, looking for anything of note. He would never admit this, but I think he likes this part as much as me. "So...you pick up anything interesting out here?"

"Plenty. Remember the Speed Bumps from last year?"

Paul groaned. "Don't tell me Richie's fielding the Speed Bumps again?"

"Almost. He brought in Sally Kay."

"Like that'll make a difference. If they clear the prelims, I'll be shocked." Paul looked around the hallway, spotting Duncan Washington in the crowd. "I see Duncan found a team."

"Sure he did, and it's a decent roster. They'll get to the quarters for sure. I told you, man, it's all okay."

"I guess. You see Colette around here?"

"Nah, she and her weird friends must be in another room. Good riddance, huh?" I leaned in a little bit closer. "But, you might be interested to know that I saw Jane's team."

The name caught Paul's attention, but only for a moment. "Big deal. You saw Isabel's stuck–up friends."

"No, that's the thing. I think Jane picked the team this year."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, and they could be some serious competition. They've got Karen Schumaker and Ching."

"Hannah!" Paul growled and smacked me in the back of the head. "Why do you have to say things like this?"

"Geez, sorry." I do not understand why Paul takes these jokes so seriously. It is not like he knows her.

"I guess you just can't help yourself," said Paul. "Hey, what about Aaron? Is he here?"

"Fortunately for you, they sent him to the choral room. All I know is that he has Brian Booker on his side."

"Those two deserve each other." He stole a glance at the library doors. "We about to start?"

"Yeah. We should really get inside."

The library doors swung open and the massed students filed in. Students at these competitions are always very civil and sober, moving quietly and never shoving. It is a far cry from the sort of wild free–for–all one sees at, for example, a football game. Per my instructions, Trevor and Scott were already at the designated table, waiting for us.

Hovering over to the side was our proctor, Mr. Garrett. I often wondered what, exactly, led Mr. Garrett to teaching. He mocks his own students on a regular basis, and while he plays his remarks off as mere jokes I have my doubts. I am very good at understanding people, and I can sense a bit of malice behind the japes. This event is merely another opportunity to show us who is in control.

The presence of a proctor is arguably unnecessary, as it is harder to cheat on the entrance exam than it seems. The questions on the test – in the fundamental categories of science, math, language and history – are very simple in nature. These are the kind of questions that any high school freshman should know. However, there are a lot of them, and we are only allotted fifteen minutes to finish. Realistically, there is no way that four students could completely fill out the test in that much time. It is more about time management than knowledge. Anyone attempting to cheat will use up too much time and fall short in the end.

The whole test phase is very perfunctory. Everyone – including the administration – knows which teams have a legitimate shot. Sometimes, I suspect that the proctors save time by shredding the tests from hopeless teams.

I will spare you the details of the test. Let me suffice: We successfully answered half of the questions, which is more than enough to secure our placement in the tournament. With the test finished, we are dismissed and free to go – a few minutes before the final bell, which is a nice bonus.

"Good going, Paul!" I said. "Hey, got any plans this weekend? I'm thinking a bad movie night. I read about some really amazing cheese the other day. Maybe we could grab a pizza from Oscar's and see how long we hold out?"

"This isn't a trick to get me to read trivia questions with you?"

"No trivia, no tricks. Promise."

"In that case, I'm in. I just need to drop off some things in my locker and call the folks real quick."

Paul opened his locker to find a surprise: A manilla envelope sitting in the top shelf. "Were you expecting something?" I asked.

"No." He pulled out the envelope and opened it, then shut it quickly, the color draining from his face.

"What is it?"

Paul hesitated for a second. "It looks like a series of trivia questions on school stationery."

## PAUL

When I was in 9th grade, not long after my first experience with Trivia Master, I had this idea that I was going to chronicle every way someone had cheated at the contest. It was partially for my own benefit, partially an attempt to leave something for future classes so that they didn't get caught off guard. I gave up pretty quickly, though. It was around the time I hit page thirty that I realized that I was never going to finish. Every year, someone comes up with a brand new set of dirty tricks. It's gotten to the point that the school doesn't really bother trying to stop anything but the most egregious forms of foul play, because the kids are just too good at inventing new forms.

But here's the thing: Even with all of these tricks and shortcuts available, the simplest, oldest technique – obtaining an early copy of the questions – is the most common. Scholarly leagues regularly publish books of trivia for practice purposes, but these are never used in actual tournaments because they are simply too easy to obtain. Every serious trivia champ owns an ever–growing library of trivia books, all carefully categorized and tabbed. Instead, the questions for Trivia Master are written specifically for the event, usually about a month in advance. The authors include teachers and staff, high school students who are not participating in the tournament, the occasional volunteer from nearby Garden College, and a few local parents – provided that their own children aren't competing, of course. Once the list is composed, the school takes measures to ensure that the list is not taken ahead of time. The test results are stored electronically in the gifted education room, which is either locked or watched by someone at all times.

Unfortunately, Northwest misses something big. Apparently, they never considered that someone can get hold of the questions without sneaking into the gifted room and breaking into a computer. Their measures may prevent students from stealing the questions, but not from buying the questions. With the right connections, it is not all that difficult to bribe, blackmail or otherwise persuade a question writer into leaking the list. They may prevent the most obvious abuses by keeping out parents of competitors, but they barely raise an eyebrow at the prospect of siblings, cousins, or friends of contestants working on the tournament.

Granted, there are some practical drawbacks to stealing questions – the difficulty in memorizing such a long list in a short amount of time, for one – and there is honestly little evidence that this sort of cheating is widespread. However, there are other things that one can do with a question list besides memorize it. One could, say, frame a rival by typing the list onto Northwest High internal stationery and put it in someone else's locker.

"Okay, be cool," said Ken. "It's not the end of the world."

"Yeah, okay." I quickly shoved the envelope into my bag. "We need to deal with this."

"All right. How?

"I don't know. Let's go back to my place, we can figure it out there."

"Right. Try to act natural."

That's not such an easy demand when you're carrying something that's very much against the rules. In that moment, I'd actually forgotten what natural was for me. Would running be conspicuous? Did I ever run out of the building on a Friday? If I had run out of the building before, might walking be more conspicuous?

Actually, this is one time when the invisibility that comes with being the smart kid really pays off. Anyone else who avoided eye contact, or didn't stop to talk to anyone, or rushed around with no apparent reason would look extremely suspicious. On the other hand, no one even paid attention to Ken and me. When people assume that you're strange, no one notices strange behavior.

The only thing we could do was keep up a steady pace and try not to give away the game. I think Ken held his breath until we were completely off school grounds. At that point we were safe, at least from the most obvious prying eyes.

Two blocks and a bus ride later, we were at the Liston apartment, shut away in my room. I double–checked that the blinds were shut and put everything with a camera in it face down before I even removed the envelope from my bag – paranoid perhaps, but given the circumstances I wasn't ready to take any risks. Once I was sure we were concealed from the outside world, I twisted open the tab on the envelope and very carefully pulled out the contents just far enough to see the top edge. It was typed on some kind of special stationary, the kind they use for office memos.

"Do they actually type the questions onto the letterhead?" I said.

"I don't think so," said Ken, eyeballing the paper. "When Mr. Laubhan reads the questions, they're just on regular printer paper."

"So why is this copy on the stationery?" I pulled the document out a little bit farther, just enough to see the first question. It had been typed onto the stationery with a typewriter – an odd measure, even for this school. "There's no questioning where it came from, not with it on office stationery like this. I could never plead ignorance if I were caught with this."

"You think that's the point?"

"Of course it's the point. This wasn't dropped off by a old friend."

Ken stroked his chin. "When do you think they dropped it off, anyway?"

"Well, I was in my locker before sixth period, so it couldn't have been this morning. My guess is it was dropped off during the entry test. If the person who did this took the test too, then he has one hell of an alibi."

"That's ingenious. Someone put a lot of planning into this."

"No kidding." I slid the document back into the envelope. "And if you cross the group of people who could do this and the people who would do this, you get a very short list."

"Aaron Baines Bellamy." Ken said the name like he was describing a supervillain. "Why didn't he turn you in right away?"

"Probably would have been too suspicious," I said.

"Plus it's not his style," said Ken. "Maybe he's gonna have someone come in on Monday and claim he heard a rumor, or saw something go down. If the school got suspicious enough, they'd check your locker for sure."

I stared at the folder. Only Aaron could come up with something this sophisticated, but this didn't feel like his style, either. "...No. He wanted me to find this. Aaron had to know that I'd check my locker and find this. He wants me to know that he can get to me. He wants me to sweat."

"Interesting," said Ken. "But I guess there's no way of proving any of this, huh?"

"Without finding Aaron's accomplices? I don't see it happening."

"Well, either way, it's another 60 hours until Aaron knows what we know."

"That's a good point." I picked up the envelope and walked to the computer. "You feeling mischievous?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"We're going to share this with the world."

"Are you crazy?"

"Not yet, but I'm getting there." I pulled out the document and laid it face down on my scanner. "We're going to send this cheat sheet out, but it's going to have a few errors in it."

"Oh, wow!" Ken clapped his hands – he seems to find scheming amusing when we do it. "But wait, how are you going to disseminate it? We don't have enough time to spread it around. You gonna just post it to some website?"

"Eh...we do that, no one would have any reason to believe that it's legit. Wouldn't be the first fake that's leaked out like that." Suddenly, I had an idea – one that was both devious and righteous. "But, we use a throwaway email account, anonymously send some copies to the right bigmouths..."

"Oh, you're good," said Ken.

"Well, doing a bad thing for a good cause is okay, right?" I flicked on the printer and waited as it warmed up. "Why don't you go ahead and order that pizza? Make it a premium, I'm paying."

The less computer savvy among you may have missed the exact nature of my plan, so here's the short version. Having scanned Aaron's fake document into the machine, I can edit the image any way I want. I'm not that good at it, but then again it doesn't take much to change a letter or a number – to tweak the results and make them wrong. Next, I have to distribute my very special copies. Time was that I would've had to print them off and drop them in lockers, risking being caught myself. Fortunately, the school made things much easier when they started collecting contact information from all the students. I always thought it was intrusive and unnecessary (and not just because Aaron Bellamy now has my email address) but damned if it doesn't come in handy when you're looking to reach out to the right people. All I have to do is send a few blind emails to a dozen or so people whom I know can't keep a secret, and they'll do the job for me.

This scheme might seem cruel – even unfair. Let me explain how I see it. Basically, there are two schools of thought when it comes to preventing misdeeds such as cheating. First, you can make it more difficult to cheat. Every school in the nation does this – the idea is that if you build a wall big enough, it will keep people out. This is not especially effective. Anyone who wants to get over that wall will eventually find a way to do it. All cheating prevention does is make the cheaters work harder.

I have a more elegant solution. If I had my way, the schools would make it riskier to cheat. If it seems like cheating may backfire, it forces the cheater to reconsider. Think of it as the barbed wire solution – crossing the field isn't the problem, it's getting out unscathed. Most schools avoid this because it is perceived as excessively punitive. I am not similarly restrained.

Later that evening – after double pepperoni pizza and a short Godfrey Ho marathon – Ken and I were in the alley behind the building with a metal trashcan and a cigarette lighter. The two of us watched as Aaron's little scheme turned into so much ash.

"It's only going to get worse from here, you know," said Ken. "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to quit. Seriously, it's okay."

I chuckled a little. Ken only makes these offers when he's sure I won't take him up. "What, quit now and let that prick think he can buffalo me? Not a chance!"

"That's the spirit! I'll see you Monday."

As Ken left, I looked at the pile of ash that was once Aaron's weapon against me. I wish I could have called this a win, but it really wasn't. I wish I could say that I stopped my enemy's plan before it got off the ground, but the blow had already been struck. Aaron did what he set out to do – he proved that he could destroy me, and that was something I've lived with ever since.

No one would have blamed me if I had quit. If I knew what was coming I probably would have.

## KEN

Since we will be starting the tournament soon, I would like to take a few brief moments to describe the ins–and–outs of a round of Trivia Master. What appears to be a very simple rule set is actually rich in subtleties, the mastery of which is the difference between a good team and a champion team.

During each round, there are twelve people on stage. Aside from the two teams, there are three people who are either student or community volunteers: One to keep score, one to clear the buzzers after someone has buzzed in, and one to keep time during the phases where this is relevant. Finally, there is Mr. Douglas Laubhan, who runs the actual tournament and serves as master of ceremonies. In terms of their arrangement, Mr. Laubhan stands at a podium at stage left; the crew sit at a table in the middle of the stage; leaving the teams at stage right, seated at tables arranged in a rough quarter–circle so that they face the center.

Each round consists of five portions. First, there is a block of ten questions each of which is worth ten points. Players are allowed to buzz in before Mr. Laubhan finishes the question, but if the player is incorrect his or her team will incur a ten–point penalty, so there is some risk involved. The player must also wait for his or her team and name to be called, or the question may be invalidated. This takes some degree of self–control, as the instinct of any true competitor is to shout out the answer immediately.

Following the first set of questions is a team participation question. First, the team must place a bid of between ten and fifty points. The bid must be placed before the question or even the category of the question is known, so there is some degree of strategy here. Once each team has placed its bid, the question is read and each team has thirty seconds to confer and write their answer down. Finally, each team reveals its answer and bid, and the scores are increased or decreased as appropriate.

The third portion is another block of ten questions, this time with their values doubled to twenty points. The fourth portion is another team question, with the upper limit for bids increased to one hundred. The final portion is a lightning round, with the teams getting sixty seconds to answer as many twenty–point questions as they can.

At the end of the fifth portion, the scores are read and the winner announced. The overall average score is 225 points. The average winning score is 270 points. Our average score – as in that for teams which have included Paul and me – is 280 points.

The eight preliminary rounds are conducted on the first week of the tournament. These matches are dealt with quietly in a closed auditorium. Only the team, the crew and the odd would–be student journalist attends these matches, and only the names of the winners are released to the student body. They are very bare bones rounds, but this is to be expected. The preliminary rounds are a winnowing, little more than a chance to clear out the less–experienced and less–skilled teams before the tournament goes public.

On the following week, the tournament begins in earnest. The quarterfinal, semifinal and final rounds are all held before the assembled student body, with all of the pomp and circumstance one might normally expect from a homecoming football game. The public tournament is, in many ways, a drama for our times – there are heroes and villains, conquerors and underdogs. Some earn the glory of the crowd, others and humbled before the world.

Ultimately, though, it is less a tournament than a demonstration of what is to come. You see, each year there are certain teams, typically two or three, that are strongly favored to win. Those are the teams that attract the most zealous of fans, and one of those teams always claims the championship. This year, the strong favorites are the Flying Brains, headed by Aaron Bellamy; the Valkyries, headed by Jane Anders; and of course, the Raging Nerds, headed by Paul Liston and yours truly.

Everything up until now has been prelude. It was the game that prefaces the true story. Today, things get serious. By the time school lets out, eight dreams will have been fed into the grinder. Tomorrow, eight more will meet the same fate. And on it will go until next Friday, when the true masters of trivia are crowned before the waiting world.

The biggest news – already causing ripples through the Northwest microcosm – is that the Raging Nerds and Flying Brains are positioned at opposite sides of the bracket. This means that, providing everything goes as predicted, Aaron will have his wish of a climactic battle in the winner's circle. The school has been eagerly anticipating this for years now. It is very theatrical – the two bitter rivals, fighting and clawing for the chance to see whose skill is the greater. Behind the scenes, it is much less pleasant, and I can barely reckon what fresh horrors are yet to come.

Already, this is affecting the school in ways that I had never anticipated. With most people assuming that the final match will be our team and theirs, the student body is taking sides. Most of the football team is aligned with Paul, while basketball and baseball players favor Aaron. The math league prefers Aaron, except for those who are also in science club who lean towards us. Aaron has the forensics league and the glee club; we hold majority support among the service clubs. It is truly remarkable how for this has gone, and we have not even reached the tournament proper yet!

When the dust finally clears and the final reckoning comes down, I plan to stand in the victor's circle. However, there are no fewer than two excellent teams in our way. Even with all of my planning, this will not be a simple win. Ultimately, it may all come down to Paul's talent and knowledge. If he has the will, then our success is all but assured.

But will is personal and victory is universal. Thus, we will now watch together as the tournament unfolds. Make your predictions now, because there may not be time later.

## JANE

The real–deal Trivia Master lasts for two weeks, with the first being for preliminary matches. These are the rounds that are so uninteresting that they don't bother showing them to anyone. Hell, even with the school making a big deal of uploading footage of "every match" to their official district website, no one bothers recording the preliminaries. It's just a boring slog on an undecorated stage in a barely lit auditorium. Most years I wouldn't even bother recounting the details but I suppose I'm obligated, what with everyone talking about how significant this year is supposed to be.

If nothing else, there is one good thing to come out of that first round. The stage is closed, but the setup is otherwise identical to the matches that the students actually watch. It lets you ease into the experience, nice and easy. This is a perfect chance to help someone who's suffering from a nasty case of stage fright.

"So no one else is there for this round, right?"

Hannah and I were out of class and headed to the auditorium. She had no shortage of questions about the prelims, but this is the one that kept coming up, like she isn't quite sure if she wants to believe me. It's funny – in a sense, she's an old pro at this, having done quiz competitions since she was about eleven. The difference is that most those rounds were conducted in classrooms, with no one but the teams, the alternates, coaches, and a bare minimum of crew. You're looking at fifteen people, tops. Meanwhile, our friendly little game is going to be held in front of close to eight hundred people. And that's for the quarters – if old man Jameson has his way, this'll be going out to the whole world. It's a very different feel.

Clearly, this was going to take some effort on my part. "It's just the two teams and a four–person crew. Relax."

"I don't think I'll be able to deal with this," she said.

"It's really not that bad, Hannah. We went over this," I said.

"Yeah."

A different approach was needed, clearly. "Let me put it this way: You're on a team. Even if you completely choke, you've got three other people to take care of business."

"So you don't really need me?"

"Just try to have fun, okay?" I couldn't help but grin a little. "It's not life or death, so you can take it nice and easy."

She nodded. "Okay, I'll try."

I opened the doors into the auditorium. Empty auditoriums always feel like they're frozen in time – dark, dusty, with lots of moving parts that haven't started moving yet. They're like big tombs, mausoleums just waiting for the stiff to show up. I never understood why we had to do the prelims in here instead of a regular classroom. We could use that empty room on the third floor where the stoners go to do their thing. Air out the incense and ganja smell, and it'd be perfect.

I guess they do it so they can test the equipment under real conditions. That's why we're asked to come down so early – buzzer checks.

The JamesonTech 150–8L Buzzer System used by Northwest is really a very simple piece of electronics. The buzzers are just boxes with buttons, each containing a sound chip and colored light. They're set up on a single circuit that feeds into the main console, so that activating one disables the rest until they're all cleared. Still, even the simplest of devices will break down, and usually at the worst possible time. So the first part of this little ritual is each player hitting his or her buzzer to make sure that they're working properly. Thrilling stuff, truly, but it has to be done.

The other team was already there, as was Isabel. "This is funny. You're usually the one waiting on me," she said.

"Yeah, well, I had to reassure our teammate," I said, gesturing at Hannah who was seated off in the shadows.

"You think she'll be cool?" said Isabel.

"I guess we'll see. We're missing someone...Karen's not here?"

The doors flew open and our missing member ran in. "Sorry for holding everyone up," said Karen as she hustled to the stage. "I had a few things to wrap up before coming down."

We checked the buzzers and got down to business. Long story short: we won 300 to 80.

That may seem high, but keep in mind that it's the preliminaries so the score doesn't really matter. Also, the other team got most of their questions wrong. They botched at least half of them, which is an awful lot. I mean, none of these questions are all that hard, and it's not like there's any pressure what with the room being empty. Guess they got overconfident.

Once it was over, Hannah took off to her next class while the rest of my team hung around for a little while. I figured Isabel would want to chat, and I was right. "That was the best round we ever had! I shoulda let you set up the teams from the start."

"Thanks," I said. "I'm feeling pretty good about it."

"We are going to kick some ass this year," she said.

"I guess."

"All we gotta do is clear the first round, and we're golden."

That struck me as a little weird. "Well, the quarter shouldn't be too hard, but after that we're up against Paul's team and then Aaron. How are they the easy ones?"

"I'm not worried."

"Everyone's going on about the big rivalry in the final. We've got a few people pulling for us, but not as many as they do."

"Oh, they're not so tough. Let 'em chew on each other for a while, they'll both snap from the pressure and we'll brush them aside."

Now, I've never seen Isabel this confident about anything school–related, so there was no way I was letting this pass. "You know, Aaron plays dirty. Real dirty. I mean, who knows what he'll try if it looks like we might beat Paul."

"Yeah, yeah, don't sweat it. I've got some plans of my own. Just trust me on this. Oh, I gotta get going. Later, Jane!"

I tried to stop her and get some more clarification on those "plans," but she was already sprinting off to do whatever it is she does with her popular friends when I'm not with her. I could have shot her a text, but I'm not too worried. She's not Aaron, she's not going to cheat.

Anyway, it's not like I had time. No sooner had Isabel left than Karen came up to me. "Great job, Jane! You really crushed that round!"

"Don't mention it," I said. "The prelims aren't much."

"I have a little favor to ask. Are you up to anything this afternoon?"

"I don't think so. What's up?"

"Well, I've got a project going in my carpentry club and I was hoping you might come give me a little critique."

"Carpentry club?"

"Yeah. You just need to drop by for a few minutes so I can get a fresh set of eyes on this thing. Is that okay? Don't feel like you have to."

"No, that's okay. I'll be there."

I'll be really honest here. Most days, I would have made up some excuse so that I wouldn't have to hang around the school and look at wobbly chairs and bookshelves. But frankly, I needed something to do. I put my life on hold for Trivia Master this year, and with our prelims out of the way on Monday, I really had nothing to do for the rest of the week. The least I could do was take ten minutes to look at Karen's big wooden thing.

The rest of the day was very long and very slow. Trivia Master does that. Once you've faced the crowd and received cheers to answering trivia questions, regular class just seems horribly dull. Where's the excitement when I ace a test? Honestly, I had to force myself to not just run right home after the last bell rang. Instead, I found myself on a bench outside of the technical arts department, hoping that Karen hadn't forgotten that she talked to me. She's not terribly flaky or anything, the problem is with me. I have this compulsion to do favors for people, including things that people don't really expect I'm going to do. I'm not going to tell you how many times I've ended up standing around at some function while one of my friends told me "It's so boring, I kinda figured you were going to blow me off."

I wasn't there by myself for long, though. After a minute or two, Paul Liston showed up. He did this thing he always does – stand around acting conspicuous, waiting for me to acknowledge his presence. It's really pathetic, if somewhat cute in a weird sort of way. I've discovered that he will stand around like that for a very long period of time if no one does anything, so for both our sakes I try to break the ice as swiftly as possible.

