The Gollywhopper Games (18 page)

Charles Goodson smiled. “I haven’t set a price yet.”

“They’ll buy it,” said the old man.

“We’ll talk,” said Bert. “What’s the premise?”

Gil’s dad laughed. “It’s about a kid who ferrets out the evil president of a toy company, takes over the business, and becomes a zillionaire.”

“And I’m the evil toy company president?”

“Oh, of course not,” said Gil’s dad.

“Right.” Bert Golliwop smiled and stood. “When the dust settles, we’ll talk anyway.” He stuck out his hand. Gil’s dad shook it. “Let’s finish up this already long day,” said Bert.

They filed from the office, Bert Golliwop pulling Gil to the lead with him. “I need to fill you in on what’s been going on, and what will happen from here,” he said. “We have Rocky and Carver Titus sequestered. The other three contestants have been reminded that they may not reveal anything about the Games or they’ll forfeit their winnings plus pay the company and the TV network huge penalties. I know it will be harder for you, but you need to be a good actor for just thirty more hours, until the show has aired on both coasts. Then you’re free to speak to anyone you want about anything you want. Understand so far?”

Gil nodded.

Mr. Golliwop pushed the ground-floor button inside the elevator. “When we get back, you’ll sit
down for your interview. And it will be all about you. Ready?”

Gil entered the victory room once again, and cameras flashed, TV cameras followed him. The network news anchor led him to a set of directors’ chairs set up in a circle of spotlight. She interviewed him as if he were a celebrity. Question after question after question.

Soon Bianca bounded in. She pulled him up and spun him around. “I knew you could do it. I knew it. I knew it. I knew it!”

Lavinia and Thorn joined them. The cameras circled again, clicking and flashing and shooting so much footage, Gil wished he had a nickel for every—Wait. Now he did.

They posed and posed and spoke some more, and just after Bert Golliwop mentioned to Bianca that he might want her in some of his commercials, they finally headed out the door together, saying they’d IM and e-mail as soon as Gil could get back online.

Gil and his parents walked past the green arrows,
past the windup toys, and into the sun-drenched parking lot that was nearly as deserted as Bert Golliwop had promised. Had they really parked there just this morning? Or was that another boy in another lifetime?

“What’s that?” said Gil’s dad, pointing to the car.

On the trunk were five sticky notes, each with one word:
TROVER PARK TOMORROW AT
4:00. The notes were arranged in the shape of an F. “Frankie,” Gil said.

Gil collected them, smiled more, climbed inside the car.

He and his parents sat there, windows down, ignition off. No cameras. No microphones.

Gil leaned his head back, closed his eyes. Let out a laugh. He turned to his dad. “So. KidZillionaire. Why were you keeping it a secret?”

“It wasn’t on purpose.” His dad looped one hand over the steering wheel. “You saw me with those computer code books. All those files. I’ve been sitting in the open, at the dining room table, working on the game.”

“I thought you were still looking for…”

“This whole time?” said his mom. “You thought he was poring over those detective files?”

Gil nodded.

His dad chuckled. “I haven’t looked at those for months and months. Even before The Incident, I started fooling around with ideas for a video game. Sitting in jail that night, I came up with KidZillionaire. Thinking about that took my mind off everything else that was happening.”

“But the calls to the detectives…”

“Sure. At first I was trying to solve it, but one night I got so bored looking at the same files over and over, I jotted down my thoughts about that game. Within a week, I stopped looking at the trial files and started creating new files for this. And I suppose I was so used to working alone, I never talked about it.” He turned on the ignition. “Besides, I didn’t want to get your hopes up. It’s hard to sell concepts like this.”

Gil nodded again. And understood.

“You want to know the best part about this kind of work? I can do it anywhere in the world. So wherever you want to move…”

Wherever he wanted to move.

They pulled out of the parking lot, none of them saying a thing.

Wherever he wanted to move. He wanted to live in a place where he could be a normal kid with normal friends and a normal life.

Gil’s interviewer had made that sound impossible. “You understand you’ll be famous after tomorrow night,” she’d said during the interview. “What will you do with your fame?”

“I just want to be a regular kid who had a really, really good day,” he’d answered.

And how would he deal with people who wanted to hang around just because he’d won?

Gil thought he’d be able to sort out the good people from the fakers. Eventually.

But for now he had time to sit back and grin. In private. No one knew he won yet. They only knew he’d made it to the final ten. He wouldn’t be anyone’s winner until after the TV broadcast. For tonight and tomorrow, he was just Gil.

In a couple hours, they’d go out to dinner. Gil’s
treat. Steaks. At the best restaurant. They’d slink out of the house. Unnoticed.

Or not. Even before their car turned the corner to their street, both sides of the road were lined with people. Holding signs.

“I don’t want to look,” said Gil.

“Why not?” said his dad.

“What if they’re mad I made the final ten?”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said his mom. “Mad doesn’t come with balloons.”

The signs had balloons. The people had balloons. And as they passed, the people launched their balloons into the air.

“But they don’t know if I won or lost. They don’t know anything.”

They pulled into the driveway to the claps and cheers of the crowd. Mrs. Hempstead, whose lawn had almost made him too late for this moment, rushed up with a cake. “You’re our hero no matter how you did,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Now tell us how you did.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hempstead,” Gil said, trying not
to smile too big. “They won’t let me.”