"Hey, Paul."

"Oh, Jane!" Paul did his best to look surprised, like he just wandered by or something. "You waiting for someone?"

"I'm waiting for Karen. She wants me to look at her carpentry project."

"Karen does carpentry?"

"Apparently. She's a little late, though."

"I can wait with you. If you want, I mean."

"It's a free country."

Paul leaned up against the wall in what I guess was his version of a nonchalant post. He's not very good at it – coolness is something that always slips away from him. The long, awkward pause didn't help.

It was a good fifteen agonizing seconds before Paul finally said anything. "Uh...your preliminary was today, right?"

"Yep. Smoked them by over 200 points."

"That's awesome!" I guess this is his idea of flirting? It's hard to say.

"Well, it is just the prelims."

"Hey, 200 points is great no matter what. You're a lock to win."

"Until the semifinals, you mean."

Paul laughed it off, or at least he tried to. I don't think he considered until now that he was going to be playing against us next week. "Hey, I think you have as good a shot as us."

"We'll see."

I heard Karen's voice from the door. "Hey, Jane! Over here!"

I hopped up to leave. "Well, I gotta get going. See you, Paul."

"Yeah, see you." Paul shuffled off, looking strangely sad. Every time we spoke, he walked off looking beaten. I don't think I'll ever understand men.

I walked inside with Karen. "So, what, exactly am I looking at?"

"A clock."

"A clock?" I swore I'd misheard her. "You mean, like a timepiece?"

"Yeah."

"That works?"

"Sure it works! Wouldn't be much good, otherwise."

Karen led me into a room filled with surprisingly good bits of furniture. I guess I underestimated the Northwest High carpentry club. But my jaw really hit the floor when Karen showed me her project – a full–sized, fully functional grandfather clock, ticking away with perfect time.

"You made this?"

"It looks amateur, doesn't it? There are a few nicks over here. I hoped the lacquer would cover them up, but they're still visible, aren't they?"

Karen kept eyeballing the clock, looking for invisible flaws that no one else would ever see. I was still a little stunned. "How long did this take?"

"I started working on it last year in my free time. So you really think it looks good?"

"Yes, I do."

Karen giggled. "I'll be honest, I really just wanted to show this off to someone. Oh, I just wish I'd been a little more careful moving it around."

I spend my free time watching old TV shows and writing stories that you don't get to read. Karen Schumaker built a damn clock. Somehow, she'd never felt the need to tell anyone outside of the club until now. You learn something new every day, I guess.

I even learned something about myself. I really enjoyed crushing that other team. Yeah, I've been playing off like it's no big deal – because it wasn't. But damn it, when I saw that final score I really felt something. I felt like a winner. But what's more, I was really wishing that there was an audience there, even if it was just a few stray students. It would have been so much sweeter if there was someone there to watch us dominate that other team.

This feeling is really addictive. Is that natural, or is it a little sick?

## PAUL

The Trivia Master preliminary week is long and very boring. You play one match, there's no audience, and after that there's nothing to do until the next week. The school administrators do what they can to speed it up – running two quiet little matches every day from Tuesday to Friday, getting everything out of the way without much fuss. For participants, though, it's just more waiting.

I guess that's why I decided to speak with Edward Page. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first round of prelims on Tuesday ended predictably, with triumphs by the Valkyries and Flying Brains. Ken was about ready to break in to the auditorium during the Brains round, but I was able to talk him out of it. There's really not that much he could have learned by watching Aaron clobber some other team. I suppose he was as geared up as everyone else, and Ken really needs a project to keep himself going. Both of us had time to kill until our round on Wednesday.

That morning, I found myself sitting in a pool of light on a mostly empty stage, waiting for the other team to show up. Scott seemed perfectly at home here, which made sense – a stage is a stage. Ken was keeping himself busy with a calculator and a notebook, doing statistical calculations or whatever it is he does when he has a minute of free time. Even after all these years, I'm still not quite sure what the hell Ken is doing when he breaks out one of his notebooks. Meanwhile, Trevor looked like an absolute wreck, fidgety and disheveled. It looked like he was waiting to be shot.

"Trevor, you okay?"

He sighed deeply. "Duncan's team is going on after us."

"When's the last time you spoke to him?" I said.

"Over the weekend, but that's not the point," he said. "It's like, I just now realized that I might have to play against him. I'm not sure I can deal with that."

I understood his feeling. The day before, someone mentioned that we were slated to face Jane's team in the semifinals. I wasn't sure if I could deal with that. Of course, Trevor's problem was different altogether. Trevor and Duncan have never been on different teams, so there was never any chance that they'd be in direct competition. I'm sure that neither of them anticipated this.

I searched for something to say that might make him feel better. "Look, try not to make too big a deal out of it. It's just a game, it's not important. Friends are what's important, even when they make you do things you don't want to do." I shot Ken a look, so he wouldn't miss my point. "If you're really that tense over this, you can slip out the side or the rear entrance when we're done. No chance of running into anyone."

"I think I'll do that," said Trevor. "Thanks, you've been a real help."

I turned back to Ken, who seemed to have been babbling on about stats the whole time. "...so if I'm right, we'll get at least one more question per round, for a net gain...were you listening?"

"No, Ken, I wasn't listening," I said. "I never listen when you talk about this shit."

Ken laughed. "You really take me for granted, you know that? Not everyone gets to have a comrade like me, you know."

"What a blessing," muttered Scott.

"I heard that," said Ken. "And if you think comments like that are going to affect me..."

Over the years, I've learned how to tune Ken out when he gets rolling. It's a simple matter of focusing on something else, something more important. In this case, that was the kid standing in the darkness of the aisle, waving at me. "Yo! Liston!"

I squinted at him. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Oh right, we haven't had a face–to–face." He stepped close enough to the stage that I could just make him out – a pudgy kid in a downright preposterous trilby. "Edward Page, Northwest Mirror. You got my message?"

Ed Page is on the school newspaper staff. Now, for most students, that's an excuse to get school credit for doing things you want to do anyway – whether that's talking about music, ranting about current events, watching football games, or whatever else your passion might be. Most of the student reporters spend an hour a day lounging around the staff room, pretending to work while they kill time on internet "research" and idle chit–chat, before dashing off a quick column at the last minute.

Ed is a different breed altogether. He's a "serious reporter," from a long line of serious reporters, or so he tells people. The one story he loves to tell is that his great–grandfather caught a shotgun blast to the back while investigating the Chicago Outfit. I've never seen any proof that this really, but he seems to genuinely believe it. Ed never, ever shuts off. He spends hours on these ridiculous "stakeouts," trying to dig up information about some local figure that he can turn into his first story.

I don't know why I agreed to talk to him. From the start, I figured he was going to go the exposé route, which meant that he wanted me to dish about cheating. Of course, I could have given him material for a whole series of articles on the subject, but I wasn't yet sure that spilling all my secrets was wise..

"It's really not a good time, Ed," I said. "The round's going to start soon."

"So we'll talk afterward," he said. "Look, I gotta get this story out for the big Trivia Master edition. It's only a couple questions, we can wrap it up anytime."

"I guess. Why are you here now, anyway?"

"Haven't you ever heard of gonzo journalism?" Ed took a seat, flipping open his retro faux–leather–bound memo pad. "The journalist becomes part of the story."

Scott glanced over at the rear of the auditorium. "Other team's here."

Four students I'd never seen came through the doors. Clearly, they recognized me, though. One of them pointed right at me and moaned, "Oh, great, it's his team. Can we just concede right now? I could get an early start on my math homework."

Ed started scribbling furiously. "Oh, this is gonna be beautiful."

I won't lie – it's nice to be noticed.

Prelims really aren't interesting enough to merit a detailed breakdown. I'll just say that it was a tougher round than I thought it would be – we only won 310 to 110.

After the match, Trevor slipped out through one of the stage exits while Ken and I left through the main doors. Scott stuck around for a while – I'm not sure, but I thought I saw him inspecting some leftover set pieces in the backstage area. He is dedicated, if nothing else.

Meanwhile, Ed dogged us every step. "Can we talk now?"

"We have class now," I said.

"You have the rest of the period free," said Ed. "Come on guys, five quick little minutes. You promised."

"I wouldn't mind talking with him," said Ken.

I pushed open the doors. "Ken, now is not the time."

Duncan's team was hanging just outside the doors, waiting for their match. "Afternoon, guys," said Duncan as we left.

"Hey, Duncan," I said. "How's it going?"

"Good enough." Duncan looked the three of us over. "Trevor's not with you?"

"...He had something to take care of, so he went out through the side," I said.

"All right," said Duncan. "I take it you won?"

"Yeah. 190 points."

"Solid score."

"Well, it is just the prelims..." I hesitated for a moment. Suddenly, I understood all too well how Trevor felt. "...I know this is uncomfortable, but I just want to say again that I'm very..." There was the sound of scribbling behind me. I turned to Ed. "Do you have to do that?"

"It's relevant." Ed was attacking that memo pad with an unusual fervor. "The story never stops."

"Look, this doesn't have anything to do with the damn contest. Would you back off for a second?"

Ed flipped the memo pad shut. "Okay, I'll just wait in the corner."

I turned back to Duncan. "...As I was saying, I'm really sorry how this all turned out."

"It's not a big deal, okay? Don't take it personal."

"It's hard not to."

"Look, I'm fine, so you should be fine, too. I gotta go but really – don't sweat it." He disappeared into the darkness of the auditorium, leaving me alone with the kid who put me into this situation in the first place. I really wanted to be mad at Ken, but I was mostly upset with myself for making such a big deal out of this. What I said to Trevor about friends was true, but I wasn't following my own advice.

Ken turned to me cautiously. "Is it okay if we talk about the team now?" He looked a little nervous himself, like a six–year old who's parents had been fighting.

"Of course it's okay, Ken," I said. "We can talk in the library. Okay? It'll be quiet there."

"That's great, but what about him?" Ken nodded at Ed, still watching us, still taking in every word.

I sighed. "Look, Ed, I'll give you a statement or whatever, but after that we're done, all right?"

"All I wanted." Ed stopped to search through his bag. "I should really record this."

"Fine." I turned back to Ken. "So what new strategy have you cooked up this time?"

"It's not a strategy this time, I think you'll like this. I was thinking that, this being our last year and all, we could try something a little more...I don't know, theatrical. You know, a gimmick."

"You've said that before. What did you even have in mind?"

"I had a few thoughts. How about this: we could really play up that old–school nerd stereotype. You know, I'd wear horn–rimmed glasses with repair tape on them, you could have a pocket–T with pens or a little calculator in the pocket – "

Ken was interrupted when an all–too–familiar face appeared from around a corner. "Hello, boys. Up to no good?" It was Aaron, having regained his composure after what was no doubt a long weekend of cackling at our expense.

"What do you want?" I said.

Aaron was sporting what I can only describe as a sarcastically innocent look. "What makes you think I want something?"

"Cut the crap, Bellamy," I said. "Your prelim match was yesterday. There's no reason for you to be here now."

There was that smile of his again. "I always like to hang around the auditorium during the preliminary rounds, get an early lead on the field. You won, I take it?"

"Yeah, we won."

"Good, good." Aaron stroked his chin. "Hey, tell me if this sounds weird. The round we had yesterday? We were up against some dead–end team, no chance of winning, you know the type. But these guys were so confident, like nothing I'd ever seen. They were buzzing in early on everything, absolutely everything. And they were always wrong. They actually ended the round negative. I could have sat there and done nothing and we still would have won."

I nodded. "That is weird, Aaron."

"Wait a second, that's not the best part," said Aaron. "So I ask around a little bit, and it turns out that over the weekend, some people received emails with an early copy of the question sheet. The text messages start flying, and next thing you know half the school has a copy of the thing."

"I'm surprised that something like that would happen here."

"Yes, genuinely shocking. But here's the catch: It turns out that the scan of the sheet was altered. Every single question had the wrong answer. So it looks like someone tried to sabotage the contest." Aaron rested his chin in his hand. "Messed up, isn't it? Now who would have the ability to pull that off?"

"Well, Aaron," I said, smiling back at him, "I actually heard about that myself. My understanding is that this cheat sheet was really authentic looking because it was typed up on the office stationery. No one would doubt that it was the real thing, because it's not easy to get that stuff. It's the kind of thing used on internal documents that don't circulate outside of the office. It's beyond me how one would get one of those unless someone else made a special delivery. Weird, huh?"

Aaron chuckled. "Yeah, I guess that's right. You checked out the bracket? Looks like we won't have a chance to face each other until the final round. Please don't lose before then." He walked away, laughing quietly to himself as he went.

Ken turned to me. "Mind games, dude. He's pulling out all the stops."

I'd forgotten that Ed was there, watching the whole thing. "Um...That statement?"

I was having a change of heart already. "You know what? I think I would like to talk to you. Join us in the library?"

"Really?" said Ed. "You going to tell me about what I just heard? I can keep it anonymous."

"I think the people here could figure out that it was me," I said. "But I think I can make it interesting for you. Story of the year."

So that was the preliminary – relatively uneventful, fairly civil, more or less free from drama. It may be a boring week, but boring's not always a bad thing, especially around here. I don't think it'll last, especially after Aaron sees what Ed is going to write.

## AARON

The first week is over, and it's about damn time. I can't stand the preliminary rounds. It's just so much meaningless ritual, something to prop up this meritocratic myth of theirs and give a lot of false hope to a bunch of dead–end teams who never had a shadow of a chance. Even the most humble contestant knows that some people just don't have a prayer. There aren't that many people who will admit it, but everyone knows deep down that the the tournament doesn't really begin until the onset of the quarterfinals, and sometimes not even until after that.

The prelims are now over and the bracket has been updated, so let's see who will be competing in the quarters. We have Pirate Radio, a crew of would–be disc jockeys who run some kind of podcast or radio show of something – I tried listening once and it sounded like the router was malfunctioning. All I know is that these idiots are actually trying to talk people into hiring them for parties, so my guess is that they only signed up for promotion. It doesn't matter that they're going to be stomped by the Valkyries, all that matters is that everyone in this hellhole is going to hear their names and see their faces. Getting beaten by a premier team may be exactly what they want, just because their round will draw a bigger crowd. Point is, they are not a factor.

Then there's the Specials, the team poor Duncan Washington had to form on his own because my nemesis poached his friend. In case you haven't figured it out by now, no one ever leaves happy when Paul Liston is involved. We're up against them, and I predict a cakewalk. Duncan is pretty good and his team is reasonably intelligent, but without Trevor they lack the guts and reflexes to keep up their score. Brian is predicting a win of 250 to 160, which I think is on the conservative side. If I flex my muscles I could probably top 300, but that might be too cruel. It's not Duncan's fault that Liston screwed him over.

Now for the under card. The Skeleton Crew is a group of freshmen and sophomores that got phenomenally lucky. Their opponent in the prelims was one of the worst teams I've ever seen, so their victory was pretty much foregone. They're too new to gauge, but I can't imagine that they'll put up much of a fight.

The Praetorians are also new at this. I don't know much about them except that the team leader has been seen chatting it up with Ken Greevey. I'm sure that fat little turd has been spreading all sorts of stories about me – not that it matters. We'll be up against either the Praetorians or the Skeleton Crew in the semifinals. I suppose it's possible that the former could be a challenge, but I'm not too worried either way.

Now let's talk about the top card, the teams who are really in contention. My _petit chou–fleur_ has fielded one hell of a team this year. From what I've heard about their performance in the prelims, the Valkyries have some real momentum coming in to the true phases of the tournament. Of course, it remains to be seen how they'll do under battle conditions. It's one thing to land a blowout when there's no one watching and you're up against a team that's been sabotaged. Their quarterfinal round should show us if they have the right stuff.

Then again, they are up against the Raging Nerds in the semifinals. I do hope that Paul and Ken win, because if they don't I won't have the chance to humiliate them. I'm not especially impressed with their team, but Paul can carry them through the quarters by himself. We'll see how they fare against a team that can actually fight back.

That leaves only Paul's opponent in the quarters, the Council of Seelie. The second I saw that name, I knew that Colette Henshaw was involved. No one else would bother digging up a name like that for a high school competition. Colette is one of the most deeply unpleasant individuals I've ever encountered – an uptight prig who doesn't understand or respect anything unless she dug it out of some half–forgotten old book. We'd considered her for our team before I realized that I'd rather chew razor blades than spend time with her. Still, here is an opportunity – Colette's team being the next stop for my foe.

Paul played it cool when we met earlier in the week, but I know I threw him for a loop. Now he knows without a shadow of a doubt that I can hurt him. He's always thought that he was too smart and too cautious to fall prey to my snares, but he just barely slithered out of this one. What I needed to generate a little more pressure – just enough to let him know that he's not getting away with anything. And wouldn't you know it: An opportunity presented itself at one of Brian's little strategy meetings.

"Aaron? Are you listening?"

"Yes, Brian, I'm listening."

"Well? What do you think?"

"All right, Brian, you got me. I missed that last part. Why don't you repeat it?"

I had an excellent excuse for letting my mind wander. Brian's lectures on stats will do that every time. I think he finally tired of me leaving in the middle of his presentations, so he called us all to the library to a little corner table where he could keep an eye on us. "All of us" didn't include Sid – Brian promised him that he could go to his band practice instead of sitting in on our meetings, the lucky bastard. I actually told Andrew that he could skip them too, but he popped in on that one, anyway. I suspect he just wanted to speak with me, but he had to endure Brian first. I imagine that he'll never do that again.

"You should really listen, because this is the part you'll like." He cleared his throat, always a good sign that an endless speech is due to arrive. "I've been analyzing score statistics and listening to chatter from our classmates, and according to my model we are now favored to win."

"By how much?" I asked him, more to humor him than out of genuine curiosity.

"Well, if we face the Valkyries in the final round, we have a 60% chance of winning," he says. "If we face the Raging Nerds, it's 53%."

Only a math geek like Brian would be excited about odds that are barely better than chance. "That is unacceptably low and you know it. Notwithstanding, I don't know how much we should be trusting models."

"The models are fine!" He looked at Andrew. "I showed you the models, you know they're sound."

"I really don't care," said Andrew.

"Oh, come on!" Now Brian's about to have a fit. "Everyone agrees. We're running 6 to 5! That's respectable!"

Brian made that last part up. It's not that people wouldn't gamble on Trivia Master, mind you. It's just that no one has enough money to cover the spread. Yeah, I've heard rumors about people running numbers out of that disused pothead room on the third floor, but that's all they are – rumors. People in this place are much too gullible.

"Whatever, Brian." Looking up, I spotted someone interesting at the next table. "Is that Colette?"

Brian looked around. "Sure is. Anyway..."

I stopped him. "Put it on hold, Brian."

"What, you're gonna go talk to her? Why?"

"That's my business."

Colette was sitting by herself, which is her standard state of being. She was surrounded by notebooks, crumpled sheets of paper, yearbooks, and spirals of the school code of conduct. Obviously this was a one–woman strategy session.

"Colette?"

"Excuse me." She looked up for just a second. "Not now, Aaron Bellamy. I am following up on a lead. There was a leak of falsified documents earlier in the week and I'm on the verge of finding the perpetrator."

"You're talking about the Trivia Master questions?"

"Yes, and I have a solid lead I'm working on, so excuse me." Colette is nothing if not single–minded. One more thing to dislike about her, but that's also something I can use.

"Well, it's interesting that you should bring that up." I took a seat next to her, peeking around a sizable stack of refuse. "I have a lead myself."

Colette put down her pencil and looked up at me. Now that I had something she could use, she actually had a trace of interest. "What do you know? And I hope you're not wasting my time. Time is a valuable commodity and I can't spare a second."

"Not at all." God, she's repulsive. "A few days ago, I was talking to Paul Liston. You know him, right?"

She looked back at her papers. "I believe he is on the team I'll be facing in next week's quarterfinals. The schedule should be around here somewhere."

"I'm sure it is, but that's not important." She's worse than Brian with this crap. "Well, he was talking about the leak, and he said some very curious things. He knew that it was on office stationery, he knew how the list was disseminated...I don't want to level any unfounded accusations, but I can't think of how he knew any of that."

She disappeared into thought for a moment. "Not many people know about those things. But I haven't encountered any clues that direct me towards Paul Liston. Whoever did this had to have access to both the office and the gifted room where the questions were kept. Paul Liston is in the gifted program, but he does not have access to the main office."

"Of course, but then it occurs to me that whoever did this would be smart enough to get other people to do the dirty work. He wouldn't risk being seen in the office."

"Hmm...A possibility I hadn't even considered." Colette pulled out some random document and started jotting notes in the margins.

"Look, I'm not saying that Paul did this. Maybe he just knows who did it. Maybe it's just a coincidence."

"Yes, maybe. But I see now that a specter of impropriety hangs over this entire event." Colette leaped to her feet, cramming her materials into a bag that looked far too small to hold the whole mess. "If I had the time, I'd conduct my own investigation into this competition. Since I don't, I'll need another way to ensure that the rules are observed. I thank you for your assistance, Aaron Bellamy."

"Not a problem." And thus, the seeds were planted. No, this plan wasn't nearly as intricate as the last – I whipped most of it up on the fly. Still, I think it's even better. It's a more subtle form of manipulation, and I always have preferred the scalpel to the sledgehammer.

I returned to my own table. "Brian, I think we should cut this short."

"Cut it short?" Brian looked like he was about to have a panic attack. "But this is our last meeting before it starts!"

"Exactly," I said. "Once we've got data from the quarters, we'll have something to talk about."

"Okay, I guess." I've never heard anyone sound so disappointed.

I got up to leave, Andrew following close behind. He looked frosty and in control when I'd seen him before, but that day he resembled a hunted squirrel. Oh, he hid it, but I could sense his paranoia.

"Something on your mind, Aaron?" I said.

"Yeah, remember that deal we made when I joined the team?"

"I sure do."

"Okay." Andrew clears his throat. "Well, I was taking shit from this basketball player, Donny..."

"Donny Carter. The one who got busted with alcohol in his locker."

"Yeah, I wanted to ask about that. He swears that the booze wasn't his."

I turned to him. "Donny's a drunken asshole. Everyone knows it."

"Yeah, but with what you said, I was wondering – "

I cut him off. "Don't ask too many questions."

"But I never even mentioned a name. How would you even know – "

"No questions."

"Okay. Well...thanks for whatever you might have done."

That was nothing. Making a drunk look like a drunk isn't hard. Now, exposing sunny Paul for the bastard he is? That takes finesse.

## PAUL

By now, some of you may be wondering why, exactly, I choose to spend time with Kenneth Greevey. All I do is grumble about the guy and his many...let's call them "eccentricities." It's the kind of behavior you'd expect from someone with a pain–in–the–ass coworker he's stuck with or an obnoxious roommate who's long overstayed his welcome. And yet I hang out with him voluntarily, on a regular basis. Why?

To explain this in full detail would require a lot of time, as I'd need to go into the background of an entire subculture. If you're curious, head down to your local gaming supply store or comic book shop, find a group of people playing something with funny dice, and ask them why any of them would opt to affiliate with people with whom they constantly argue. You'll get an education.

But seriously, here's my capsule explanation: We are all imperfect. Yes, I've spent a lot of words detailing Ken's flaws, but I'm no different. I've given him plenty of headaches, too, maybe even as many as he's given me. In spite of that, we have a lot in common, and that's rare around here. Ignore all of that crap you hear about nerds being the new cool kids. Wearing a retro t–shirt and owning a video game console doesn't make you a nerd any more than wearing a football jersey and owning a set of weights makes you a jock. It's so much more than that – an entire little world with its own practices, norms and lingo, none of which is well understood by the community at large. As a group, we are often defined by argument and strife, usually over the pettiest of things. If you're part of the group, you learn to love this, or at least tolerate it. That's what I've done – I learned long enough to put up with Ken's little quirks, even if they drive me up the wall.

Enough about that, though. We're talking quiz games here.

The weekend between the prelims and the rest of the tournament is tricky. Ken's instinct is to spend the whole time in preparation, and he's devoted. As trivia season nears, he transforms his already ridiculous bedroom into a dedicated study chamber. Anything that might become a distraction goes in the corner – no music, no video games, nothing that might draw his eye away from the goal. All he keeps out in the open is a laptop that plays a continuous stream of trivia game footage culled from every public source he could find. He sits in his old broken game rocker with the computer blasting the sweet sounds of Trivia Master past while he reads and annotates his collection of question books, books that he treats as though they contain some sort of revealed knowledge. He'll sit there for hours, immersed in quiz nirvana.

I don't have quite the same passion. My first thought is to spend that last quiet weekend relaxing at home, doing the things I can't do when I'm busy with trivia. Over the years, we've come to a bit of a truce on this, and I think Ken has even come around to my way of thinking, at least a little bit. We always take a few hours to do something that has nothing to do with Trivia Master.

This year's trivia free weekend started in Oscar's Pizza for lunch. It was well past noon and Ken was late. That was curious, as he's probably the most punctual person I've ever met, at least when he wants to be someplace – and even trivia comes in second to pizza on Ken's list of priorities.

When he finally came in, he was red–faced and short of breath. "Sorry, got held up."

"To go for a jog?"

"Only a little bit." Ken threw himself into the booth. "Hey, you heard about this phone app that sends you specially curated trivia every morning for free?"

"There are probably a bunch of those, but in the first place, you don't own a cell phone."

"I was thinking about it for you." Ken reached across the table. "I can set you up, just let me have yours for a minute."

"I think you know my opinion on that, Ken," I said. "Besides which, we aren't here to discuss trivia. It's against the rules."

"I know, but I ran into someone on the way here and he told me about the phone thing. That's why I'm late."

"Getting in touch with one of your contacts?" I wasn't joking – Ken really does have contacts, or at least he claims he does.

He shook his head. "It's not like that. I met this kid, he's new, he's in the tournament, I've been helping him out a little."

"You met someone?" As long as I've known him, Ken has had no friends besides me. It's not that socializing is a mystery to him – he can make deals or gather information, but genuine friendly banter is a struggle for him. "Are we talking a friend, here? Someone you talk to about things other than quiz games?"

"That's a little much but...yeah. It's this kid named Leon, Mara I think."

The name sounded familiar to me. "Have I met him?"

"He's brand new, but I guess you could have bumped into him. Anyway, I ran into him on the way over. We talked for a minute, that's why I'm late. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about! You made a new friend, that's great."

"Well, it's not a big deal..." Ken leaned back in the booth, scanning the restaurant, trying his best to look cool. "You order yet?"

"Of course not. I know how fickle you are with your pies."

"You should have ordered anyway. You know how slow this place is." Ken sat up and scratched his face – a little tell that means he wants to talk about something sensitive. "Speaking of friends, Trevor told me that he saw you out front of the technical building on Tuesday. What's up?"

"Nothing special, just killing time."

Ken shook his head. "You're never gonna ask her out."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Ken could see right through me. "It's me, Paul. You were waiting for Jane, same thing you 're always doing when you stick around the school that late in the day."

"Look, I'm taking my time. I think of it as a sign of respect."

"Taking your time? You have been – " He broke off for a moment to attempt to flag down a waiter before turning back to me. "Man, the service here sucks."

"It's not like you're in a hurry."

"Neither are you, clearly." I could tell from Ken's tone that a lecture was imminent. "Look, Paul, you've had half your life to talk to her and you did nothing. Now you've got what, eight months before school ends? Eight months."

"Unless we go to the same college, then I've got at least four years. Look, isn't there something better we can discuss than my love life?"

"Yeah, but you don't want to talk about it." Ken tried to grab another waiter, but we were rebuffed again. "Geez, the place isn't even that full!" He looked around the restaurant. "I heard that they used to have arcade games in all of these pizza places. There were a couple in here when I was a kid. I miss those, they were so cool."

"I don't even know how you can lecture me," I said. In retrospect it was stupid to keep this line of conversation going, but I wasn't feeling so bright that day. "You don't have a social life at all. You never go out anywhere, you definitely don't go on dates. I don't see how you can lecture me."

"That's true."

"And you don't know what's in my head, Ken. You don't have any special insight. I am capable of more than you think."

"Okay, Paul."

"For all you know, I'm gonna call her as soon as we're done."

"Okay, Paul!" Ken was about to laugh. "I get your point. Let's talk about something else."

I won't bore you with the rest of our conversation. Suffice it to say that it didn't involve anything germane to my story – mostly chatter about movies and video games. I was a bit distracted, though. While I'd never admit it to him, Ken had a point. He does that from time to time – another reason I keep him around. What was I doing, skulking around some girl, waiting for her to come to me? What kind of man does that? I was pathetic, and I needed to change.

You know what? I'm going to talk to Jane and ask her out. After Trivia Master, I mean. I swear, it's the very first thing I'm doing after the tournament ends.

## JANE

I remember the first time I made it to the Trivia Master stage.

It's not like we won. Hell, we didn't even do all that well. We were a team of freshmen and sophomores who had an amazing streak of luck, enough to get to the quarterfinals and get crushed by over 150 points. But that's not the important part. The important part is how exciting it was to even get there. I've won some awards in my time, some competitions, but it's all invisible. No one notices what I do or cares all that much how I do. And then Trivia Master comes along, and suddenly I'm the center of attention. The walk to the stage, the recitation of our names to the cheers of the crowd, the warm glow of the lights – after a lifetime of fading into the background, it really is a thing of beauty.. Every year since I've done all I could to make it back there, just to feel that again for a few minutes.

This year is a little bit different, though. It's the first year where we have a real shot at winning. Before, it was just an excuse for Isabel's friends to get in front of the crowd, show off a little. But for the first time we're truly competitive. I'm starting to realize why some people take this thing so seriously. This feeling...it's a little intoxicating. I really like it.

Okay, so there are some things I still don't really like about this. I still don't know why Isabel flipped her own rules this year. She's probably got some hidden motive or another, something she's not willing to say out loud. You know what, though? I don't care. I'm having fun, dammit.

Unfortunately, there's always a killjoy around somewhere. I didn't realize that myself until Monday, right before our quarterfinal match – the very first public round, as a matter of fact. Isabel and I were sitting around in the auditorium, killing time before everyone showed up. Hannah was off somewhere psyching herself up, while Karen was building a life–sized frigate or whatever it is that she does on her own time. The other team – a crew of musicians or DJs or something, I was never exactly clear – was absent, off doing something or other.

Isabel decided that it was a good time to talk strategy. "So what do you think our chances are?"

"Huh?"

"Our chances. You know, here."

"Oh, these guys are jokers. Shouldn't be a problem."

"I meant, you know, total. Overall."

It was odd for Isabel to worry about things like this. Thinking ahead isn't really her thing. "Hard to say. The way I figure it, we've got the Raging Nerds in the semis and the Flying Brains in the finals. That's a pair of very good teams."

"Yeah, true." Isabel was fidgeting, maybe hoping she wouldn't spill some little detail. "Put a number on it. What are our chances round after this? Just hit me with an estimate."

"Okay, this really isn't like you. What's going on? Why is this such a big deal to you all of a sudden?"

"Is it a crime that I want to win for a change?" Isabel seemed genuinely offended. She's not used to getting questions like that. "These last few years were nice, but this year I wanna take a real shot at it. I'm taking this serious for a change."

"All right. I didn't mean to offend you." I've learned that it's best not to push these things. "I was just a little curious, but frankly, I'm on such a roll right now that I don't care."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But as for the rest of the tournament, and stats, and...I just don't care about that shit. I do know that the number crunchers have the odds against us, but that doesn't mean much. I think we can really do some damage."

Isabel nodded. "Well, I got a good feeling too."

"I wonder where everyone is? The round starts in twenty minutes. There should be at least some –"

"Jane Anders?" A voice came from behind me. When I turned to see who it was, a clipboard greeted me, followed by a short and unpleasant–looking girl.

I looked her over. "Uh...you are?"

"Colette Henshaw, of the Council of Seelie. We will be conducting our quarterfinal later today."

"Well...nice to meet you," I said. "Is there something you want?"

"I'd like a minute of your time to discuss improprieties in this competition," said Colette, still wagging that clipboard in my face.

"Uh..." I turned to Isabel for guidance, but she was as stumped as me. "...Sure."

"As you may know, there have been rumors circulating about unsportsmanlike behavior in the preliminary rounds." Colette's voice was devoid of emotion, like she was giving a lecture on company policy. "You may have seen Edward Page's piece on known cheating techniques, or heard the stories of false question sheets circulating through email. In light of this, I've taken it on myself to see that this does not carry over into the public rounds."

"I can certainly understand –"

"As you may know," she continued, cutting me off, "Ron Janowski has been recruited to record the rounds for the school website. I've arranged to obtain an early copy of the footage to analyze for potential wrongdoing. If there are any irregularities, I'll know."

It seemed like she was done. "Good. I'll keep that in mind. Anything else?"

"I'd like you to sign this." She shoved her clipboard into my hands. On it was a sheet with a dense mess of text followed by a blank space half–filled with signatures. "It's an agreement that you will keep within the rules of the contest at all times."

"You want me to sign an agreement that I won't cheat?"

"No cheating or unsportsmanlike conduct, yes."

"Forget it."

That made Colette a bit huffy. "You're refusing? Don't you have integrity?"

"Of course I do. That's why I don't need this." I started to hand the clipboard back to Colette, but Isabel grabbed it first and started signing it. "What are you doing?"

"It's not gonna hurt anyone, Jane," she said.

"That's not the point." I turned back to Colette, who looked fit to kill. "First, if I sign your little agreement, it implies that I was going to cheat in the first place. I wasn't, so I don't need this, like I said."

"Excuse me, as you can see, I signed it myself," said Colette. "And I assure you, I never had any intention of violating the rules."

"I'm supposed to be impressed by you signing your own petition? Please. Plus, this isn't going to stop anyone who was planning to cheat in the first place. It is entirely meaningless." I took the clipboard from Isabel and handed it back to Colette.

"Hmph. Well, at least there's someone with integrity on this team. I'll be watching you." Colette pivoted on her heel and stormed off, anger in her little footsteps.

"Yeah? Well, you harass the rest of my team with this crap, and I'll show you integrity!" I yelled after her. In retrospect, it didn't make much sense, but I think I got the point across.

"Why did you make such a big deal out of that?" said Isabel.

"Because it's crap. You didn't notice Aaron Bellamy's name on there?"

"Seriously? That little lunatic signed on?"

"See what I mean? Integrity and that kid have never met. Anyway, I don't need her permission to play clean."

"Hey, doesn't matter to me one way or another. I'm gonna go find our team, all right?"

I don't think Isabel gets the value in taking a stand. Look, I know that this is an ugly little contest. There's been foul play already and there will be more down the road. I just don't think a stupid little petition is going to fix that.

But I didn't have much time to think about that or anything else. A few minutes later, the inhabitants of Northwest High filed in to the auditorium to watch the spectacle. After the rigamarole of buzzer checks, the spectacle was ready to go.

"Good afternoon, and welcome to the first quarter–final round of Trivia Master. This match is between Pirate Radio and the Valkyries. Before we begin, let me go over the rules in brief..."

# Phase III: Exhibition

## KEN

Everything that came before has been leading up to this, the official beginning of the Trivia Master tournament. Eight teams have cleared the twin hurdles of the entrance exam and the preliminary rounds, and they are now poised to face each other before God and man. Here, on the stage of honor, we will judge the entire school and decide who is worthy to represent the assembled body. Here, on the battlefield of the mind, we will decide who deserves the title of Trivia Master.

It has been a long road that led to this point. You have been by my side every step of the way – from the first furtive plans when all was still shrouded in fog, to the gathering of a legendary team, to the gauntlet of deception and the pains of double dealing. Now, at long last, you will bear witness to an actual Trivia Master round.

I have my doubts that an event of this grandeur can truly be captured in the written word. Is it possible to reflect the titans of trivia in text? Can the splendor of the stage truly come across without the feelings that come from experiencing it first–hand? I doubt that even photographs or video could properly reflect this event, for they are but a record of fact and do not hold the deeper meaning. A person who has not set foot on that stage can not truly grasp the sensations, the raw energy that surrounds the event. To truly understand what is to come, you would have to ride inside my head and feel it all for yourself.

Pardon me, I am rambling a bit. My point is, this is a very special event for those of us who participate in it. I merely wish to make it clear what a challenge it can be to explain, in our inadequate human languages, just how significant this is. I hope that you can forgive me my flights of fancy.

This is not the first round – that was conducted a few hours before. The Valkyries triumphed by 260 points to 180, an effortless victory. They will be our first true challenge. The quarterfinal is but a warm–up.

That is not to say that our first opponents – the Council of Seelie – present no challenge at all. Colette Henshaw, their captain, is a formidable opponent, if rigid in thought and profoundly uncreative. She did concoct an interesting gimmick all her own. Well before the round began, she approached me with a list of names, prattling on about "integrity" and "improprieties" and demanding that I sign her promise not to cheat. Of course, I dismissed her. I would never sign anything that was presented in such bad faith. On the other hand, I must thank her for reminding me that Ron will be recording the rounds. I will have to arrange for a copy so that I may study up on our own weaknesses.

The fleeting moments before the round begins form the last opportunity for a conference between teammates. I took this time to run over my strategy once more.

"All right. Trevor, you've got classic literature and sports. Anything in those categories comes out, don't be afraid to jump on it. Scott, you're playing defense here. Don't be too eager, but if something comes down the line that you know, take it. Paul will be on point, so if he doesn't buzz in, it's up to you guys to handle things. I'll support Paul and field everything during the wager rounds. You got that?"

"Yes sir, General Patton," said Scott. He has an acid tongue that I do not care for, but perhaps it will fire up the audience.

"I think we know what we're supposed to do, Ken," said Trevor.

"Good." I turned to Paul. "Hey, did that girl Colette try to get you to sign something?"

"Sure did."

"Did you sign it?"

"Hell no. All I had to do was see Bellamy's name on it. Told me everything I needed to know."

And then, at long last, it began. My breath caught in my throat. Oh, what a moment, what a blessed ecstasy...

### ~QUARTERFINAL ROUND – RAGING NERDS VS. COUNCIL OF SEELIE~

Mr. Laubhan approaches the podium.

"Good afternoon, and welcome to the second quarter–final round of Trivia Master between the Council of Seelie and the Raging Nerds."

"Yeah!" A scream echoes from the auditorium.

"Please keep the celebration until the end of the round so we can get through the round in a timely manner."

The lights are hot and there's a faint murmur in the crowd. This moment is as tense as it gets. Right now, we are all equal, but that will change soon enough.

We were placed at the table closest to the edge of the stage, with Paul being the unlucky one stuck sitting flush with the audience. Now, I know he can take the pressure, but it's still never pleasant.

Mr. Laubhan continues with his opening. "In round one, all questions are worth ten points, and remember to wait until your name and team name have been called before answering. Question one: This Central Asian nation borders Russia to the north and China to the southeast –"

Doot–de–doot.

"Paul, Nerds," calls the girl at the buzzer console.

"Kazakhstan."

"Correct, for ten points." It's no surprise that Paul drew first blood. He may be very smart, but his real claim to fame is his truly impressive reaction time. Paul's average reaction time is a good 200 milliseconds below the norm – in a head–on match, he'll buzz in first 19 times out of 20 against a typical competitor. He's just that good.

"Question two: The officer in charge of the Pacific Theatre of Operations – "

Deedle–dee.

"Colette, Seelie."

"Admiral Nimitz."

"Correct. Ten points for the Court." Colette must be feeling really smug, having leveled the playing field on the second question. Well, wait until she sees the rest of the team.

"Question three: This 1975 film was only the second to win all five major Academy Awards."

Doot–de–doot.

"Scott, Nerds."

"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

"Correct." Scott's already handling himself like a contender. Most people would get jumpy or lock up, but he is very confident. He knows what he knows, and that will really benefit our team.

"Question four: Born Theodore Geisel, this popular children's author – "

Doot–de–doot.

"Trevor, Nerds."

"Dr. Seuss."

"Correct." It's good to see Trevor in high spirits. His weakness has always been his low confidence, and I was afraid that might hinder him. But now that he's on stage, he's really summoning that inner strength.

Now the first round is coming to an end. We fell into a real groove, ending the round up by 70 points to 30.

"And that's the end of round one. Now, for the first team question. Write down your wagers now, remember that in the first round you can wager up to fifty points."

The team round is all about strategy. What amount do you bet, knowing you could lose it all? What are you willing to risk, not knowing what the question is? It's tempting to bet the whole fifty and earn half a round's worth of points, but most teams play more conservatively, especially if the match is close.

Me, I don't feel like showing off this early in the tournament. I write down a nice, easy 20.

"All right. Here is your question: Calculate the volume of a four–sided pyramid with a base of 60 square meters and height of 27 meters."

A math question! This is a bad feeling – a tiny wager on your area of expertise. Though, at the very least, it is a better feeling than a large wager on something no one knows.

But this is my territory. I love numbers, and they love me back. It takes just seconds to work out the calculations and take down my answer.

"Time's up," announces Mr. Laubhan. "Council of Seelie, I'll take your answer first." Colette flips the card with their answer. "540 meters cubed, that is correct. Your bid?" She holds up a card with the number 40. Colette is more of a risk–taker than I thought. "40 points to the Seelie. Raging Nerds, your answer, please." Paul shows him our card – correct, as predicted – and our wager.

This means that, going into the second round, we have 90 points to their 70. The second round is a major turning point in Trivia Master. The elevated scores mean that this is where it's possible to turn the game around – where the meat of the action lies. People take more risks, more points are gained and lost – everything is up for grabs.

"Remember, all questions in this round are worth 20 points. Question one: It is the first noble gas on the Periodic – "

Deedle–dee.

"Saul, Seelie."

"Helium."

"Correct." Damn – they've tied it up again. I've got to concentrate.

"Question two: In what geological era did Archaeopteryx – "

Deedle–dee.

"Colette, Seelie."

"Triassic."

"I'm sorry, that's incorrect." Yes! Colette's hubris has cost her team the lead. "I will repeat the question for the other team. Question three: In what geological era did Archaeopteryx first emerge?"

Doot–de–doot.

"Paul, Nerds."

"Jurassic?"

"Correct." And the game swings back to us. In an good quiz game, there are a lot of moments like this. Just when you think you've won or lost, an opportunity appears. There is no such thing as "inevitable."

After that, it's a blur of questions and buzzers and lights. It doesn't coalesce for me until the round ends and I hear Mr. Laubhan's voice over the fray:

"The Raging Nerds win, 290 to 230. Congratulations."

There it is, our first step towards victory. Now it gets hard.

## AARON

A lot of people get nervous before public competitions like Trivia Master. The crowds are intimidating to them. They're afraid of embarrassing themselves in front of everyone they know or making some mistake on the public record. But that kind of neurosis is nothing more than a sign of a weak mind. That tension is born of a fear of failure, which itself is nothing more than a fundamental lack of confidence in one's own skill. I've been performing before crowds since I was seven, and not once did I crack under the pressure. I never let the competition see me sweat, never did anything that would give them that kind of satisfaction. So why should I feel nervous before a round of Trivia Master? Especially a quarterfinal round. Competition at this level is a waist–high wall – it doesn't stop you, it just slows you down.

If anything, what I felt as I walked into that auditorium was joy. As much as I hate what Trivia Master does to the scholastic tradition, I really can't deny that I get some primeval rush out of it. The rest of the year, I'm nothing to them. Those assholes, my "peers" as some dare call them, treat me like something they scraped off the bottom of their shoes, but now? Now, I'm the man. They're cheering me on, holding their breath with each question and pumping their fists when I score. They're my fans, my devoted followers hanging on my every move. For the fifteen minutes that the round lasts, the world as I know it becomes a more just and rational place.

Of course, there's always something to ruin the moment.

"Aaron, did you read the big writeup?"

There I was, sitting in the wings of the auditorium, watching the seats fill. Brian was there, waving a copy of the Northwest Gazette in my face. What the hell, it's better than having to endure more of his statistics.

"Yeah, I read it," I said.

"Even the stuff Edward wrote?"

"Yes, I read what he wrote. I talked with him for that piece."

"Why did you do that?" Brian was angry – first time I remember hearing any genuine emotion in his voice.

"Did what? All I did was tell him not to listen to those rumors about everyone cheating. Not like he even used any of my quotes."

"That's not the point!" I could feel the spray from Brian's fat mouth as he harangued me with that angry screech of his. "You know how he writes, he tries to turn everything into some big dramatic story. He could have twisted what you said into whatever he wanted."

"Paul and Ken were talking to him, I wasn't about to let their side be the only one."

"You should have run this past me." Now that wheezy bastard was wagging the paper in my face. "I need to know about anything that might affect team strategy. If you insist on keeping things from me, then I –"

I snatched the paper out of Brian's doughy fist. "Don't lecture me. You're not running this game, Booker, and I don't need your permission to talk to anyone."

"Okay, I crossed a line and I'm sorry." Brian took a step back. "I won't bring it up again."

"Good. Just as long as we're clear."

"Andrew and Sid are a little late. I think I'll go look for them."

"You do that."

Brian scurried off like a frightened rat while I considered the paper in my hand. Not that I'd ever admit it to him, but Brian may have a point about dealing with a loser like Ed Page. The kid sees himself as something sort of crusading journalist, the Edward Murrow of the "Millenials" or whatever meaningless phrases the talking heads made up to describe young people this week.