“Hey, Gil,” came a voice from the crowd. “Over here! Gil! Catch!” Frankie lobbed a football over three rows of people.

The ball drifted back, back, sending Gil toward the side of the house, leaping over a small bush. Making the catch.

The crowd cheered.

“He’s our new wide receiver!” Frankie yelled. “Right, Gil?”

Gil looked at his mom. Looked at his dad. Looked at Frankie.

A normal kid with normal friends.

Gil looked at his parents again. Pointed to a sign that said,
WELCOME HOME
.

He lobbed the ball back in the air. “You got it, Frankie.”

G
il double-clicked his mouse. Onscreen, the door opened. He was in the office of Ackrud Toy Company’s Evil President. Before Ackrud Weevil ran out the back door, Gil clicked on the slip of paper attached to his shoe.

“Yeah!” he said. It was the last two letters of the grid. Finally. With all his travels for Golly this past summer, it had taken Gil a month to navigate to the last level of KidZillionaire—or at least the last level in this test version. Now he’d get the password to Ackrud’s computer. Except…

“Dad, you’re missing a word here.”

Gil’s dad got up from the other desk chair in their new upstairs office. “Huh?”

“Look. It reads, ‘Start with a,’” he said. “Start with a duck? Start with a doughnut? Start with a what?”

His dad grew a sly smile. “Just solve the puzzle,” he said, then left the room.

Gil shrugged, clicked through the building, back to the company’s main computer. Fine. He’d type the letters in order.

No. Gil had learned his lesson from the Games. Those letters meant something. He sat there and stared.

Start with a

Start with a what? Start with a what? Start with a—

“Hey, Gil!”

“Upstairs, Frankie!”

Time for freshman football practice. This would have to wait. Again. Or…aha! Gil saw his way through that maze of letters. Seconds later, he knew what he needed to do. Watch out, Weevil! Soon the Ackrud Toy Company will be mine!

Gil grabbed his cleats. He’d figure out the password later.

HINTS:

• * This is a maze of letters
  
• * Figure out where to start
  
• * Move vertically, horizontally, or diagonally
  
• * Use each letter only once
  
• * The letters will spell three words
  
• * The words all can be used to modify the name of an object
  
• * That object is your answer
  

ANSWER:

That night, when Gil typed in the answer, he set off a timer connected to the common object—a bomb (puzzle words + “bomb” = “atomic bomb,” “stink bomb,” “time bomb”). “If I can’t keep this toy company,” said the Evil President, “no one can.

It was now up to Gil to race onscreen around Ackrud and find out how to stop that bomb from exploding.

W
hen it came time to write my acknowledgments, I decided to think about it as a competition. The only rule: Name each person whose support contributed to the publication of
The Gollywhopper Games.
No problem, I thought. I can name every one of those people in my sleep. Just watch.

Thanks go to Rebecca Davis, who brought this book to the table; to editors Steve Geck, Martha Mihalick, and Sarah Cloots, whose invaluable feedback kept me honest; and especially to my editor Virginia Duncan, who, with her quiet confidence, pushed me to get more from my characters and their story.

Also to art director Paul Zakris, to cover artist John Rocco, and to artist and designer Victoria Jamieson, whose vision and talents added a whole new dimension.

A huge amount of gratitude goes to my agent, Jennie Dunham, who believed in Gil as much as, and sometimes more than, I did.

I’m supremely grateful for my writing community. This is such a solitary business, I’d go bonkers if it weren’t for the camaraderie and critiques of writers and authors Cindy Lord, Lynn Fazenbaker, Carol Norton, Tracy Hurley, Claudia Pearson, Barbara Ehrentreu, and the rest of the YA-Authors who have helped my writing grow; of Leslie Wyatt, who found me from across the state; of Kate Raybuck, Maggie Fowler, and Doris Mueller, who have read far too many versions; and of the YAckers 2, whose direct fingerprints may not appear on this book but whose influences certainly do.

I can’t forget Phillip Norfleet, my first fan, and Julia Bald, whose eye for detail is remarkable.

Much love and more thanks than I could ever give go to my friends and family for believing this would happen, for giving me space when it didn’t, and celebrating with me when it did. Special mention goes to Debbie Poslosky, who supplies me with her boundless enthusiasm and an endless pool of young minds whenever I need them; to Bill and Carol Simon, who made books and art a steady part of my life; to Dick Feldman, who understood how important it was for me to try this; to Cassie Feldman, who kept me laughing and distracted when I needed it most; and to Paige Feldman, who has been my biggest supporter ever since she fell in love with Gil from the first draft, who never allowed me to get away with anything less than perfection, and who also vowed to produce
The Gollywhopper Games
if no one jumped on it before she was ready.

After I finished this part of the list, I realized I could never win the acknowledgments game. What about all the other editors who have no clue how much impact they’ve had on this book? What about the rest of the people I’ll remember I forgot to mention once this is in print? And what about the student who returned
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
to the school library one day when I was volunteering? He asked the librarian for another story like it, but neither she nor his teacher could find a title to satisfy him. It was at that moment I decided to write a book for that ten-year-old boy, and I will be forever indebted to him…whoever he is.