In terms of what Ed actually does...it would probably be best if I just showed you. I still have Brian's paper which I swear is annotated, for my benefits or his I really don't know.

_"I'm seated in the cavernous auditorium of Northwest High, alone in a sea of empty seats. People scurry about on stage, checking equipment, moving furniture into place, testing the sound levels. I glance at my watch. It's thirty minutes until lunch, four hours until the last bell..."_ There's a lot more of this, he's into that "new journalism" crap where the writer won't shut up about himself. Here's the key part: _"Two participants, speaking on conditions of anonymity, described some of their experience with dirty tricks."_ "Anonymous," sure. That was sunny boy Paul and that ball of dough that follows him around. They got half the damn column while nothing I said to Ed made it in, not a word. Something they planned out, I'm sure. The three of them must have had a wonderful time ruining this for me.

Oh, but it gets better. Here's how it ends: _"With cheating and backstabbing growing every year towards epidemic proportions, it is only a matter of time before Trivia Master descends into anarchy. If the administration can not or will not contain the dirty tricks, then it falls to we students to police our own behavior. Until that happens, a pall of iniquity will hang over the entire event, and the victor will always be tainted by its association."_ Kiss my ass, Ed. As if the overblown imagery wasn't bad enough, I have to deal with this idiot trying to stain my glory before I've even earned it. But no one's taking this from me – not Ed or Brian or Ken and definitely not Paul. I've been working too long for this.

The auditorium was nearly full when Brian returned with our teammates. "You get lost on the way?"

"Sorry, bro, I got caught up in some shit. You know how it is," said Sid. "Wow, they really packed them in, huh?"

"It's definitely a bigger crowd than I expected," said Andrew. "Are there always this many?"

"No. It's light today." Mr. Laubhan appeared at the podium behind me. "We're going on in a minute. Is everyone ready? No one's feeling the pressure?"

Andrew shook his head. "I've done this enough times, it's no big deal for me."

"Just like any other show," said Sid.

"We've got an eighty percent chance here, at least," said Brian. "I'll save my worrying for a hard round."

"Good. Very good."

I glanced back at the other team. Duncan's team. For the briefest of moments, I considered going easy on them. I don't have many problems with Duncan, and after what happened the week before last I feel some sympathy for him. But there's no room for mercy in competition. Besides, this victory is all a part of my greater plan. This is going to be a preview to everyone – and Paul Liston in particular – of what's coming down the line.

I nodded to my teammates. "All right, let's go. Everyone in your places." As I walked to the stage, I allowed a smile to reach my lips, let my hands swing back ever so slightly to embrace the stage lights. I could hear my supporters cheering me on, even over the din of conversation. No one's going to steal my glory. All of this is mine.

"Drink it in, boys. It doesn't get more beautiful than this."

## PAUL

I love watching Trivia Master rounds. It's not as viscerally thrilling as contact sports, but it has its own special appeal, something that resonates far more deeply with me. Sitting in the crowd, everyone fixated on the answers, makes me feel like I'm in touch with the brotherhood of all nerds. I realize that sounds absurd, but it's the truth. I get this feeling of unity that's tragically uncommon, and I always appreciate it.

There are times when it's less enjoyable, though. Like when one of the teams is headed by a self–obsessed, backbiting, degenerate asshole. Or, when that asshole's opponent is a fundamentally decent guy who's probably going to lose.

"Good morning, and welcome to the third quarter–final round of Trivia Master between the the Flying Brains and the Specials."

There were scattered cheers the crowd. Much as I'd rather not believe it, Aaron does have supporters. In fact, Ken tells me he probably has as many supporters as me. Aaron pretends that he doesn't care, but I know he relishes in the attention – it's just one more way that he proves his dominance. He always struts a little as he takes to the stage, throwing a little flourish or a gesture as he takes his seat. Of course, once he's seated, it's all business...or so I thought until that very moment. Just the slightest trace of a smile came across his face, and for a moment I could swear he was looking directly at me. Of course, it's pretty dark in the house, and the audience is pretty far back. You really can't see anyone from the stage. I guess all of this competition is making me paranoid.

"Question one: This inventors creations included alternating current..."

Deedle–dee.

"Aaron, Brains."

"Tesla."

"Correct. Ten points to the Flying Brains." His grin grows just the slightest bit larger every time he gets a question right. I wondered if the rest of his team knew what kind of person they were dealing with. Maybe they don't care.

"Question two: In what year did the Battle of the Bulge conclude?"

Doot–de–doot.

"Duncan, Specials."

"1945?"

"Correct."

Aaron glanced over at Brian, his right–hand man. It was time to crack the whip.

"Question three: The reciprocal of the sine of an angle..."

Doot–de–doot.

"Carl, Specials."

"The secant."

"Incorrect. I will repeat the question for the other team..."

Deedle–dee.

"Brian, Brains."

"The cosecant."

"Correct."

I turned to Ken. "I can't watch this," I whispered.

"Yeah, I don't blame you. You slip out, I'll cover you."

I ducked out of the auditorium, accompanied the sounds of the Flying Brains scoring points. I spent the time in the hallway, recalling everything that had happened and pondering just how things had gotten to this point. It was only ten minutes, but it felt like a lot longer. Finally, Ken walked through the doors.

"It's over," he said. "270 to 150."

"A 120–point win? They're gonna be crowing about this."

"We'd better get out of here. Don't want to run into Aaron."

The two of us walked through the silent halls. Behind us, the rest of the student body was filtering out, chattering about the massacre they'd just witnessed. I had no interest in discussing it further, any more than I want to recount it now.

Eventually, Ken turned to me. "Oh, before you take off, I was wondering if you'd mind skipping this afternoon's round."

"Why? I like watching the rounds."

"Team meeting. I cleared us a room, got permission and everything."

"Team meeting? Are you joking?"

"Hey, these next two rounds are going to be brutal. If we don't hone our skill, we might lose."

"Yeah, well, that's a risk I'm willing to take. You know I never miss a round."

"Yeah, yeah, 'brotherhood of all nerds' and all that. You've told me." Ken could be a snarky bastard when he needed to. "What's there to even see? It's not a major round. We know that the Brains will beat whoever wins this afternoon."

"You don't even watch your new friend compete?"

"Oh, shit." Ken stopped and lapsed into a brief period of personal conflict. "...No, this is more important. We need to have this meeting."

"Fine, Ken."

You know, the one you hang out in."

"You know about that?"

"Yeah." He said that like I should have known better. "Gotta go, I've got some people to talk to." And he was off yet again, huffing through the halls on his way to meet with some contact.

I wasn't exactly pleased to miss a round, but Ken had a point. No one was going to stand much of a chance against the Flying Brains, let alone the underdogs competing in the upcoming round. Still, I have a hard time believing that Ken wouldn't want to support one of his fellow competitors. Maybe he didn't want to get too close, knowing what would unfold in the semifinal round.

A few hours later, I found myself breaking off from my last–period class and walking to the third floor. Scott, who was in the same class, came with me.

"It was a mistake having any sort of meeting up here," he said.

"I'm sure he wanted the gifted room, but they watch that place really close during the tournament."

"I just hope there's no one smoking up here."

"Smoking?"

Scott grinned. "You never noticed the smell?"

"Uh, I noticed an odor."

"God, you're so innocent."

Trevor was waiting in the hall when we got there. Ken was conspicuously absent.

"So where's Ken?" I asked Trevor.

"Said he had something to do and took off." he replied.

"How long you been waiting?" said Scott.

"I don't know, eight minutes?" said Trevor.

Scott sighed. "Really glad I hitched my wagon to Ken Greevey's star." He leaned back against the wall and looked at me. "What's his deal, anyway? Why's he do stuff like this?"

"I don't know." Not a lie – I really don't. "He gets a thought in his head and it gives him tunnel vision."

"Makes sense to me," said Trevor. "You two see this morning's match?"

"I couldn't watch," I said. "I skipped out."

"Duncan blames himself, you know," said Trevor.

"It's not his fault," I said. "No one stood a chance. I mean, if there's anyone who takes this more seriously than Ken, it's Aaron Baines Bellamy."

"You know, I've been wanting to ask you about him," said Scott. "I always knew you two had a rivalry or something, but it seems like it's way beyond that. That kid hates you, and I don't get why."

"I've always wondered about that myself," added Trevor. "I can't imagine you doing anything bad enough to make someone hate you, so what's the story?"

"I don't know what to tell you," I said. "I've never really understood it myself."

"Tell us what you know," said Trevor. "Maybe we can help you figure it out."

"Well, I don't know much, and what I know doesn't make any sense, but here goes..."

### * * * * * * *

It occurs to me that many of you may have been wondering the exact same thing. So let me break away from the narrative for just a moment to give you some background information. I don't expect this to make sense to anyone, but here goes:

I think I was eight when I first met Aaron. I really don't have a great recollection of it. The first time I heard his name was at a science fair where we both won in our categories. I remember that I saw him walking down the street after that, and that he was a mess. He might have been crying, I'm not really sure, but we invited him in and that's when it started. We were friends, but mostly by physical proximity. That's pretty much all friendship is based on at that age, if you think about it. It seems like it meant more to Aaron than that, though. I don't think he had any other friends.

It's not like we had nothing in common. We were both geeks, we had geek things in common – science fiction novels, role–playing games, plus we were in a fair number of clubs together. Every so often, he'd wander by our place and hang out for a while. There was nothing wrong with that, although it could get a bit awkward when he chose to extend his visits until it was dark.

I only went to Aaron's house a couple times. His parents were kind of a big deal in Solace – his dad was a chemist with Jameson Enterprises and his mother was on the business end of the same company. Both of them had personal relationships with Joshua Jameson, one of the wealthiest men in the country. At the time, I was too young to appreciate how powerful he truly was, but I sure heard the way my parents talked about him.

For all of that, though, the Bellamys were pretty normal. Actually, I didn't see Aaron's parents all that much – he pretty much had the run of the house. We had a sitter once, this Chinese girl who was the daughter of another of Jameson's people, but other that it was just Aaron and me. It's not like he ever did anything crazy with his freedom. Mostly he showed off his trophies, an ever–growing collection of accolades that occupies a pretty significant portion of his room. He took care of those things like they were his pets.

That was our relationship for many years – a loose friendship based principally on the fact that we could walk to each others' houses without getting a ride. Then, one day, it all changed.

### * * * * * * *

"Sorry to keep you guys waiting!"

That was Ken, who had finally decided to grace us with his presence. He was carrying a computer bag and waving a flash drive. "I was just picking this up: Raw footage of our quarter–final round, courtesy of Ron Janowski. Who, by the way, will also be filling me in on the details of the current match. By watching ourselves in action, we can pinpoint our weaknesses. Hey, if it's good enough for football players, right?"

"So Paul, what happened next?" said Scott, completely ignoring Ken.

"They wanted to know about Aaron," I said.

"Well, here we go. " Ken sat the bag down and took a seat. "Hey, if you guys can figure out what the hell happened I'll be pleased to hear it."

"So like I said, we were cool until middle school..."

### * * * * * * *

It all changed when I was eleven. I was more independent, which meant that I could hang out with people other than the neighbors' kids. While I didn't have a wide circle of friends, I did meet some new people in middle school. Over time, I drifted away from Aaron. But Aaron was still there, following me around, showing up at the worst times. I guess he never found any new friends, or maybe he just fixated on me for some other reason.

Aaron and I had very different schedules, different lunch breaks, and our lockers weren't near each other. I didn't even see him on a daily basis. Over time, I guess I just forgot about him.

He didn't forget about me.

To this day, I do not know what I did that set Aaron on his path of revenge. All I know is that one afternoon, as I was leaving school with some of my new friends, Aaron caught up to me.

"Real good, Paul!" he shouted.

"Aaron? What's wrong?"

"You think you can screw me over? You think that's cool?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Playing dumb, huh? Well fine. Be that way. But you will never get away with this, Apollo Liston!"

### * * * * * * *

"Apollo?" Trevor and Scott both stared at me, dumbstruck.

I nodded. "Yeah, Paul Liston might not be the name on my birth certificate."

"Wait, so your official recognized–by–the–government name is 'Apollo'?" asked Trevor, clearly holding back a grin.

"He comes from a weird family," said Ken.

"I made the mistake of telling Aaron," I said. "That was his first attempt to hurt me."

"Hold it, I'm lost," said Scott. "I must have missed something somewhere. What exactly did you do?"

"Like I said earlier, I have no idea," I said.

Ken climbed to his feet. "Look, we've been mulling over this for years. Neither of us has any clue what Aaron was talking about."

Trevor was back in deep thought. "He said you screwed him over? As competitive as he is, maybe you won some award he wanted. You remember winning anything around that time?"

"I was taking a break from competitions that year," I said. "I think I won a basket of cookies in a raffle. Is that worth holding a grudge?"

"No, no, no," said Scott. "His reaction was way too emotional. At that age, the only thing that would get a kid that emotional is a crush. Maybe he thought you stole a girl from him?"

"Me?" It wasn't a thought that had ever occurred to me, for obvious reasons.

"I'm not saying it's logical," continued Scott. "If he saw you talking to a girl he liked, that could be enough."

"Who does he even like?" said Trevor.

"Besides himself, you mean?" said Ken.

"Pretty sure he has a thing for Isabel Morelli," I said. "She's always hated me, so I doubt it's that."

"Quite the mystery, indeed." Trevor picked up his things. "Look, is it all right with you guys if I just take off? I have some things to do today."

"But we haven't watched the video yet!" said Ken.

"Yeah, I have some things to take care of before I head home," said Scott. "See you guys tomorrow, right?" Both of them walked off, leaving Ken looking hurt.

"Face it, Ken, they just don't take it as seriously as you do," I said.

"Yeah. I guess you can cut out too, if you want."

"I don't feel like going home yet. You wanna do something?"

"I've got some things to take care of. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning." He wandered off in a seemingly random direction. Ken does not take changes of plan well.

I headed back to my locker to collect a few things. Just as I was leaving, Ken ran up, short of breath.

"Paul! We need to talk. It's important."

"What is it? Did Aaron pull something?"

"It's not Aaron this time. It's Jane."

## KEN

In the cutthroat world of trivia, counterintelligence is a vital yet often overlooked element of overall strategy. When there are spies and saboteurs lurking around every corner, it is important to know of the enemy's disposition so that one can devise means to counter and defeat their plans. This is doubly true for the honest competitor, who must be always on watch for the knife at his back.

Consider our own situation. Within the walls of this building, Aaron Bellamy's eyes and ears are many. Between his paid confederates and the poor souls he has duped into doing his dirty work, there is little he doesn't know. So is it truly cheating to try and peer into his world? I can only imagine what Paul would say in response to that. Even having seen the impressively creative act of counterintelligence he performed with the stolen question sheet, I can still imagine the show of sanctimony he would perform if I told him of my plan to monitor Aaron's schemes. So, as with many of my operations, I had to conduct this one in secret.

As with most people who operate with a shortage of manpower, I opted to rely on electronic ears to perform my surveillance. The field of electronics is not among my specialties, but fortunately I have a contact who is. I know him only as "Fr33kWyzyrd," the handle of a college dropout who turned his twelve credit hours of electrical engineering into a small digital empire. He is mostly sought out by people who wish to "jailbreak" various portable devices, but his skills run far deeper than that. In particular, he possesses ample knowledge on monitoring devices of all kinds. Being a black hat sort, I imagine that most of his clients use this knowledge for unsavory purposes, but in my case it was in the service of fairness and honesty, so I felt justified in seeking his aid.

Through my contact's website, I obtained a tutorial on the construction of a basic listening device. His instructions called for a cellular phone for real–time monitoring, but I found a cheaper alternative – old tape recorders, nine of them, discarded by a clinic as they emptied their storage space. After that, it was merely a matter of performing a few key upgrades. Tinkering with the speakers to augment their sensitivity. Modifying the battery for extended life. A simple set of alterations, or at least simple for Mr. Fr33kWyzyrd. In my case, only one of the nine recorders survived the operation. For weeks I labored over my device, carefully crafting it in my hours between school and my trivia training. It was a nominal success, and not a pretty beast – held together as it was by copious amounts of duct tape, rubber bands and my own sincere wishes. But it held its shape, and it worked exactly as promised.

The next step took more finesse. I had been keeping tabs on Aaron's movements and schedule since our encounter at the outset of this year's trivia season. He is a wily individual and well–practiced in covering his tracks, but he still has certain habits that I was able to deduce from my studies. With that information and a bit of triangulation, I knew exactly where to place my bug to maximize my chances of overhearing his vile secrets. True, it would have been better if I could increase my coverage area with more bugs, but my analysis told me exactly where and when to monitor.

Then came the planting of the device. Leaving an anonymous piece of electronics around a school building is not an act to be undertaken lightly, even for a nerd in good standing. The timing was very important. I needed to prepare the device with haste and extract it swiftly, before any suspicious soul found it and sounded the alarm – and, for that matter, before Aaron discovered it and became more suspicious than he already was. I would have, at most, an hour before the risk became too great. There was only one time that would work – the fourth quarterfinal round, when all eyes would turn towards the competitors and Aaron would have free reign of the halls. This is when he would plan and execute his own plot, and I would have a record with which to expose or defeat it.

My own plan was foolproof. I simply failed to grasp the identity of the fiend. I had never predicted that I would overhear a scheme by Isabel Morelli and Jane Anders. As their voices emerged from the aged speakers, my first instinct was to discard the tape and forget that I had ever created the device. But as I listened on, it became clear that Paul needed to hear this. I knew it would hurt him, perhaps even devastate him, but I feared far more what might happen if this cruel plot was allowed to pass.

## JANE

So something happened that really caught me off guard. I've been rolling this around in my head and I just can't believe it. It's the kind of thing that I might run past Isabel, as this is the kind of thing she might have dealt with. But this time, Isabel _is_ the problem, so who do I talk to? Hannah, who's afraid to open her mouth? Karen, who's incapable of keeping hers shut? Damn, what a mess.

Isabel's new obsession with Trivia Master has really been eating at me. She's given me various reasons, none of which I ever really bought. Winning contests has never been all that important to Isabel – well, until this year, anyway. All of a sudden, she's turned into some kind of overachiever. I figured this was her attempt to buff up her college resume, something which shows respectable grades and scores but not much else. It's a little late to be starting that kind of thing, but it can't hurt, and if Isabel meets some new people and picks up a new skill or two? Even better. And really, if that is her motivation for winning Trivia Master, why should I care? It works out well for me, too.

At least, that's what I thought up until a day or two ago. That's about when I noticed how weird she's become. Trivia Master has become a fixation of hers, this singular thing that occupies all of her attention. It seems like every conversation is about our team or someone else's team or the rules or the history of the game...Trivia Master has gone from a nothing little game to the most important thing ever. She's driven, like I've never seen her before.

That concerns me. I know what happens to quiz kids who get obsessed. And on Tuesday, I got wrapped up in it myself.

It all happened right before the fourth quarterfinal round. In case you're wondering about that, a team of newcomers won 210 to 160, a conservative match by any standard but still decent. But before the match I was at my locker, taking everything I needed so I could split right after the match. Karen was there, too – we were having a little strategy conference of sorts.

"Do you think I've been keeping up my end?" she said. "I still feel bad about blowing that question. It could have cost us the match."

"But it didn't," I said. "Everyone botches one at some point, it's the nature of the game. You move past it."

"You sure?" She shuddered a little bit. "This is a lot more pressure than I imagined."

Karen is getting to be more flighty than Hannah – not that I said that to her face, of course. "Well, look at it this way – I'm leading the pack on this. If we lose a round, it's mostly on me."

"I guess you have a point, there."

"And maybe this will help. I've been talking to some of my other friends, as of our last round, our odds have gone from 3 to 2 against to straight across."

"Now that does..." Karen froze while she pondered the implications. "They don't really bet on this, do they?"

"I...don't know? There are rumors and all, but no one's ever..." I slammed the locker door shut. "Forget about the odds. Just go with the flow."

"All right! Hey, you want me to save any seats?"

"Not sure if I'll be able to get away from class this time, but go ahead. I'll keep an eye out."

Having assuaged Karen's guilt, my next stop was my final class. We weren't going to do too much there, really just touch base and then head to the auditorium, but policy is policy. I was just headed out when I bumped into Isabel, looking strangely secretive.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" she said.

"Of course. What's up?"

"Let's not talk here. Someplace a little more private." She walked over to a little side hallway which was mostly abandoned. "Come on."

"Listen, passing period's almost over. If this is serious, we should talk about it later."

"It'll only take a minute." She looked around the hallway. I've never seen Isabel this paranoid – I figured she was hiding something, probably something big. "It's about the contest."

"You needed privacy to talk about the game?"

"This time? Yeah, we do." She took one last look around. "You were talking to Karen just now, yeah?"

"Sure."

"She holding up?"

"I don't know, I guess? She's a little tense, but she'll pull through. She always does."

"And Hannah's still doing fine?"

"As good as she ever is." This is the point where I started to get curious. "What's going on here, Izzy?"

"I'm just a little tense myself," she said.

"You too?" I said. "I can't handle this whole thing myself, you know."

"Well, you might not have to," she said. "See, I've been thinking it over ever since they started doing the rounds. I don't think we have much of a chance against these guys. Either of 'em. The Brains or the Nerds."

"You should talk to my people. Apparently, we have even odds."

"Yeah, well...there's something we can do that might tip it in our favor. And by that, I mean you and me. The other two probably shouldn't know about this."

That was a real red flag. "You're not talking about cheating, are you?"

"Absolutely not!" She was absolutely indignant – too much so, I thought. "It's more like...what do they call it? Gamesmanship."

"Gamesmanship?"

"Yeah, gamesmanship. Now I don't want you to shut me down out of hand, okay?"

I didn't like where this was going, but a part of me wanted to know what Isabel was thinking, so I went along. "What's your plan?"

"Well, I figure these are two great teams, but it's Paul Liston and Aaron Bellamy that make them great, right? They're the big scorers on those teams, yeah?"

"Yeah, I'd have to agree with that."

"So, if they were distracted – by something other than the game, I mean – then the teams wouldn't be so great, right?"

"...Where are you going with this?"

Isabel took a deep breath. "I'm saying that you could really give us an edge if you'd...y'know, use your charms."

"Excuse me, Isabel?" I guess I'm a little slow on the uptake, especially in situations like this. I honestly didn't catch the subtext at first.

"I'm not talking anything too sleazy, just...be affectionate."

"You want me to flirt with someone so that we have an advantage?"

"Look, that dweeb is totally hard for you! You talk to him, maybe give him a little phone call, and you could totally convince him to go easy on you. I'm gonna do the same thing to that Aaron freak. That gives us an edge in the semis and the finals. See? No big deal."

"You're asking me..." I turned my back on her. "...I'm not having this conversation."

I walked away, but Isabel kept right up with me. "Oh, come on! It's not cheating, it's just playing the game! Tell me you've never flirted with a guy to get something!"

"That's your thing, not mine."

"Oh yeah? Paul's been after you for years. Tell me you honestly never used that."

"I've never...I don't do things like that." This was getting to be much too much. "I can't talk about this now." And that was the end of the conversation.

Can I be honest, though? She may have been a little bit right on that last point. Paul's feelings have never been much of a secret. Maybe I did lead him on once or twice. Maybe I've even done it recently. Then again, does that mean I have to bring sexuality into this? Is this the way of the world – a woman can't beat a man without manipulating him? Now there's a bumper sticker for you.

This was something I really needed to think about. Unfortunately, there was no time. I had twenty–two hours to work everything through in my head.

I didn't see Paul at the quarterfinal match. Thank God for small favors.

## PAUL

"...there's something we can do that might tip it in our favor."

Ken, my dearest, closest friend, was holding some sort of ridiculous contraption built around a tape recorder, a gadget he had used covertly record a conversation between two other people.

"Oh, you're bugging people now?" I said. "That sounds more like something Aaron would do."

Ken clicked the recorder off. "As a matter of fact, I was using this because of Aaron.Oh, did you see Scott?"

"Don't change the subject!"

"I'm not...oh, there he is. Hey, Scott!" Sure enough, there was Scott, headed our way. "Oh, Scott's going to be walking you home today. Now, this plan is a little rough because I only had a few minutes to work it through, so bear with me."

"Excuse me, but what exactly do you think is going on here?"

"...Oh, right." Ken looked back over his shoulder before he continued. "I've been keeping tabs on Aaron and Brian Booker, in case they were cooking up another plan. I left this recorder in an unused locker in this little hallway where Aaron likes to hang out after lunch. I was just giving this one a listen –"

"This one? You have more than one?"

"Okay, beside the point, but yes. I was listening to this one, and I heard Isabel Morelli's voice. It was just dumb luck that it caught this conversation."

"I'm not hearing this." I tried to walk away, but Ken moved to block my path. "Ken, this contest has made you loopy. You've gone nuts!"

"Have I? Listen to this." He started the playback again.

_"And by that, I mean you and me. The other two probably shouldn't know."_ It was Isabel Morelli's voice, all right..

_"You're not talking about cheating, are you?"_ The other voice was Jane's. It was muffled, but I could recognize that sweet little chirp anywhere.

"Absolutely not! It's more like...what do they call it? Gamesmanship."

Ken hit the fast forward. "This is where it gets ugly."

Click. "I'm saying that you could really give us an edge if you'd...y'know, use your charms."

"Excuse me, Isabel?"

"I'm not talking anything too sleazy, just...be affectionate."

_Click._ "Still think I'm loopy?" said Ken. "They're plotting against you, clear as day!"

I was a little surprised by this. You expect foul play out of certain people, but I never would have suspected that Isabel Morelli would be this crazed.

Still, my first response was denial. "That doesn't prove anything."

"Oh no? Let's keep listening, shall we?" He resumed the playback.

"You want me to flirt with someone so that we have an advantage?"

"Look, that dweeb is totally hard for you! You talk to him, maybe give him a little phone call, and you could totally convince him to go easy on you. I'm gonna do the same thing to that Aaron freak. That gives us an edge in the semis and the finals. See? No big deal."

For a few seconds, I just stared at the recorder, then back at Ken. "Is that all you got?" I said. "This still proves nothing."

"Paul..."

"Isabel is a snobby spiteful bitch, for starters, so that's not too big a shock. Second, Jane never actually agreed to do anything." Ken stared at me blankly, quietly judging me, questioning my judgment and my very sanity. "I'm sure if you'd picked up more of their conversation, we'd hear Jane say 'No way.' I'm sure of it."

"You may well be right, Paul, but we can't take any risks." Ken rested a hand on my shoulder, less a friendly gesture and more a move to stop me from taking off. "I'm taking some precautions so that their tricks don't work. The round is tomorrow fifth period, and until then one of us from the team will always accompany you on school grounds. I'm busy right now, so Scott here will take you to the bus stop. You got a few bucks?"

"Yeah, but –"

"Good, because you are not walking home today. Scott will wait for you at the bus stop. Once you're back at your place, don't leave. If Jane calls you, ignore it. If she emails you, delete it. If she slips a letter under your door, shred it. We have come too far to be compromised now!"

Ken marched off down the hall, leaving me with Scott Carroll and a lot of new problems. Cheating no longer shocks me when it comes from moral mutants like Aaron Bellamy. Even his frame–up attempt was really just the logical extension of what he's tried before. On the other hand, Jane Anders was a real straight–shooter. If she wasn't trustworthy, could I trust anyone? Could I even trust myself, if I'm such a terrible judge of character?

Scott tapped me on the shoulder, breaking me out of the stupor. "They'll be out in a minute. Let's get going."

The two of us walked out to the bus stop in silence. There wasn't a lot to be said, especially since I didn't know Scott all that well.

It was Scott who finally broke the silence. "I gotta tell you, when your boy Ken talked me into joining the team, I was not expecting this. Seriously, is this sort of thing normal?"

I threw myself down on the bench. "I don't even know what normal is anymore."

"I mean, we have some backstabbing in Dramatics, so that I get."

"Really?" I said. "This happens with other people, too?"

"Oh, sure." He took a seat next to me. "We only have two major performances a year. For each of those performances, we're talking maybe three high profile roles. The competition for those openings can get pretty ugly. But it's always temporary. When it's all over, we all sit down at a restaurant, a cafe, have a nice chat and we're friends again."

"Sounds nice."

"Yeah, it's nothing like this. Trivia Master is more like a brawl. Where does all this hostility come from, anyway?"

"I don't know." I paused to gather my thoughts. How do you even explain something this insane to an outsider? They must think we're all lunatics. "I used to believe that all of us in this subculture had a certain unity, like a brotherhood. It was us against the big, bad world, together until the bitter end. But it never turns out that way. We fight and bicker over any stupid little thing and the world keeps on laughing at us."

"I wouldn't be too worried about it. Maybe your time hasn't come yet. The best things in the world take the longest to mature, you know."

"I guess, but I just get so tired of all of this nonsense. Sometimes, I wish I just had some nice, normal interests that I could discuss with nice, normal people."

"Eh, normal is overrated. Be exceptional, interesting...hell, be weird." Scott patted me on the back. "The world has enough normal in it."

"Maybe you're right. I just get so, so tired of standing out..."

The bus finally pulled up. "I guess that's yours. Hey, don't sweat it. Tomorrow's another day, right? Catch you later."

The whole situation was getting to me. As I watched the stops pass, I felt this nasty little fear creep into my thoughts. The crowd on the bus was the typical mix – commuters and a few students heading home – but that day they seemed like a terribly checkered bunch. Every time someone looked at me, I wondered if she was scheming against me, too. It's a good thing that the ride only takes a few minutes, because I would have gone insane otherwise.

Once I was home, I sprinted to my room and slammed the door. I had eighteen hours until the semifinals began, eighteen hours to avoid someone I'd been chasing for years. Eighteen hours...it's not that much time unless you're squirming with agony. I did my best to occupy my mind with roleplaying materials and folk parodies blasted at full volume. Bit by bit, my brain calmed down.

And then it happened.

Bzzz.

I forgot to turn off my phone! I watched it vibrate once, twice, three times, afraid to even check who was calling. Deep down, I knew who it was. Finally, it went quiet. I sighed and muted the thing, then returned to my distractions.

Knock knock.

"Paul? Someone's calling for you."

I opened the door cautiously to see my mother holding the handset.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. She didn't give a name."

"Thanks." I took the phone and shut the door. "Hello?"

"Hey Paul, it's Jane Anders..."

## JANE

Having never reached the semifinals, I always kinda wondered what it was like. I figured that being within spitting distance of the big win would add a lot of pressure to the whole thing. Now that I'm almost there, I'm a little disappointed. It doesn't feel any different that the quarters. Not that it isn't exciting, anyway, especially given what I had to go through before getting here.

I managed to make it through the whole day without running into Isabel. Well, in person, anyway – the texts every half an hour were a little hard to ignore. After about the eighth one, I finally responded just so Isabel would lay off. I was going to have to deal with her sooner or later, anyway. It was thirty minutes until buzzer checks, and Isabel was already waiting in the wings, watching them set up.

She approached as I came in. "Shit, I've been trying to get in touch all day."

"Sorry, I was distracted."

"So are we set?"

"I called Paul last night."

"And?" She brightened up. "What did you say?"

"I told him about your scheme and said that if he threw the match on purpose, I'd never speak to him again."

That took some of the wind out of Isabel's sails. "How could you do this to me?"

"How could you do this to me? You have any idea what you asked me to do? I thought I was your friend, not some asset to be used in pursuit of your goals."

"All I did was ask a favor..."

"Yeah, sure you did. If you ever ask me for a 'favor' like that again, I'll be very pissed. Then I'll probably choke you out." I turned to walk to the stage, but something else came to me. "Something you should get used to, Izzy – You only get away with this stuff because of where you're standing right now. Queen of this tiny–ass little world. Next year, when you're the new fish in a great big pond? You're gonna be back on Earth with us mortals, and I think you should get used to that, because this is the last time it's gonna work. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go kick Paul's ass."

Honestly? I've wanted to say that to Isabel for a long time. She's not a bad person, but years and years of being surrounded by worshipers may have given her a false impression of reality. When that happens, you really just have to yank the person back down before they float off into space.

Besides, I think I have a good shot at Paul. Hey, he's mortal, too, right?

### ~SEMIFINAL ROUND – VALKYRIES VS. RAGING NERDS~

There's already murmuring out in the crowd. It's gonna be one of those matches, I can tell already. A few days ago, everyone was ready for us to lose, but now the fulcrum has shifted. The student body is nicely split – some for us, some for the Nerds, and some who don't care because they're backing the Brains. At least half of the people in this room want me to lose. I didn't even realize that until now.

Hold it – Mr. Laubhan is stepping up. "Welcome to the Trivia Master semifinals. Today's round is between the Valkyries and the Raging Nerds. You're all familiar with the rules by now so let's get started."

I'm starting to feel the tension. It's actually a good feeling, though. I'm not scared to death like Hannah or Karen or Isabel. I feel...alive. Is that sad? Is this what those crazy kids feel when they're up here?

We're seconds from the show. I give Paul a little smirk – a reminder that he needs to take this seriously.

"Question one: What Virginia city was the capital of the Confederate States of America?"

Deedle–dee.

"Jane, Valkyries."

"Richmond."

"Correct, for ten points." An easy question right off the bat. And everyone's always bragging up Paul's speed – I smoked him.

"Question two: What is the name for the space between neurons?"

Deedle–dee.

"Hannah, Valkyries."

"Synapses."

"Correct." Two in a row. Why was Isabel so scared of them, anyway? We've already got them cornered.

"Question three: Covering four states in the American Southwest, this desert – "

Doot–de–doot.

"Paul, Nerds."

"The Mojave."

"Correct." Don't get smug, Paul. That was just luck.

"Question four: This mathematical property is held by addition and multiplication but not by..."

Doot–de–doot.

"Ken, Nerds."

"The commutative property."

"Correct." Oh, shove it up your ass, Ken. Wait, did I really just curse him out in my head.

It feels like time is slowing down. I'm not aware of anything outside of the buzzer under my hand and the sound of voices asking and answering questions. Is this what obsession is like?

"...Which brings us to the end of round one, with the score tied at 50 points."

Tied? I can't accept a tie game. I'd rather lose than draw. I whisper to Isabel, "Let's go all in. 50 points."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Now the score is 100 to 70. I knew I was right.

Into the second round, and I'm starting to slip. Twenty to the Nerds. Forty to the Nerds. Now they're ahead. Maybe it's the adrenaline wearing off, or maybe I'm just choking under the pressure – either way, my teammates are carrying me now. Damn it, I was wrong. The semifinals are different. If I'm feeling this way now, what's the final round gonna be like?

"And that's the end of round two, with the Raging Nerds at 190 and the Valkyries at 180. A very close game so far. Write down your bids for the second team question."

Isabel leans over. "Fifty again?"

"Yeah." I write down the number. I wonder if they can see how worried I am in the audience.

"All right. Here's your question: This Greek mathematician was said to have engineered a number of great inventions, including a bilge pump, an orrery, and a number of anti–ship defensive weapons."

Fortunately, I know the answer – Archimedes. Unfortunately, so did they – and they matched our score. We're now behind by a single question.

Damn it, I hate close games. I'd rather lose than end it this close.

"The score is now 240 to 230. It's about as close as it gets as we head into the final round. Give us sixty seconds."

Sixty seconds...all the time in the world if you know how to use it.

"Commonly used in pipes and cable insulation, this form of plastic – "

Deedle–dee.

"Karen, Valkyries."

"PVC."

"Correct." Thank you, Karen. There's murmuring in the crowds. No one was expecting it to be this close.

"Question: This Shakespeare tragedy follows a king driven to madness by – "

Doot–de–doot.

"Scott, Nerds."

"King Lear."

"Correct. Question: This Communist nation was formed in 1949 after a long civil war."

Doot–de–doot.

"Paul, Nerds."

"The People's Republic of China."

"Correct. Question...It looks like we're out of time. The final score is Valkyries 250, Raging Nerds 280. The Raging Nerds will be competing in the finals two days from now."

The audience erupts into applause.

I feel...relief? Yeah, relief. It's over for me. I can go on with my life. I never knew it could feel this good to lose.

## PAUL

Here's a bit of Northwest High School meta–trivia for you: By this point in the contest, foul play is pretty much gone. There are a few reasons for this – the difficulty in cheating on stage, the increased likelihood of being caught with fewer players around – but I think that the biggest cause is that by this point, the teams that would be inclined to play have all washed out. Most players who cheat come from low–tier teams that need an edge to succeed. Once you're past the quarterfinals, those teams have been eliminated, leaving only elite teams who have no need to cheat and may not even benefit from tricks anyway.

There is, however, one problem with that logic. It assumes that all players involved are predictable, rational actors with predictable, rational motivations. One thing I've learned in the last seventeen years is that people are not all that rational or that predictable. We are prone to going off half–cocked, to sacrificing sure things on wild gambits, to picking fights we can't win and holding grudges long past the point at which they matter. In a word, we're kinda stupid. No exceptions – no matter how smart you may be, there's still a lot of stupid locked away in the gray matter.

Want proof? Take an overhead look at this competition of ours. In an intelligent, rational competition, no contestant would ever cheat because it would fail the first time he faced an opponent who didn't have to cheat. In an intelligent, rational competition, no contestant would ever try to sabotage her rivals because it would be impossible to do consistently, setting her up for a downfall later.

This is not an intelligent, rational competition. It's a rumble for dorks. But I realized that much too late. And I don't think I'm ever going to forget the moment when it crystallized for me.

It was the day after our semifinal match – one day before the championship round. Much to my surprise and delight, it was a normal, boring day. Okay, I don't normally get greeted by that many people, but after the cavalcade of weirdness that was the past few weeks, it was nice and uneventful. I was walking up the stairs, talking about something or another with Ken – don't really remember what, just small talk. We bumped into Lenny Vaughn.

"What's up, Paul!" said Lenny.

"Oh, shit." Ken looked like he wanted to hide.

"Hey, Lenny!" I turned to Ken. "It's okay, he's cool. Seriously."

I'd spoken with Lenny a few times since we spoke during registration. No matter how many times I explained this to Ken, he never seemed to believe it. Cultural memories die hard.

"I didn't get a chance to see you after that last match," said Lenn. "Man, that shit was tense!"

"You're telling me." I pointed at Ken. "Oh, this is Ken Greevey."

"Yeah, you did a good job, too. Championship round, huh? Think you guys can take the heat?"

"I'm feeling pretty good about, it, right?" I looked at Ken, who couldn't have been more amazed if we'd just bumped into a space alien. "Right, Ken?"

"Oh, right, yeah," said Ken. "We have a solid chance, but I won't know the exact odds until this afternoon."

"He's kind of our statistician," I said.

"Oh yeah? Well, I guess every sport needs one right?" Lenny laughed. "Oh, shit. Gotta get to class."

"Yeah, us too," I said. "Come on, Ken."

The three of us climbed the stairs, but as I turned into the hallway, I spotted something very unpleasant. Aaron – whom I had fortunately not seen in person since the quarterfinals – was standing square in the middle of the hall. He didn't have his shark's grin on this time. He looked mad. More than mad – enraged, furious, ready to blow, fit to kill. I'd only seen that look once before, one afternoon in middle school years ago.

He didn't even wait for me to acknowledge him. "All right, you son of a bitch, we're having it out right now. Have you been talking shit about me behind my back?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I said. "I haven't said anything about you, you lunatic!"

"You lying bastard!" he shouted, jabbing his finger in my direction. "I'm onto your little game, badmouthing me to everyone, smearing me, trying to bring me down to your level."

"Oh, lay off, Aaron!" said Ken.

"Stay out of this, lardass, I'll get back to you." By this time, there was a crowd gathered around, watching Aaron lose his mind. "First there was that piece by that dumb hack Page, and don't even try to tell me that you weren't his 'anonymous source.' And now I hear that you've been telling your teammates that I'm obsessed and crazy and shouldn't be trusted."

"Well, it's all true, isn't it?" I said.

"You bastard." Aaron was grinding his teeth, hanging on to his last thread of self–control.

And I, in a moment of weakness, decided to push him. "Oh, quit playing like you're some innocent victim. You're the one who tried to frame me for cheating and then started a whisper campaign that I was the one who did it. Now that's just this one year, this one last month. You are beyond crazy, Aaron. You need help."

Saying that was a mistake. Aaron dropped everything and charged at me, snarling like a rabid animal. Lenny sprang into acting, leaping in between the two of us. Aaron struck the much larger quarterback and bounced off, landing flat on his back.

"What's you problem, kid? Back off!" said Lenny.

"Oh, I see how it is." Aaron stood up, a calmer tone in his voice but still red in the face. "You got goons now? How many essays did you have to write for him to get this service?"

"Just chill out, shithead." said Lenny, taking a step towards Aaron. Aaron backed off, but I could tell that he was still ready to take on all three of us.

"Look, Aaron," I said, "the only time I even mentioned you this week was when Scott and Trevor asked why you hate me so much. I just gave them the background. I didn't tell them the things you did. Believe me, I don't talk about you or think about you any more than I have to."

"Quit lying! Why do you keep lying?" Aaron stepped back to pick up his things, not even pausing his rant. "Like you don't remember what you did to me."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I said. "I never did!"

"Fine. You wanna play dumb? I can live with that. But everyone else is gonna know everything!" By this point, he was waving his arms, pacing around, and in general acting like a comic book villain. "I'm gonna tell your fatass friend and your jockstrap bodyguard and the world about a little boy who planned the perfect weekend getaway for his best friend in the world, the great Apollo Liston, and how the great man shook him off!"

"Your name's Apollo?" said Lenny.

"I don't go by that," I said. "The perfect weekend...what are you even –"

"Not your turn to talk," said Aaron. "It's always your turn to talk. Well, now it's my turn to talk! So I'm gonna tell a story about a very lonely kid who had one good friend in this whole messed up world. They were close friends, too, at least until one of them decided that the other was unnecessary. Obsolete. Superfluous. He always had an excuse as to why the two of them couldn't hang out."

"Hold on a second!" I said, barely finding a space in his diatribe to break in. "First, we were not that close. Second, I was busy, as were you. Hell, you were busier! You were the one off at some meet two, three weekends out of the month!"

"Oh, kiss my ass, Liston. I always found time." said Aaron. "You used to talk about how much you just wanted to get away from the extracurriculur crap, get out of town, and have a little fun. What did dear old punching bag Aaron Baines Bellamy do? I set it up for you. I spent two months planning the perfect weekend. Laser tag at the largest arena in the state. Reservations at Ripley's, that place with the custom gourmet hamburgers. There was even going to be a fireworks display that weekend. I had to beg my parents for a solid week before they'd even consider letting me do this! All for you, Paul. All my way of saying 'thanks.' And on that week, I called. I called and I called and you ignored me and you blew me off. I was stuck sitting there with the phone in my hand all weekend while you were laughing over my humiliation."

Aaron finished his spiel, and it was quiet for about ten seconds. No one knew quite what to say. Aaron stood his ground, pointing at me and grinning like he was in the middle of a psychotic episode. Ken was staring off into the distance, trying to wrap his head around what he'd just heard. The hallway was quiet, save the occasional muted click of a camera capturing Aaron in his moment of madness.

Finally, I spoke up. "You mean the weekend before you came in yelling? Asshole, we were out of town! That Friday, we drove to Chicago to visit my uncle and aunt. I even remember telling you we were going to be gone."

"Oh really? That's what you're going with? Mr. Wonderful and his wonderful family were out of town?" Aaron was still grinning, yet he also looked like he was on the verge of tears. "A liar until the very end, huh? I know you did it to hurt me, and now it's time to balance the scales. The Flying Brains go on in two hours, and I hope you get a damn good seat. Because I want you to see what goes down. I want you to see what I'm willing to do to someone who hasn't wronged me." He pointed one last time, turned and sprinted through the halls, shoving people aside.

Lenny looked at us, a clear look of confusion on his face. "Well, that was weird. You gonna be okay? I can keep an eye on him."

I shook my head. "...No, we'll be fine."

"All right, if you're sure," said Lenny. "I'm gonna take off. Good luck on Friday."

And then it was just Ken and me, trying to figure out exactly what had happened. "That was really messed up," said Ken.

"There's an understatement. I can't believe it. He's been after me for six years because I went to Chicago."

"What do you think he meant by that last part? You know, that thing about you getting a good seat?"

Suddenly, it hit me. It was there for me to see and I was so shocked I looked right past it. "You don't think he's going to cheat on stage, do you."

"That's impossible! There's hundreds of people watching. It's being recorded. He wouldn't risk cheating in a round he's convinced he'll win."

"He will if he wants to teach me a lesson. He wants me to see how powerful he is. He's gonna destroy that team and he wants me to sweat over it."

"Oh my God..." Ken suddenly panicked, his eyes darting around. "How long until class starts?"

"Like five minutes. Why?"

"I have to find Leon and warn him about Aaron. I can't let him get stomped like that!" Before I could say anything, he was gone, running down the stairs faster than I thought his pudgy legs could move.

I couldn't think about anything else that morning. It was all too much for me to take in. All I ever wanted to do was play a little game with the smart kids. I never signed up for this. Intrigue is not my game.

What I didn't know then was that there was something wholly new coming. Something that, in some ways, was even worse than anything I had imagined.

## KEN

I think I am finally coming to understand what Paul means when he speaks of the brotherhood of all nerds.

I have no sensible reason to help Leon. He is, after all, the competition, and there is no logical reason why I should expend my precious time to help him. By all rights, I should leave him and his friends to their fate. But I simply can not bring myself to ignore his plight. The thought of Aaron destroying them with his sleazy tricks sickens me. It sickens me as much as Aaron's earlier antics – maybe more so, because this time they are aimed at a bystander who does not understand the nature of this game. This is like a helpless house pet being kicked by a cruel owner, and I can not merely stand by an let it happen.

I did not realize until I took off down the stairs that I had no clue where Leon was. So I ran. I ran faster and farther than I thought I could. The others jumped out of my way, or else I shoved them clear – I had no time to deal with people in my way.

It was serendipity that I caught up with Leon outside of his first class.

"Ken? Are you all right?"

Given my three–minute sprint, I was not feeling all right, but there were other issues to discuss. "Aaron's gonna cheat."

"What are you talking about?"

"The match this morning..." I strained to catch my breath. "The guy who's leading the team...Aaron Bellamy...I think he's gonna try to pull something."

Leon seemed oddly collected. "What makes you say that?"

"Because that's the kind of person he is! Aaron's crazy. Obsessed. He's tried it several times this year alone! It's a long story. I don't have time right now or..." I paused to catch my breath. "...He's gonna do something. I can't go to the administration because I can't prove it, but he's definitely planning something."

A strange little expression crossed Leon's face. For a fleeting moment, he was lost in thought, as though remembering something he had seen before. "Thanks for telling me, but I think I'll be all right."

"You don't understand just how far this kid will go. I don't know what he's planning, but it's gonna be awful for sure! He's done a bunch of stuff to us already, you would not believe what this guy is willing to do."

"Believe me, I've known people like that before." He patted me on the shoulder. "I know how to deal with them. Trust me on this."

"Look, it's short notice, but I can put something together. I have some contacts. I don't think there's a whole lot I can do, but I can certainly check..." I let out a quick cough. "...I can see what I can do."

"That's not necessary." He turned into the classroom. "If I lose, I lose," he said over his shoulder, "but I don't think I'm going to lose."

I wish I could be like that – confident, placid, at peace with the world and the future. There was nothing more I could do, so I just went on to my class. It was an amazing agony, nothing but time to watch the clock and worry. I could not concentrate on much of anything. When I could gather my thought, all I could do was try to deduce what Aaron had planned. The class rolled on as a decade's worth of rumor and speculation floated through my head. It made little sense, and yet I knew it was coming.

It was a relief when we were dismissed to watch the match. At the first reasonable opportunity, I slipped away from my class to meet Paul. But before I could find my friend, someone else found me.

"Ken Greevey!" It was Ed, his memo pad and pencil at the ready. "Can I have a moment of your time?"

"I'm busy, Ed."

"Two minutes. I'm planning to do a little write–up after the tournament for the paper's blog, and I'd like to schedule everyone for an interview now. I can't find Paul in here, so if can just take me to him so the three of us can set something up –"

I waved him off. "Not now. Aaron's going to try and cheat."

"On stage?" He nearly dropped his memo pad. "Everyone I talked to says that's impossible."

"Yeah, just about."

"Then how's he going to do it?" Ed seized me by the shoulder. "What is this kid planning that no one else has figured out?"

"Good question," I said as I ran into the crowd. "I'll tell you when I figure it out."

In reality, it is a very good question. To the best of my knowledge, there is no way to cheat during a round that is both reliable and undetectable. Students are not allowed to carry anything to the stage – no electronics, no paper, not even a pencil or a pen. Anyone who reached inside his pocket or glanced downwards repeatedly would surely attract attention. In the past, some people attempted to interfere with the equipment to give themselves an edge – sabotaging the other team's buzzers, for example. Of course, this would have to be done in full view of a crowd of witnesses, so it is a tremendous risk. The only undetectable means of cheating during the tournament is to obtain and memorize the questions in advance, but even this is only partially effective as the question lists are randomized. One could attempt to plant a confederate in the audience or even on stage, but aside from being ineffective and risky I could not imagine an egotist like Aaron ever stooping to employ an assistant. My mind buzzed with possibilities.

"Yo, Ken." Paul waved to me from the audience, pointing towards an empty seat next to him.

I squeezed through the row and joined him. "You spotted anything?"

"I showed up early and poked around, but they wouldn't let me too near the stage," he said. "I didn't see anything obvious."

"He couldn't rig anything on the stage, they'd catch it." My thoughts continued to race. "Could he have bribed someone on the staff to help him?"

"Help him do what? It's not like they can fix the score with everyone watching." Paul shook his head. "I'm stumped. There's nothing else he could possibly do."

"Well, maybe he's not really planning anything," I said. "Maybe he's just playing more mind games. Look at us, we're both freaking out over this."

"Yeah, I thought about that, too. Arrogant as he is, he might be thinking this will be a landslide, and he wants us to panic." He sighed. "You warn that other kid?"

"Yeah. He didn't seem too worried."

"Well, maybe he's confident in his skills. You know him a little bit, what are his chances?"

"His team did okay in the quarters, but it was against a group of losers. I have no idea how they'll fare against a champion caliber group."

"All right, we should keep an eye out anyway. You focus on the stage. I'll watch the crowd, see if anyone's acting funny."

"Will do."

The teams took their spots on stage for buzzer checks. It was an extremely tense moment for me, but both Aaron and Leon seemed perfectly at ease.

"Welcome to round two of the Trivia Master semi–finals..."

## AARON

### ~SEMIFINAL ROUND – FLYING BRAINS VS. PRAETORIANS~

That lying, double–crossing, scum–sucking, sadistic, degenerate asshole. Who does he think he's fooling? "I told you we'd be gone?" Sure you did, Paul. I know your game. I bet you were out there with your perfect little family having a good laugh at my expense while I was sitting alone, polishing my trophies and waiting for my parents to come home. Well, who needs you? I don't need friends, they always let you down and hurt you. I've got my own skills, and that's all I need in life. Just me.

And then he has the nerve to accuse me of cheating. Does it look like I have to cheat? Would someone like me need to cheat to beat these chumps? Look at them, sitting there like everything's okay. You guys are doomed. I'm done holding back. This time, I'm going to destroy all of you. This is the preview to judgment day when I finally rectify the nightmare that I've lived with all these years.

I can see Paul and his Ken out there in the audience. They're up close, dead center. Yeah, I can see you turds. I can see you plain as day.

Why is it always so cold in this building? It's August. No one needs the damn air conditioning up that high. This is some kind of stunt, I know it.

We have just enough time now for a quick strategy session. Not that I need it. Oh, I bet you think I need it, Paul, but I don't. I'm smarter than all of them. No, this is a show of strength, of mental muscle. It has to be a crusher. I'm going to preview Paul's fate for everyone in attendance.

I turn to Brian first. "What are our odds?"

"I don't have my figures in front of me," he says.

"Ballpark it."

"Based on their last performance, we're looking at an easy eighty point win," says Brian. "Probably higher, maybe a hundred and ten."

"Not good enough." I lean over the desk, covering my mouth from the microphones and the audience. "We're going for a blowout on this one. Take chances, jump in if you know anything. I want the biggest win possible."

"Why do you want to do that?" It's Sid, piping in with his half–assed opinion.

I glance over at him. "Why do you care?"

"Hey, Leon's cool," says Sid. "I just don't want to embarrass him if we don't have to."

I keep both eyes forward. "Sid, you dumb son of a bitch, if you even think about halfassing this, I will turn you inside out."

"Well, I'm just saying –"

"No, Sid. If you go easy, I will rip your life apart. Every time you cheated on a test. Every time you cheated on your girlfriend. Every time you went five miles over the speed limit – I'll get it all. And if I can't find enough? I'll make shit up. Are we clear?"

"Yeah, okay." I don't need to see Sid to know that I've made my point.

I glance over at Andrew. "Any problems, Bae?"

"Not at all," he says.

"Good."

I can't believe I still have to deal with this shit. Well, I guess it goes to show why you should never rely on anyone but yourself. I'm going to have to do this by myself, just like I always do. I'm the only one who really knows this game. You never scream onstage. You never cry onstage. You never frown or grimace onstage, and you sure as shit never sweat. It's all about willpower.

"Welcome to round two of the Trivia Master semi–finals between the Flying Brains and the Olympians. Whoever wins today will go on to face the Raging Nerds in tomorrow's final match."

It's starting now. I'll show them all who's the real king of this game.

"Question one: The first Roman Emp–"

Deedle–dee.

Shit! Someone already buzzed?

"Leon, Olympians."

"Augustus Octavian."

"Correct, for ten points."

Oh, you smug little prick. You think you can get away with that? I'm just getting warmed up.

"Question two: Referring to the earliest form of electrical flow –"

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Olympians."

"Direct current."

"Correct."

Damn it! Again? Now you're just pissing me off, kid.

"Question three: In what year did the signing of the Treaty of Paris –"

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Olympians."

"1783."

"Correct."

What's going on here? This isn't right. I should be burning this kid. I can hear the chatter in the audience, no one knows what's going on.

Pull yourself together, Aaron. Lose your cool here, and you're cooked.

"Question three: This Greek deity, know as 'Earthshaker' –"

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Olympians."

"Poseidon."

This isn't right. Damn it, this isn't right. This isn't right.

"Correct, for ten points."

What did he do to me? I can't keep it all straight.

Deedle–dee.

"Correct."

Deedle–dee.

"Correct, for ten points."

It's all slipping past me. What did he do? What did you do, you son of a bitch?

"And the final question of the first round: If A is related to B, and B is related to C –"

Doot–de–doot.

"Aaron, Brains."

"Transitive property."

"Correct. And that's the end of the first round, with 90 points to the Praetorians and 10 points to the Flying Brains."

I can hear them muttering in the crowd. They're loving this. How many of them are in on it? How many pawns does this guy have? Damn it, when did they turn the heat back on in here?

"It's time for the first team question, write down your bids now."

Fifty. I don't have to check with Brian on this one, I know he agrees with me.

Come on, show me the answer. It's time to come back.

"Pride and Prejudice is correct. Your wager?...50 points to the Flying Brains. Praetorians, your answer?...Pride and Prejudice, correct as well. Your wager?...10 points to the Praetorians. The score stands at Praetorians 100, Flying Brains 60. Let's begin round two."

You think you can beat me? You don't know who you're messing with, kid. That was just a jump start, a warm–up. The second round is where I turn it around. Your friends can't save you now.

"Question one: At over four thousand miles, this mountain range –"

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Praetorians."

"The Andes."

"Correct, for twenty points."

_Shit shit shit shit shit_...

## PAUL

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Praetorians."

"Syria."

"Correct, for twenty points."

I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and I wasn't alone. Aaron was pale and sweating and looked like he was on the verge of a complete breakdown. All around me, people were whispering to each other, trying to get a grip on this unusual turn of events. I looked over at Ken, hoping he might have some insight, but he was totally occupied. He had a stopwatch in one hand and a pen in the other, hastily jotting down numbers into his notebook. The whole time, he was muttering to himself "Not possible...it's not possible."

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Praetorians."

"Thomas Edison."

"Correct."

Ken put away the stopwatch and dug a calculator out of his bag. "What's going on?" I asked.

"Just keep watching the stage, I'll tell you later." He turned back to his notes.

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Praetorians."

"The Brazilian wandering spider."

"Correct."

Ken tapped me on the shoulder. "There's something wrong, here. No one could be this fast. You seeing anything funny up there?"

"You think Leon is cheating? I can't see how."

"Neither can I, but find something. This makes no sense."

"It looks normal to me..."

Of course, what I meant is that nothing suspicious was happening up there. There was nothing normal about this.

The Praetorians won by 400 to 130. That part definitely wasn't normal. I don't remember what the biggest blowout I've ever seen was, but I'm sure it was less than 270 points.

We broke for lunch after the round. I'd hoped for some idle conversation, anything to distract from what I'd just seen, but that wasn't to be. Ken spent the whole time staring at his notebook, trying to find some logic in the numbers.

Not that I didn't try to leaven the mood. "That was unique, huh?" Only silence greeted me. "You know, I'd like to believe they were cheating, too, but unless he's psychic, I don't see how." More silence. "Say something, man, you're freaking me out."

Ken looked up and stared off into the sky. "Leon's, uh...Leon's reaction time is somewhere around 220 milliseconds. Maybe faster. That's...he's at least a tenth of a second faster than you. At least." He closed the notebook, put it away, and stood up. "This is bad. This is really bad."

"I wasn't expecting it to get this hard either, but it's not like we're out of contention. He can't beat all of us just on his own. No one's perfect, right?"

Ken looked back at me. He was staring straight through me, like I just told him that the sky had polka–dots. He didn't say a word – he didn't have to. The incredulous look told me all I needed to know.

"All right, Ken. Clearly, you have a lot to work through here, and I'm not helping. So, I guess I'll see you later."

As I turned to leave, I heard a voice from behind. "Hey, Ken."

I looked over my shoulder. It was Leon Mara, in the flesh. Ken dropped his blank stare and seemed to perk up immediately. "Hey, buddy!" he said in an exaggeratedly cheerful voice. "That was quite a round!"

"Thanks." He looked at me. "And you would be Paul Liston, correct?"

"Yeah, I'm Paul. Leon, right?" Leon extended his hand, which I shook with some trepidation. "That was really an impressive victory."

"Thanks, it was a good round," said Leon. "Sorry if I was interrupting anything."

"Not at all!" chimed in Ken. "We were just killing time, right Paul?"

"Yeah, we're not doing anything important here," I said.

"Good," said Leon. "There was just something I wanted to ask real quick. Paul, are you busy this evening?"

"This evening?" I said. "I don't think so...I'll check, but I should be open. Why?"

"Well, we're new in town, and I've already spent some time with Ken, but other than that I really don't know anyone around here. I was talking to my father last night, and he thought that with the finals coming up, it would be nice to get to know the head of the team we'll be playing against. To keep everything friendly and all. You are the team leader?"

"Sure he is!" said Ken, throwing his arm around my shoulder. "He's the glue that holds the Raging Nerds together!"

Leon nodded. "Good. If you have time, I was thinking you might come by our house for dinner. I'll let you check your schedule. Do you have some paper?"

"Of course I have paper!" Ken grabbed his notebook and ripped out a page, handing it to Leon with a ridiculous grin.

"Thanks." Leon wrote something down and handed it to me. "This is the address and house number. Just call if you're free, and I'll give you directions, okay?"

"Sure," I said.

"Thanks," said Leon. "See you later."

We were both quiet until Leon was out of earshot, at which point Ken said "You're going to call, right?"

"Call him? I don't know. I mean, I've never been that comfortable going to stranger's houses."

"I'd go in a second, but he didn't invite me. Come on, this is a great opportunity."

"Opportunity for what? What's your angle?"

"No angle," said Ken, trying to play it coy. "But, you know, he is probably our greatest opponent ever, and it might be a good idea to get to know him. You know, in advance?"

I got the message loud and clear. "You want me to spy on him, don't you?"

"I don't care for that word, Paul. And don't tell me you're not curious, too."

"Maybe a little." What? I'm only human.

"Of course, you are! Look, I don't know if this kid is cheating or if he's some kind of freak of nature, but the only way we're going to find out is by getting a look at his inner sanctum."

I laughed in Ken's face – I couldn't help it, this was absurd even for him. "What makes you think I'm even capable of this? I'm no spy, Ken"

"Not much to it. All you'd have to do is keep your eyes open. Maybe take a few pictures."

"You want me to plant a bug in there, too?"

Ken rolled his eyes. "Paul, be serious. That's not even remotely practical."

"Fine. I'll go to his house, but I'm not gonna do recon for you."

"Well, will you at least get in touch afterward so I know what you found?"

"I'll drop you a line, okay?"

"All I'm asking."

### * * * * * * *

I'm such a sucker. I actually called Leon, acting against every impulse to keep my distance. That's how, at 5:30, I ended up on a bus headed towards the edge of town.

Pre–match meetings between rival teams aren't especially common. When they do happen, they are inevitably approached with caution from both sides. It wasn't that I felt worried – from what I knew of Leon, he wasn't going to try and pull anything. If anything, I was the schemer here. I was the one on a mission to unearth my rival's secrets. But just because I wasn't anticipating a knife in my back, that doesn't mean that I was comfortable.

The Mara residence was a huge house, but old and in an inconvenient part of town – two factors that no doubt made it very affordable for Leon's parents. The walkway to the door was a twisting path made from cobblestones that were half sunk into the ground, half swallowed by the soil. It's almost like this place was made to be intimidating.

Not seeing a buzzer, I knocked on the door. Moments later, an unassuming middle–aged man appeared in the frame. He seemed oddly familiar, like an old picture all grown up.

"You're Paul Liston?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"No need to be so formal. Come on in, I'll go find the kids."

Mr. Mara led me into a small study. It was like something out of an old movie – very old fashioned, with cracked leather armchairs, a big stained glass coffee table, antique wall–mounted lamps and bookshelves built into every wall that extended up to the ceiling. The shelves were packed, but only some of them with books. From what I could see, most of the space was occupied by board games – dozens of them, some new, some old, all of them obviously well used. The coffee table was bare except for a small wooden box situated dead in the center. I nudged off the lid and peeked inside, finding it full of Trivial Pursuit cards. They were from various sets, all of them soft and worn at the edges, like the kind of thing you'd see in a restaurant.

I was so focused on the cards that I didn't notice Leon come in. "Hello, Paul. Brushing up on your skills?"

I hastily shut the box and stood up. "Oh, sorry. Going through people's things, it's kind of a bad habit."

"No big deal, that's why they're there," said Leon. "Do you ever find time to play?"

"In gifted classes, sometimes."

Leon looked around the room. "I think my dad owns every edition that they ever made. Even some rare ones, although those are in storage."

"Well, it's good to have a hobby."

"Oh, it's more than a hobby." Leon smiled. "Well, come in to the kitchen. Dinner's almost ready."

The kitchen and dining area were surprisingly small, given the size of the house. Corkboards covered the walls, covered in newspaper clippings and photographs. As we walked in, another kid entered from another direction, carrying some kind of odd tool whose function I couldn't deduce.

"How long I gotta wait up here?" said the kid.

"Don't be rude, Eric," said Mr. Mara "Five minutes, and you can get back to your project."

"All right." Eric looked at me. "You're the kid Leon's gonna beat?"

"There's no need to be a smartass," said Leon. "Sorry about Eric. He's a little impulsive, but he's got the makings of a champion himself. Take a seat."

The table was set for three people. I felt awkward enough without asking where Mrs. Mara was. There was an odd centerpiece on the table with several compartments, each containing trivia cards.

"Can't help but notice that you guys are really into trivia," I said.

"It's sort of a family tradition," said Leon. "Speaking of traditions, you lucked out. My dad makes this special gourmet pizza that's unlike anything you've ever had in a restaurant. It's like an Italian–Greek fusion."

Mr. Mara poked his head into the dining area. "Taking a little longer than I thought. Maybe you'd like to run through a few cards?"

"I'll read 'em." Eric leaned over the table and took a card. "What is the term for opposition to an electrical..."

"Resistance," said Leon.

"Right, of course," said Eric.

I flicked through the cards, which seemed to have been cannibalized from a variety of sets. Leon wasn't kidding – some of these cards were from rare editions, the kind I'd seen sell for hundreds of dollars in online auctions. The group of cards in the middle stood out, though. They were plain white, lettered in what appeared to be ballpoint pen.

I picked one up. "These ones look hand–made."

"Yeah, I made those for practice back in the day," said Mr. Mara. "A few years back, I had them laminated. They're a keepsake."

Suddenly, it all hit me. I knew why this all seemed so familiar. "You're Jerry Mara."

The name Mara probably isn't familiar to you, but we all know who he is. I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out. This guy's a living legend.

A little background: The only official records kept of non–televised trivia contests are the names of the winners in each division. However, there are always a few buffs keeping more detailed records. Back in 1982, one such group of amateur statisticians decided to compile a guidebook with figures on all public matches. First published through vanity presses, moved to its own website in 1996 and now produced via its own dedicated printer, the Aukland's Unauthorized Almanac of Trivia and Trivia Competitions is the ultimate resource for obsessive quiz geeks. It's now available in around twenty languages and there are all sorts of special editions that sell a lot better than you'd imagine, but the most common is the humble manual–sized paperback, given away for free at a variety of events. I've been carrying one of those editions since this competition started.

These things are chock full of insanely detailed stats and histories of events, but the most interesting part of the guide is the listing of the _dramatis personae_ , the rock stars of the trivia world. The information found here is unavailable anywhere else. For example, the official records note that the 1992 Championships were won by a team from Chester A. Arthur High School. Only the Almanac will tell you that this team averaged a whopping 340 points per round – or that one member, Jeremiah Mara, pulled off a 100% accuracy rate in twenty–nine recorded matches. You know what they called him? "The Supercomputer That Walks Like A Man."

And here I was, sitting in his presence. I felt like I should stand, or genuflect, or maybe knock my head on the floor.

I might have been awestruck, but Mr. Mara just laughed it off. "I guess they're still passing that trivia almanac around, huh? Yeah, those were some fun times." A ding sounded from the kitchen. "Pizza's ready. All right, Eric, cut yourself a slice and you can get back to work."

I couldn't really concentrate on much after that. We talked about this and that and I assume I responded, but it was all a deeply awkward blur. The revelation of my opponent's roots just made me feel more screwed. Once dinner was over, I immediately planned my retreat.

"You sure you don't want to stay any longer?" said Leon. "We've been refurbishing and remodeling this old air hockey table. The neon highlights aren't set in yet, but it's still pretty sweet."

"Thanks, but I'm a little tired. Been kind of a long week."

"Of course. You know, if you want to maximize your reflexes, you should get eight and a half hours of sleep followed by at least three hours of wakefulness."

"Thanks. Hey, how do you put up with all the pressure? New to the school, plus the contest..."

"There's no pressure. It's fun. Don't you agree?"

"Yeah. Fun. Well, see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Of course. Good luck, Paul."

"You too."

The bus ride home gave me some time to think. Mostly, I thought about the state of my life, and how much I'd tied it up with contests like this. I wondered what I'd missed along the way.

Ken was waiting at my stop. He was going to be even more displeased than me.

## KEN

The average reaction time of a championship–level quiz bowl competitor is around 325 milliseconds. This is defined as the time elapsed between solving the question and buzzing in. This can obviously be a subjective determination, but brain scans prove that it can be gauged to a reasonable degree of accuracy using a modified buzzer system and the right software. When this is not available, it can be estimated by timing the on–stage response and then running the data through the Declan–Huang formula to account for human error. In real terms, each 18 millisecond advantage over a competitor translates to about 10% more successful buzzes.

I'm sorry, my heart's not in this today. Oh, there's plenty more to discuss, but I am really not in the mood. Maybe it's time for me to be perfectly honest.

I'm a little scared. From the second I saw Leon on stage, I just knew that we were going to lose. I just knew that everything I've put into this – the studying, the planning, the hours of analysis, the late nights training myself – was going to amount to nothing. I'm a hornet trying to kill a giant, a fool trying to bust through a concrete wall with my forehead.

I tried to be good and wait for a call or email, but I was going crazy sitting in my room. So I went out for a walk and ended up outside of Paul's building. Okay, I didn't "end up" there, that's where I was headed. I needed the face–to–face communication.

It was around 7:00 when the bus pulled up. The sun was setting, and everyone else was headed home, hoping to get some rest before their weekend plans.

"Were you waiting for me?" said Paul as he walked up the street.

"Yeah, sorry for showing up. I was a little restless at home."

"I guess I can understand that."

"So you're not mad?"

"No, I'm not mad."

"Okay. So what did you find out? Is he cheating?"

Paul shook his head. "No, he's not cheating. He's just that good."

"How? Does he have some sort of trick?"

"A trick?" Paul chuckled. "Did you realize who his father is?"

"No, how would I..." It all hit me at once. Somehow, I failed to make the connection. "Holy shit. He's Jerry Mara's kid, isn't he?"

"Yep. I met him, you know."

"That explains everything! Listen, I know it's late, but we need to talk strategy. I've been running the numbers and –"

"Ken, please," interrupted Paul. "I think you need to come to grips with the fact that we're probably going to lose tomorrow."

"What, you're giving up? Throwing in the towel?"

"That's not what I'm saying. I'll give it all I have, okay? One hundred percent. But I don't think that's going to be enough. We're going to lose, and you really need to accept that."

I almost slapped him across the face. Instead, I just yelled. "No! I don't accept that! I do not accept that we could get this far only to drop at the finish line!"

"You think I'm happy with this?" I could tell that Paul was as frustrated as me. "I don't want to lose, I'm being realistic!"

"You're being fatalistic! Look, Paul, I get where you're coming from. I'm worried, too. I am freaking out. But I am going to try and salvage a win from this thing. I've put too much into this to give up now when everything is finally within arm's reach!"

"Do you ever listen to yourself? You're losing your mind over a game! That's all it is, Ken. That's all it's ever been – not a battle of the wills, not a triumph of the oppressed, a game." Paul buried his face in his hands. "I am so sick of this Ken. This behavior? It's a sickness, and it's spreading through the school. It's not just Aaron. It's Isabel Morelli and Colette Henshaw and crazy Christine Hekkler and all those assholes who came before us. It's hereditary in the Mara family. And it's you too, Ken. I wasn't willing to admit it until now, but you're no different."

That one hurt. "So you think I'm like Aaron?"

"No, I'm sorry, that was too far. It's just..." Paul paused. "It's just that I've been putting up with this weird behavior of yours for a long time, with your obsessions, and your drills, and strategy sessions. After all this time, I still don't get it. Why? Why do you take this so seriously?"

"Because I don't have anything else!" I sputtered. "This game is all I've ever had."

"What are you talking about? You have plenty going for you."

"Do I?" I said. Then I told him a little story.

### * * * * * * *

I was seven years old when I first discovered trivia.

It was just another fall afternoon. Doesn't really matter what afternoon – it was always the same. I was in our apartment, doing homework and advance homework and extra credit and whatever else it took to keep those As rolling in. That was my whole life back then. I didn't play with other kids, never had a pet, never had any hobbies. The only thing that mattered to me was a column of letters on a report card. It was the only thing I knew to judge myself, the only thing that made me feel good.

But there was one afternoon that was different. The elementary school was out for the day, and my parents didn't want to leave me home alone. So they got my sister to take me to watch a competition they were holding over in the high school auditorium. At first, I didn't want to go – the big kids made me nervous.

"Really, you'll like it," she said. "It's a game for kids like you."

So I went. I sat in the front row by myself, not really knowing what was going on. And then I heard it, for the first time ever:

"Good afternoon, and welcome to Northwest High School's Trivia Master."

Everyone applauded. I didn't understand why – it was just some kids on a stage answering questions. But each time one of the kids buzzed in, everyone got real excited. Everyone was whispering, trying to guess the answers before the smart kids on stage. And when the round ended, everyone cheered.

I'd never seen anything like it in my life. I always thought that my life was boring, that there was nothing I could do to excite people. This changed everything. For the first time, I realized that there was something I could do that other people wanted to see. There was something I could do that was actually exciting.

For the first time in my life, I thought that maybe I could be the winner for a change.

Every year after that, I found some excuse to watch the matches. I skipped class or lied about being sick so I could sit in and witness the excitement. It was exhilarating. But the best part was that I knew that one day, it would be me up there. I'd be the one in the champion's circle, with everyone cheering me on. I wouldn't have to be a loser anymore.

### * * * * * * *

"You're not a loser, okay?" said Paul. "In another year, you'll be out of here. You'll have your own life."

"No, you'll have your own life," I said. "That's how we're different, Paul. You have talents, and skills and hobbies outside of academics. After this, you'll go off and meet new people, have new experiences, fall in love, have a family, do great things. Not me, though. Maybe I will be successful, but I'll never be a winner. Do you know that I've never won anything? Not once in my entire life. This just feels like my last real chance at doing something that people will actually remember." I sighed. "That must sound really small and stupid, but it's how it is."

"This isn't the end of your life, Ken."

"Sure." I swallowed back a lump. "Maybe this was supposed to happen."

Paul patted me on the shoulder. "I'm sorry I said you were sick. I think I understand where you're coming from. Hell, I'm probably no different. And who knows? We could still win. We'll give 'em hell, right?"

"Thanks."

"Leon Mara's just another guy, right? I mean, who are the Maras? They're not gods."

"Yeah, that's true."

As he headed into his building, he looked over his shoulder. "Don't get up too early. You need eight and a half hours of sleep and three hours of wakefulness to maximize your reflexes."

"You're a good man, Paul."

Back at home, I tried to settle into my training routine, but I just couldn't concentrate. I needed rest. I settled back into bed and tried my best to sleep. It came slowly.

I had a dream that night. It was the final round, and Paul was kicking ass and taking names. All of a sudden, I realized that I wasn't on stage with him. I was sitting on a hill way off in the distance with Trevor and Scott and Jane and Aaron and everyone else. Paul was completely alone, just him and Leon sitting across from each other, going blow for blow.

Dreams are strange.

# Phase IV: Duel

## PAUL

I don't think I've ever experienced any tension like I did in the hours leading up to the championship round. It's always like that, I suppose. It doesn't matter how insignificant the contest may be, that last stretch is a real killer. It only gets worse if your odds are bad to start with. When you know you're expected to lose, your head fills with pictures of all the ways you can screw up at the finish line.

The hour before the match, I made up some excuse to get out of class – another smart kid perk, everyone assumes you have tons of extracurriculars so no one questions you when you ask to leave – and went to the auditorium. Everything was dark except for the stage, illuminated under a single ambient stage light like a display at a museum. Most people find it ominous, but there's something soothing about it, too. It's almost like I'm the last man on Earth, free from the torments of other people.

"You're early."

I almost bolted at the sound of another voice. With the size of the room and the darkness, it took me a moment to place the source. Finally, I noticed a single figure leaning against the wall near the podium, just outside of the lights. It was Leon.

It was a moment before I felt comfortable to speak. "I was feeling a little anxious, so I got permission to come down here early. I wasn't planning anything, I swear."

"Of course not. I understand exactly why you're here." He walked towards me, into the pale light coming from the sound booth. "You know how to control the lights? I wanted to get a better look at the room."

"Uh, yeah, I've used the controls before. Give me a minute, I'll bring the stage lights up." The door to the sound booth was unlocked in preparation for the round, so I headed up the stairs. Years back, when they installed the new control system for the auditorium, they taught me how to control everything. I guess they thought I could be an asset, but that was the last time I was up there. Sometimes I wish I would have stuck with it. Controlling the lights and sound for Trivia Master would have been a lot less stressful.

After a few seconds, I found the switches for the stage lights and turned them on. The room was suddenly illuminated, revealing hundreds of empty seats and a barren stage.

"It's nice, isn't it?" shouted Leon from the stage. "The last calm before the onset of the storm." He breathed deeply and exhaled. "I love big, quiet rooms. Best places in the world to think. That's why you're here, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose it is," I said.

"Come on down. This is no way to have a conversation."

"Okay." I took the stairs slowly, the rows of empty seats coming into view. There was something haunted about it that I had never noticed.

"Sometimes you have to take peace where you can get it," said Leon. "It's always so temporary. In another hour, there will be hundreds of people in here, all waiting to watch the big show. All hanging on every word, every moment in between the words..." He had a far–away look in his eyes, like he was remembering something from long ago.

"You've done this before?" I said, approaching the stage. "Sorry, silly question. It's just that I follow the stats, and I don't remember seeing your name."

"Nothing silly about it," said Leon. "I've done plenty of competitions, but smaller ones. Little trials and gifted events, that sort of thing. I never had a stage like this. More schools should have these kinds of events."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure most schools wouldn't want the drama that comes with it. The backstabbing, the dirty tricks...it's messy."

"But that's exactly why they should do it like this. So that everyone can see what distinguishes real winners from the cheaters and the liars and the saboteurs. There's plenty of that in the outside world. Kids need to experience the triumph of talent, something to give them back that ambition that they've lost."

"That's a good point." Something about the way he spoke was disturbing me. I decided I didn't really need to hang around the auditorium. "I'm gonna go take care of a few things before the match. Uh, good luck!"

"Don't need it."

I stopped. "Of course not, it's just something you say."

"Of course" he said. "But one question before you go. You think you're going to win?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you think that you are going to win?" Leon said those words slowly and deliberately, as though he didn't think I was bright enough to understand him.

"Uh...I don't know. We'll see."

"You know. Do you think you're going to win?" Leon took a seat on the edge of the stage. "Come on, be honest. Because if you don't think you're going to win, there's no need to even be here."

"Well, of course I think I could win," I said. "I'm smart enough to win, but there's no way to know until it starts. That's what it makes it exciting, right?"

"Thanks. That's all I needed to know."

I didn't feel like leaving anymore. There was something strange going on, and I wanted to figure it out. "Okay, what's going on here? What do you mean 'all you needed to know'?"

"It's just that I've heard that a lot. 'I could win.' 'I'm smart enough.' I bet you're the fifth...no, the sixth person to tell me that. But it's a lie. You're expecting to lose."

I stepped towards him. "What makes you so sure about that?"

"Come on, Paul, it's me. I was sitting three feet from you when you found out who we were. I saw the look on your face. That was a look that said to me that you were prepared to lose. To lose big."

"What kind of mind game is this, Leon?"

"It's no such thing, but it's very revealing that you would assume that." Leon hopped down from the stage and paced over to me, his words echoing through the empty room. "What it is, is a matter of honor. My father always taught me that you should treat your opponent well before you deliver the finishing blow, so to speak."

"Honor? What the hell are you talking about?"

Leon turned, leaning against the first row of seats. "Play fair, but play to win. The way it's supposed to be. I know words like 'honor' don't mean much around here, but I thought you might understand it. I guess I was wrong about at least one thing."

"No, I understand what you're saying," I said.

"But? Be honest."

"The way you're saying it...it seems strange."

"Clearly, something's bothering you," said Leon. "Don't be afraid to tell me. We're fellow travelers, aren't we?"

I didn't really know what to think, but I wasn't about to let him go on that point. "All right. You want honesty? The whole truth?"

"The whole truth. Go ahead, Paul, I know there's something you want to ask. They always do."

"They always do..." I tried to ignore his last remark. "Okay, I know when people are playing dirty, I'm used to it. I've seen every form of ugly competition that they've dreamed up. You come along, acting all mild and well–mannered, and I think that maybe we're on the same page. And then there's that meeting at your house, and running into me here...you're honestly telling me that none of this gamesmanship?"

"Not at all, Paul. Just sportsmanship."

"No, there's something else missing here. Okay, what about the quarterfinal? You only pulled out an 50–point win against a team that had no hope of winning. You could have landed a blowout easy, but you didn't."

"You think I threw the match? Maybe to hide my talents?" He smiled – a cool smile, an expression of absolute confidence. "I call that being polite. Part of being honorable, part of being a good sport, is not showing off. I didn't feel like I needed to embarrass those kids. That's another thing I learned from my father: You only use as much talent as you need, never more."

"Bullshit! What about your semifinal round? You destroyed the Flying Brains. I've never seen a match that lopsided."

"Okay, you got me there." Leon threw out his arms and took a few steps towards me. "Truth is, I probably would have let the Brains go with the same treatment I gave that first team. And then I started hearing things about their leader. You've dealt with him before, right?"

"Aaron Bellamy, yeah."

"Aaron Bellamy, that's the one. I heard rumors about what a piece of shit he was, but I didn't decide to do anything to him until yesterday. That's when I heard that he was telling everyone that he was going to crush us, and then your friend Ken told me that he was a cheater. That's when it came together. That's when I realized that he was the one who'd been causing so much trouble." Leon laughed to himself. "And I thought he would benefit from a lesson in humility."

"Humility?" I felt like I was going insane. "All that talk about sportsmanship and you humiliate someone for badmouthing you?"

"Oh, don't tell me you feel sorry for him," said Leon. "I know about what he's done to you."

"That's beside the point!" I started to back away. "Holy shit Leon, this is nuts! You're crazy!"

"And you're scared!" Leon jabbed his finger towards me. "I can see it in your eyes. Aaron might be a psycho, but you're a coward, and that's worse. A coward like the rest of them. You know what? They said they were smart enough, too."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't know?" Leon crossed behind me, blocking my way out. "Maybe you're not as smart as I thought."

"You don't know anything about me."

"Because I know exactly what kind of person you are. I know everything about you, Paul. I should, I've seen you so many times. I've seen your type." Leon was pacing little circles around me, sizing me up. "Didn't always look like you. Sometimes, it was a girl. Different skin color. Different accent, dialect. Taller or shorter. But they were all the same."

"I have things to do." I stepped around him.

Leon shrugged. "You're the smart kid, yes? They call you that?"

He was waiting patiently for me to answer, but I had the feeling that he knew everything I was going to say. "Yeah, that's me. They call me the smart kid."

"And when you were younger, the probably gave you all sorts of tests, right?"

"Yes, they did."

"And you scored through the roof, right?"

"Yes, I did."

"Probably got straight As since elementary school? Riding through life on the gifted program? Maybe even skipped ahead in a few classes?"

"Yes, all right, that's me! That's me!"

"Exactly." Leon shook his head. "God, you people disgust me. All any of you ever do is bitch and moan about how hard it is to be the 'smart kid.' 'The other kids tease me.' 'The girl I'm infatuated with won't go out with me.' 'I can't believe a superior being like me is stuck here.' Meanwhile, everyone else is just trying to get to the end of the day without flunking out. Not you, though. You don't have to fight for any of it, you just sail right through."

"Okay, stop right there!" I got in Leon's face. "That's where you're wrong. I worked damn hard to get where I am."

"Oh, please, Paul. Did you ever get stuck on a test? Did you ever bust your ass all weekend trying to finish up just your regular homework? Did you ever sweat over your grade card because you honestly didn't know what you were going to get?"

"Well..." I sighed. "...no."

"Yeah. You're the worst kind of smart kid, Paul. I bet you've never taken a risk in your life. Why should you? It was always so easy to play it safe. Everything was so easy for you, so you just got used to taking the path of least resistance. You never took any real risks because you didn't have to." Leon grabbed me by the shoulder and stared me dead in the eye. There was this look of spite behind those eyes that I had never seen before. "That's where you and I differ. You see, Paul, your kind plays it safe because you can always afford to. For me, that's not an option. I put it all on the line in every single match. That's how I won before, and that's how I will win today. It all comes down to this, Paul: I'm not smarter than you, I'm just better than you. And very soon, I'm going to prove it to the whole world."

I was so awestruck that I couldn't move at first. Leon walked back to the stage, staring wistfully at the stage furniture. "I've been waiting a long time for a stage like this. You know, I've beaten a lot of people like you, but no one saw me do it. But a high–profile event like this? Word will spread. First to the local press, then to Aukland's, then to the internet, the country, the planet. I'm going to make you famous, Paul. You're going to lose today, but please play to win. If you throw the match, I'll bury you deeper than I buried Aaron." He turned back to me. "You can leave now."

That's where we left off. As I write this, the crowd is already starting to form. And none of them know it, but they're all going to be witnesses to an execution. They're all props in some sort of coup.

And I still don't know how I got here. I just don't know.

## JANE

The day of the Trivia Master championship round is a little like the last day before a long break. Everyone just goes through the motions and kills time while we wait for the thing to start. And even the teachers who want to keep their classes on track struggle to do it. I mean, good luck keeping anyone's attention when there are people stomping around the building all day. It starts before noon when the Jameson people show up to start setting up their equipment. The parents and other curious types start trickling in after lunch, and by one o'clock the place is packed. And that's on a normal year.

A lot of the people on staff want to call the day early, maybe run the match at 1:30 and then let everyone out, but the administrators insist that they have to follow the rules for dismissal. After this year, I bet they reconsider. There were people parking illegally in the student and staff lots starting around eleven, jamming up the streets and blocking everyone in. There were strangers milling around on campus for hours before the round started up, some of them people from miles and miles away who heard about the insanity that was going down and wanted to see it in person. I hear some of them tried to sneak into the building and break into the auditorium just to get a guaranteed seat. Shit, if you're gonna deal with that kind of nonsense, just bump up the match by an hour or two and call it a day. Let's not pretend that anyone's learning anything with all of this going on.

But we're stuck with it, and that meant that I was stuck with fourth period trig. Mr. Pregler was late as usual, which was all right because so was everyone else. The ones who didn't just skip out in the madness were all downstairs gaping at the crowd. I went ahead and let myself in to the class via the usual method and left my things inside. On the way out, I bumped into Duncan Washington.

"Oh...afternoon, Duncan. Looking for peace and quiet?"

"Yeah. Only a few people showed up to class, so I figured I could take some time..." Duncan stared at me. "...How did you get in there? Don't they lock those doors?"

"Yeah." I held up my old ID. "The inside locks in this building kinda suck."

"How do you know how to do that?"

"Well, a girl's gotta have a job." I laughed. "Seriously, someone from the class showed us how to do it. When Mr. Pregler's late, we have a little fun with him. Get in, move things around...you know."

"Never would have thought of that one." Duncan leaned against the lockers. "So...hell of a match you girls had on Wednesday. For a second there, I thought you had Paul's ass."

Really wish he'd picked a different phrase. "I guess, but it was always gonna be close. No sure things this year."

"No shit."

"Your man Trevor's still in it. That's pretty cool."

"Yeah, but it would be better if I was up there with him."

I shook my head. "I don't envy him. I'll tell you, having spent some time in front of all those people, it's a lot better being in the crowd than being on stage. I don't need that kind of pressure in my life. No one does."

"Yeah. Plus the backstabbing."

"Yeah." I almost told him what had gone down with Isabel, but I bit my tongue. "...I've heard stories about that."

"Yeah, it's a shitty situation." Duncan gathered up his things. "You're watching the match, right?"

"Isn't everyone?"

"Cool." Duncan looked up and down the hall. "Looks like I'm cutting by default. Think I'll go find Trevor."

"I'm sure he needs the company."

"You wanna come with? No one's turning up to class."

"Eh..." I've never willingly skipped a class, not even on skip day. But what the hell is life for, anyway? No one stays a parent's dream forever. "...I should go find Isabel. She's probably down in the crowd, taking pictures of herself with everyone."

"She can't be that shallow."

"Well, one way to find out..." I pulled out my phone. "...And she is. Maybe there's still time to talk her into staying for the match."

"Well, I'm taking off."

"All right. See you this afternoon, maybe."

"Yeah, see you. Oh, don't you need your stuff?"

"Shit, that's right." I pulled out my ID and reached for the doorknob. From the corner of my eye, I could see Duncan, watching with a goofy smile. "You need something?"

"Can I watch you do that?"

"Still not in the mood for an audience, thanks."

I let myself back into the room, hid a few things on Mr. Pregler's desk (because if you're going to break one rule, why not go for two?) and made my way out to the common area. Well, I tried to. God, what a mess – there had to be fifty out–of–towners out there, perfect strangers coming to watch the oncoming trainwreck. And that's even without the Jameson people and the media guys and the scouts and parents and siblings and extended families. Imagine, all this nonsense over some stupid little small town high school trivia contest.

I really do hope Paul wins. He deserves it.

## AARON

I don't even know why I bothered turning up to class today. I don't know why I decided to torture myself like this. Do I stand to gain anything from sitting around here all day, hour after hour? Of course I don't. Stares, that's what I get. Everyone staring me – students, those assholes in front of the building, even the goddamn teachers. I can see what they're thinking – there goes Aaron Baines Bellamy, the great loser. As though any of these people have room to talk. I didn't think I could despise this place any more than I already did, but this is nothing short of a waking nightmare.

It's not like it was my fault. Who the hell would have guessed that he was Jerry Mara's kid? Everyone knows that the Maras are a pack of mutants. If I'd have known that this was coming, I wouldn't have wasted so much time on Paul. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence, me squaring off against that hellspawn in the semis. Obviously, the administrators knew who Leon Mara was, they had all his background info. I bet one of them arranged for this – set up the schedule just like this so I'd get blindsided right before my moment of glory. This has all the markings of a conspiracy.

And yet they keep staring, all of them. All those judging eyes on me. Especially in fifth period. Almost no one turned up, so Ms. Gaynor dropped the lesson and let us do whatever. Of course, all those idiots wanted to do was talk about Trivia Master. Just chat away their lives, throwing me little glances every now and then. And I tried to keep my cool, as hard as it was. I poured every ounce of myself into fighting back the urge to tell them all exactly what they could do with those neural spasms they called their opinions.

But then they started talking to me. And asking me things. Very, very stupid things. Just gallons of ignorance and foolishness being poured out for me.

"What was it like being up there with Mara?"

"Is he faster than Paul Liston? It's hard to tell from that far back."

"I read somewhere that Jerry Mara had some kind of special buzzer technique. You notice anything weird about the way Leon hit the button?"

"It must be weird being out of it like this. I figured you'd win it all."

"So the Nerds are getting their asses kicked, right? How many points do you think they'll even get?"

Finally, I couldn't take any more. The chair skittered across the floor behind me as I jumped clear of my seat. "All right, you vultures! Listen up and listen good. I'm sure that all of you dipshits are getting a real kick out of this. I'm sure you've been waiting for years and years for the chance to watch Aaron Bellamy squirm. Well, you ain't getting it. I'm not giving you imbeciles the satisfaction of watching me panic, not for one goddamn second! And the next one of you who comes out with a stupid little question or remark will suffer, this much I promise!"

That shut them up, although it didn't stop the staring. Then I saw that weasel Davis Racossi step towards me. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, you got it all wrong."

I leaned in close to him. "So it's blackmail from you now?"

Davis shook his head. "I think what they want to know, the reason for all the questions, is that this an interesting situation. Am I right?" There were heads nodding all around him. "Because all of us, everyone here? We know you have problems with Paul, right?"

"That's a pretty flippant way of putting it, but all right."

"Sure. So you don't like Paul, but it was Leon who beat you, so you have two enemies facing off against each other here."

How had I overlooked that? I must have been so deep in shock that I actually forgot that Paul was still in the running. No matter what's going to happen this afternoon, one nemesis succeeds while the other fails dismally. Which means that I stand to both lose and win. No matter what happens, it will end in equal parts shame and glory.

"So with that going on," continued Davis, "we all want to know who you think is going to win it all. Paul, or Leon."

"I'll have to get back to you about that."

"Cool. And hey, now that you're out of the running..." Davis leaned in close again. "...maybe you'd like to put a few bucks on it? I can cover your bet."

## KEN

I have spent the last few hours comparing strategies and running statistical models on the coming match. It is ultimately futile, as we are clearly well beyond the limits of what tactical play can accomplish. All I have determined is that, given my own skill level and what I could ascertain from Leon's capabilities, I would lose 99.5% of direct matchups. Clearly, I will be of minimal utility in what everyone predicts will be a straight head–to–head between Leon Mara and Paul Liston. Sadly, I believe that Paul's odds are not much better than mine, though I would be a fool to shatter his confidence by saying this aloud. He certainly does not require any more stress than has already been placed on his shoulders.

And the tension here has reached new heights. My focus on victory had grown so tight that I failed to notice a blurb about our competition on the website of Aukland's Unofficial. As a result, agents from several publications and leagues have come to Solace in hopes of seeing the public premiere of the next scion of the Mara clan. There will be important eyes on us today, and even more awaiting the footage which will no doubt be journeying across the digital void within minutes of the round's termination.

I was too restless to sit through every one of my classes, so during sixth period I decided to make an early exit. "Mrs. Allman? Can I be excused to get ready for the round?"

Mrs. Allman looked back into the classroom. "Kenneth, there are only three other students here."

"Yes, I see that. Can I go?"

"Do you really feel that it's necessary to ask when we're not even having a lesson today?"

"Well, yeah."

"Kenneth, just go on down."

"Thanks."

The buzz of the waiting crowd was plainly audible even from the other end of the building. Not wanting to deal with the mass of students and parents below, I worked my way to the auditorium via a lower profile route. But there would be no peace for me even on this route. Waiting for me at the entrance to the auditorium were two familiar faces: Ron Janowski, adjusting the controls on his school provided camera, and Edward Page, still sporting his rather comical hat. All that was missing was the card with the word "Press" protruding from the brim.

"Hey, Greevey!" Ron waved to me. "You fired up for the round?"

"Yes, I'm certainly fired up." I turned to Edward. "Now why are you hanging around here?"

"Why do I go anywhere?" said Edward. "I'm here for the story. They're sending people from across the state, what kind of reporter would I be if I wasn't here, too?"

"You're not a reporter," I said.

"Hey, I thought his last piece was pretty awesome," said Ron.

"And now I want the follow–up." Edward produced a cellular phone. "Care to give me a statement for the record? Come on, you talked plenty before."

"That was different. I was..." In truth, I spoke with Edward only to help Paul defuse a potential Aaron Bellamy plot, but I did not say this. That much honesty seemed like a mistake. "...you know, that was before the tournament really started. It's different now."

"Why?" said Edward. "Come on, Ken, if it was important before when it was just our little local write–up, then it's way more important now. Come on, just a few statements, a quote for the record. I'll take it from there."

I could only shake my head at his persistence. "Why are you so hot for this? You really can't think that this is gonna be your big break?"

Edward shrugged. "I think it's interesting. Maybe even important. And I think I can get other people to think that it's interesting and important, too. It's a story that deserves to be told, and I'd like to be the one who tells it."

"Yeah?" I had never thought of it like that.

"That's the name of the game." Edward extended his phone. "Comment for the record?"

Behind Edward, I saw Ron lift his camera. For once, this was going to be a big deal to someone besides me.

"You have time?" I said.

"Plenty of time until the round starts, man," said Ron. "We're recording. Chat away."

"Okay," I said. "Well, it all started on Wednesday about three weeks ago..."

## CHAPTER 39 – PAUL

### ~CHAMPIONSHIP ROUND – RAGING NERDS VS. PRAETORIANS~

"Mrs. Kasold? Can I be excused?"

All eyes in the room fall on me as I leave. A lot of these kids are supporters – either they were with me from the start, or else they're supporters of Aaron who decided that they like me more than this strange new kid who clobbered their man. I have no clue what any of them are anticipating. I can only speak for me.

The auditorium is right down the stairs, but it might as well be miles away. It takes every ounce of will I have to keep myself moving forward. I want to run, to hide somewhere that Leon and Ken and everyone else will never find me. But that's not me. I have to do this. Everyone is waiting on me. Some of them are counting on me.

I'm the first contestant in the auditorium, but it's not empty, not today. Everyone who assists in Trivia Master is invited to watch the final round, and plenty of them have shown up. Ron Janowski is there, but he's hardly the only press that's here. There are journalists – honest–to–God journalists – waiting to take notes for their human interest pieces. There are techs from Jameson Communications setting up the equipment to broadcast this thing. Did I mention this is going out live on local television and radio? Because it is. Which also means they're going to have video reads, and maybe eve a live stream over the internet. Damn, Leon really is getting exactly what he wants.

There's someone else here, a young woman just a few years older than me. She grins as I enter the room. "Afternoon, Paul. You ready for the big time?"

"Diana? What are you doing here?"

"Hell of a way to greet your cousin."

That's Diana Liston and yes, she is my older cousin. She used to live are here, but she got the hell out as soon as she could. Diana was almost like a big sister to me, but it was mostly because her parents and my parents made her watch me while they hit the town. I always expected her to be pissed for all the free babysitting hours they made her work, but she seems cool about it. Thing is, I never see her anymore – and now she's here. This is shaping up to be a bigger deal than I thought.

"How'd you get away?" I say. "Don't you have classes?"

"Hey, class can wait. You are the talk of Paradise Gardens, my friend."

"Me?"

"Yeah." Diana looks around. "This is quite a setup. I never knew trivia was such a big deal. I bet there are at least...half a dozen of my friends who plan on watching this, you know. Somehow, this contest has broken out into the world at large."

"Don't say that," I say. "I'm under enough pressure as is."

"Oh, you're gonna love this." She about to break out laughing – here I am dying and she's laughing. "One of my student teachers has this father who's a real prominent academic, or businessman – I've never been too clear on his official position. Anyway, this guy snuck out of China in the 70's right under Chairman Mao's nose. And I just heard that he's going to be watching you on TV." I've never seen anyone smile that wide. "Isn't that cool?"

"Diana..."

"I'm making things worse. I'll just take a seat." She heads to the back of the room, but not before dropping one last pearl of wisdom. "Just remember, breathe in, breathe out. Whatever happens, happens."

I wish I could be that cool about it.

All I have now is time – time to watch the audience pour in. Holy shit, I had no idea how big a deal this was going to be. The whole school's here, of course, but that's just the start of it. There are family members, tons of them. I can see some people who look like they're from other schools – maybe scouts, trying to get an early line on the competition? And on top of that I can also make out a lot of strange faces here, no doubt attracted by the increasingly absurd spectacle of the whole thing. Right now, it's standing room only, and there are still people waiting. I saw them getting a video projector ready for the people outside. I don't even want to imagine how many cameras are out there right now. How many people are going to see that footage? Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand? Conservative estimates. If Janowski's little movie got that much attention, then this one will be seen by millions.

It's too dark and crowded to see much, but I swear I can see people I know out there. If I squint, I can pick out little bits of this absurd drama.

There's Duncan Washington on the right, up on the edge of his seat, waiting to see if his friend will make the championships. Behind him, it looks like the whole Salamander offensive line – Lenny Vaughn's friends, no doubt. Lenny's leaning over the seat and chatting with Duncan. Lenny really is a friendly guy – I feel bad for judging him.

There's Ed Page, leaning against a wall near the back. As usual, he's got his memo pad out, ready to channel his journalistic ancestors. I bet he's already got the opening planned out – a detailed description of the room, the people waiting eagerly for the massacre to begin, and of course the tension which must be palpable even from that far back.

Not far from Ed, I spot Colette Henshaw. From what I can see, she looks pissed. Of course, she generally looks pissed. I bet she's just here to watch out for improprieties.

Way in the back – past the student and parent sections, in the back rows that are dim even when the lights are up – I can just barely recognize Diana. I swear she gives me a little salute. I'm sure she's not taking this seriously as everyone else. I wish there were more Dianas out there.

Jane and her team are sitting close to the front on the left side. It looks like she even talked Isabel into coming along. Isabel doesn't look like she's enjoying it too much now that she's not in the running, and I can tell that she's itching to be out of here. Jane's not budging, though. She's going to stick this one out to the bitter end. Maybe I should talk to her once this mess is over. Is that appropriate?

Further back, Aaron is sitting with Brian Booker. He's probably just aching to watch me lose – or is he more angry at Leon now? Either way, I'm surprised he didn't find a closer seat. This is really right up his alley. I'm surprised he didn't choke the life out of Brian, though, especially after all of those big predictions of his that have been floating around.

And, of course, my parents are here. They come to everything, and for the first time in my life I wish they hadn't. Do they really have to watch me fail miserably?

I turn my attention back to my teammates. We only have a few minutes left.

"A lesson in humility? He said that?" Ken is still trying to wrap his head around what his new friend told me.

"Yeah," I say. "Out of curiosity, what are our odds going into this?"

"About nine–to–one," says Ken. "You know, when I used to dream about making it to this stage, I never imagined it would be this grim."

"I'm sorry." I look around the table. "To all of you, I'm really sorry about all of this."

"What's to be sorry about?" says Scott. "I've never played in a room like this in my life. I would have killed to have this audience."

Trevor chimes in as well. "Yeah, man. I never would have made it this far at all without you."

"Thanks, guys," I say. "But now, it's time to face the music."

The murmurs in the audience grow muted as Mr. Laubhan takes the podium.

"And welcome, everyone, to the final round of Northwest High School's Trivia Master, between the Praetorians and the Raging Nerds. This round will determine who will represent the school at the state and, hopefully, national levels. There is one new addition to this year, a little experiment we're trying. Many of you know that, because of the number of people who wish to watch the championship round, Jameson Communications has been broadcasting the event live on all of their stations in Illinois and the surrounding states for the last few years. This year, they are also providing bandwidth so that people outside the viewing area can watch is via the internet."

I knew it. I'm starting to sweat already. No, Paul, don't go out like that. Focus. Breathe in, breathe out.

"Now, the rules are standard for this round, and I'm sure you know them by now, so let's get started. Question one: This painter's best–known works include The Potato Eaters..."

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Praetorians."

"Vincent van Gogh."

"Correct, for ten points." Damn it, this is hopeless. Ken was right, he's way faster than me. How can I compete with this?

"Question two: Known as 'The Real Deal'..."

Deedle–dee.

"Leon, Praetorians."

"Evander Holyfield."

"Correct." It's impossible. How can he be getting these all right? He's buzzing in before the question's half finished, before...

...Before anyone else would have a shot.

I put it all on the line in every single match.

That's it. That's his secret. He's confident enough to take risks.

"Correct. Question three: What chemical, commonly called a 'mickey'..."

Doot–de–doot.

"Paul, Nerds."

"Chloral hydrate."

"Correct." My teammates look over at me. Suddenly, they're confident that we have a shot.

"Question four: What government act was affirmed in the controversial case, Kelo..."

Deedle–dee.

"Eminent domain." Leon doesn't even wait to be recognized.

"Correct, but please wait to be recognized before answering. Those points go to the Praetorians. Question five: This traditional poetry form consists of three line of five, seven..."

Doot–de–doot.

I see Leon lunge for his buzzer out of the corner of my eye, but I deny him. "Haiku."

"Correct. Again, please wait until your are recognized. That's ten points for the Raging Nerds."

I glance over at Leon. He looks mad. This is not a man who's used to losing. Today will be a good day to learn about it.

"Question six: Despite the name of the film that popularized it, the velociraptor actually lived..."

Doot–de–doot.

"Cretaceous." Both of us yell it out at once. The audience isn't even murmuring at this point, they're rumbling. No one's ever seen anything like this before. This sedate, scholarly competition is on the verge of becoming a war.

Everything around me begins to blur together. The lights and sound and my sense of the passage of time are all merging and fading. My instinct is taking over in a way it never has. I can't even hear the buzzers anymore – I just hit the button and shout out the answer, hoping against hope that I beat Leon to the punch. By the end of the round, the score stands at 40 to 60 in their favor.

"And now it's time for the first team question."

"Ken, bet fifty."

"You're the boss, Paul."

Leon is writing down his wager. I have no doubt what he wrote.

"Here's the question: This name is given to a mathematical proof which is true despite seeming contradictory."

I lean over to Ken. "That's a paradox, right?"

"Right." He writes it down. Our chances are looking better all the time.

"Time's up. I'll take the answer from the Praetorians first...Paradox is correct. What was your wager?...Thirty points to the Praetorians, who now stand at ninety points." Huh. Guess Leon lost some of his confidence.

"Now the Nerds. What was your answer?...Paradox, correct as well. Your wager?...Fifty points to the Nerds. The game is now tied."

Again, the audience rumbles with activity. No one expected it would be this close. I certainly didn't.

Mr. Laubhan tries to regain control. "All right, let's have quiet, please. Before we begin the second round, I would like to remind all contestants that you must wait until your name and team are called before answering. I understand that you are eager, but this will make scorekeeping easier and quicker. All right, question one: Once known as Constantinople..."

Deedle–dee.

"Istanbul."

Doot–de–doot.

Deedle–dee.

Doot–de–doot.

Deedle–dee.

"Howard Taft...Vladimir Putin...The Sun Also Rises...Event horizon...Gobi Desert..."

That's what it's like now – just questions and answers and motion. We're ignoring the rules but Mr. Laubhan isn't even bothering to reign us in. Leon and I keep throwing out answers while the crew does their best to keep up. The Praetorians would take the lead, then we'd tie and overtake. That's how it's, back and forth, for the whole round.

"Well, after that very intense round, the score is tied, and we go into the second team question."

I nudge Ken. "Bet a hundred."

"Are you crazy? No one bets a hundred!"

I grab him by his collar. "Do you want to win, Ken?" He meekly writes down the number.

"All right, here is your question. What is the one physical action that a human being can not perform with open eyes?"

"Gotta be blinking," I say. "You guys agree?" Everyone nods.

"Definitely blinking," says Ken as he writes it down. "How sweet it is..."

"Time's up. Okay, I'll start with the Nerds this time. Your answer, please?...Blinking is incorrect."

What?

What?

"How much did you wager?...One hundred points, leaving the Raging Nerds with 90."

I feel like I could die right here. The audience is so active that I can barely hear anything else. No one expected that we'd bring it this close and then fail so hard.

"That's it, I blew it."

"Maybe not," says Ken. "Look!"

He points at the other table. All the color is gone from Leon's face. He's downright paralyzed, his mouth hanging open. This is not his moment of triumph.

"What is your answer?...Blinking, again incorrect. The correct answer was 'sneezing.' What did you wager?" Leon freezes up. He looks downright scared at this point. "Please, let's see your wager." I swear I can see his hand tremble as he turns over the card. "One hundred points."

Ken turns to me. "We're still tied...We're still tied, Paul! We still have a shot!"

"And we proceed to the lightning round with the score 90 to 90." The audience explodes into applause. "Is everyone ready?"

I grab my buzzer and hunch over the table. Leon takes up the same position. It's all down to this.

"Okay, timekeeper, start the stopwatch now. Question..."

Beoooow.

For a second, I swear I passed out, or maybe died. Then I see pinpricks of light in the auditorium – the glow of cell phone screens. The power went out.

"Sorry, we appear to be experiencing some technical difficulties," says Mr. Laubhan from somewhere in the darkness.

"What just happened?" says Ken.

"I think we got a reprieve," I say.

"Wait, do the rules address power outages?"

"I think we just wait and resume when the lights come back on."

"Well, they'd better hurry up and turn the juice on. Class is out soon."

The emergency lights come on, and someone throws open the main doors to let in some natural light. It's just bright enough to see, but without power to the buzzer system and microphones, the game can't continue.

The minutes tick by – I suppose they do, anyway, I don't actually know what time it is. In any case, the darkness gives me plenty of time to think. I realize that I haven't slept well since the tournament started. I realize that I haven't had a good day, either. I realize that I'm on the verge of lapsing into obsession, just like Aaron and Leon and all the ones who came before them. This is no way to live.

_Woooom._ The power comes back on.

"It looks like we're back. We don't have much time, so we'll get right into it. Timekeeper, one minute starting..."

Riiiiiing.

"Okay, it looks like class is over. Unfortunately, the rules don't allow us to run the competition when we're not on school time."

Ken jumps up. "Well who won, then?"

"Well, let's see..." Mr. Laubhan flips through the rules notebook. "Since the game never officially ended, we mark the score from the last question. It's a tie. Now, as for the team...If the tournament isn't completed, we pick the most valuable players for the champion team. This year..." He pulls a loose sheet of paper out of the notebook. "...that would be Jane Anders, Aaron Bellamy, Kenneth Greevey, Paul Liston and Leon Mara."

Leon and Aaron both shoot to their feet. "No!"

"You can't expect me to play with those pricks!" shouts Aaron from the crowd.

"Shut up Aaron!" says Ken. "Those two tried to sabotage us."

"I didn't try to sabotage anyone!" interrupts Leon. "But all three of them have been slandering me since I started."

"Hey, it's not slander if it's true," says Aaron.

Ken laughs. "Like you'd know anything about the truth."

The three of them are obviously going to be bickering for a while. I don't need this, though. Class is over. The tournament is over. Nothing keeps me here. I just walk out of the auditorium with the crowd, and keep on walking until I'm back in my nice, quiet room.

And that's what happened. Don't believe me? Find the video yourself. I'm taking a nap.

# Phase V: Aftermath

## AARON

Great. Just great. This really couldn't have turned out any worse for me, huh? Not only did I fail to exact justice on my old enemy, but I was humiliated publicly by a brand new one. And, if that somehow weren't enough, I now have to go on the Scholar's Bowl circuit with both of them. A couple weeks in a bus with a bunch of people I hate? Fun times. I'm not done, though, not by a long shot. I'll make this right if it's the last thing I do.

It's not a complete loss, though. After all, neither Paul not Leon gets credit for winning the championship. In fact, because they both tanked their scores in the wager round, they'll probably go down in Aukland's as the lowest scoring champs in history. That makes me happy.

But that's just a start. I have a little over two months before we hit the road. That's enough time to develop a new plan, something subtle and masterful. I have one asset going for me – Brian Booker made the B–team, and he still thinks we're buddies. I may be able to make use of this.

Don't rest too easy, boys. I'll have your heads yet.

## JANE

Well, that was quite a game.

Watching the finals made Isabel glad that we didn't make it any farther. We would've had decent shot against the Flying Brains, but not this other team, and I know Isabel wasn't looking forward to a public crushing. She's also forgiven me for blowing her plan, and I've forgiven her for asking me to do it...well, I've mostly forgiven her, anyway.

The rest of the team actually made out pretty well. Hannah and Karen were both asked to join the B–team. Hannah declined – I think she's probably sick of trivia at this point – but Karen jumped at the opportunity. It looks like we'll be fielding two pretty solid teams this year.

Speaking of which, it turns out that I did well enough to secure a spot as alternate on the main team, even though I didn't make the finals. I'll be headed out to the state tournaments with Leon, Aaron, Ken and Paul (who I really hope doesn't get the wrong idea). I have no idea how I'll do at that level, but at least I won't have to worry about any more dirty tricks.

They don't do dirty tricks at the state level, right? I'd better do some research.

## KEN

Paul Liston is truly a miracle man. The odds of us even scoring a draw in that match were very low. Sadly, there is no formula to measure willpower, but if there was I am sure Paul would rank very highly. Maybe I should develop a test for willpower?

Not that it was all Paul's skill, mind you. My strategies paid off in the long term. If I had never befriended Leon Mara and talked Paul into meeting him, they would have never had the confrontation that brought out Paul's inner confidence. Really, I am partially creditable for this victory.

Of course, I am displeased by the presence of Aaron and Leon on our team. There is a remote possibility that I could persuade the right administrator to replace Aaron, but no one would remove a Mara from his team. I suppose I will have to live with them.

Our teammates made out quite well. Both Duncan and Trevor made it on to the B–team, so they will have plenty of time together. And I understand that the last Amateur Dramatics performance exceeded expectations by a sizable margin. Was this due to Scott Carroll's place on our team? I can only assume that it was.

Now it is time for me to plan our state strategy. Unfortunately, there is no footage of these matches, so I will have to find some previous competitors and persuade them to help me. It should not be too difficult – understanding others is a specialty of mine, after all.

## PAUL

This has been one of the most exciting things that's ever happened to me. And I didn't even win!

The day after the tournament, I received a ton of phone calls and emails, all congratulating me on the game. Lenny called and told me that I should come to the homecoming game, because he's going to give me a shout–out during the rally. He's really a nice guy. Ron sent a message to let me know that the footage he shot for the school had drawn in thousands of views in just a few hours, and I guess the Jameson stream ended up going down because of all the people trying to watch. The big news, though, was the message I received from the people at Aukland's. They sent someone to cover the match because of Leon Mara's involvement, but they were so impressed that they're going to profile me in their next edition and I'm going to be a guest on their podcast. I'll end up famous because of this thing.

Really, though, I'm happy that it's over for now. The whole mess starts again in a few weeks, but until then I get to whatever I want, whenever I want. Maybe I'll spend next weekend in bed. It's not exciting, but I'm not sure I could stand any more excitement.

There is one other thing that's come out of this. Every championship team has five players – the main roster plus an alternate who can swap in for another player between matches. Well, it turns out that our alternate is Jane Anders! We'll be hitting the road together, spending lots of time together...it's a perfect opportunity for me to ask her out.

Seriously, I will do it this time. Bet on it.

# About the Author

Born in rural western Kansas, ANDREW JOHNSTON discovered his Sinophilia while attending the University of Kansas. Subsequently, he has spent most of his adult life shuttling back and forth across the Pacific Ocean. He is currently based out of Hefei, Anhui province. He has published short fiction in Nature: Futures, Electric Spec, Mythic and the Laughing at Shadows Anthology.

### www.findthefabulist.com
