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Excerpt from OLIVIA BEAN, TRIVIA QUEEN
(Copyright by Donna Gephart 2012)
Who Is Phil and Why Is He Green?
On my way home, Tucker catches up to me at the corner of Kindred and Rutledge, our street. He’s chewing on something red and talks with his mouth full. “How’d you do on the geography test, Bean?”
I take a deep breath and consider sprinting for home. I could get there first if I ran the whole way, but for some reason I don’t have the energy. “Okay,” I lie. “How’d you do?”
“It was easy,” he says, which makes me want to kick him. “You remembered the five oceans, right?”
“Right,” I lie again.
“Name them,” he says, practically bursting with conceit.
“The Atlantic,” I say. “The Southern, the Indian, the Pacific.” And then I mumble something incomprehensible, hoping it sounds like the name of an ocean.
“Ha! I thought you might have missed one, Bean. It’s the Arctic.”
“Oh!”
“Lucas’ll give you partial credit, though.”
“You think?”
Tucker nods and stuffs a thick red licorice rope into his mouth. He doesn’t offer me any. I wouldn’t have accepted anyway. He’s probably had it in his pocket since last Halloween. Tucker’s gross like that. His shirts are always 40% tucked in, 60% hanging out and 100% wrinkled. His hair always looks ruffled like he uses his head as a Habitrail course for his hamsters, Gypsy and Rose. And Tucker always, ALWAYS has a food product smeared across his shirt. Today, it looks like ketchup . . . or maybe it’s red licorice slime.
We stop at the bottom of our steps. “So, what are you doing later?” he asks.
The question startles me. Tucker never asks what I’m doing or where I’m going. He’s usually too busy picking on me with Matt Dresher. And we haven’t done anything together for about two years. Why is he being nosy all of a sudden?
“Um, I watch Jeopardy! at 7:30.” I feel like a dork, but it’s the first thing that pops into my mind. I’m mad at myself for sharing that bit of information with Tucker. Jeopardy!’s the one thing Dad and I always did together, our special tradition, and I didn’t mean to tell Tucker about it. Although, he probably remembers that back when we were friends – when he used to be nicer – I’d go home every day at 7:30 to watch Jeopardy!, no matter what we were doing. ”Cool,” Tucker says, gnawing off another bite of licorice. “My grandma watches that show.”
“Oh.” Now I feel like an uber-dork, knowing I have the same social life as Tucker’s grandma.
“It’s pretty funny,” he says, chomping his licorice. “She won’t even talk to us if we’re at her apartment while it’s on, and if we call between 7:30 and 8 on weekdays, she doesn’t answer the phone. I think she has a crush on Alex Trebek or something.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Tucker smiles.
My cheeks heat up. I can’t believe I’m having a normal conversation with Tucker Thomas.
I press my lips together, determined not to say another word to him, but it’s hard because Tucker says, “Talk to you later, Bean.” Then he looks at me with his blue eyes. How come I never realized he had blue eyes? Pale blue, like a summer sky. Eww! I grab the key from the string around my neck and give it a hard tug to snap me out of this. “Whatever,” I say and march up the steps that lead to the door to my house.
Tucker calls from the bottom of the steps: “Watching Jeopardy! sounds way better than what I have to do tonight.”
Wind whistles, and I watch gray clouds motor across the sky. I shiver and, against my better judgment, turn and ask, “What?” I think maybe Tucker and his blue eyes have to go to the dentist to get a tooth pulled or to the doctor to get a shot. But you don’t do those things at night.
Tucker stands lopsided, like the weight of his backpack is too much for him. He almost looks like one of the cool kids. Almost. That’s if one of the cool kids had a red stain a mile long across his shirt and a glob of something half-chewed showing from his mouth.
Tucker trudges up one step, stops and looks at me. “Dad’s making me go to the Phillies game with him. Last game of the season.”
A strong wind whips my hair, and I pick strands out of my mouth. “Baseball? With your dad?” I squeeze my house key till it bites into my palm. “Tucker, that sounds fun.” I’d do anything for my dad to take me to the Phillies game tonight.
“Fun?” Tucker says, his cheeks turning as red as the licorice he’s chomping. “Fun?!”
Tucker’s anger surprises me. I take a step back, so I’m pressed against my front door.
“Bean,” Tucker says. “On a fun scale from one to ten, baseball, for me, is a minus three thousand.”
“Are you nuts, Tucker?” The one Phillies game Dad took me to was during the World Series. The World Series! And Dad took only me; Charlie had to stay home with Mom. As soon as we handed the guard our tickets and stepped inside the stadium, Dad bought me a green Phillies Phanatic doll – a plump creature with a snout like an anteater, who wears a Phillies jersey and baseball cap. Oddly, though, no pants.
I named my doll Phil. I still keep Phil on my bed and hug him every night before I go to sleep, even though somewhere along the way, Phil lost his jersey, and he now has a hairy green torso and some stuffing coming out of a small hole under his armpit. I think Phil’s adorable, even if he is almost the same color as the throw-up green carpet in my bedroom.
During the world series game, Dad was hunched over in his I-can’t-hear-you mode, but it was still great. The energy from the crowd was amazing. When the Phillies hit a homerun, a Liberty Bell lit up and bonged, bonged, bonged and the crowd went wild, waving their white and red towels above their heads. I held onto Phil’s sneakered foot and waved him high above my head. It was the most fun I’d had with Dad since Disney World.
When the game was over, Dad rocketed out of his seat and punched his fist in the air. “Yes!” he shouted and gathered me in a tight hug. He even hugged the people around us. Everyone did that, but I think Dad had bet on the game. Judging from his reaction when they won, it must’ve been a hefty bet.
After the game, Dad took me to the Country Club Diner – my favorite – and let me order anything I wanted, including a slice of lemon meringue pie and a vanilla soda.
How could any normal person not like doing that stuff with his dad? Then again, who said Tucker Thomas is a normal person?
I look at the glob of licorice puffing out Tucker’s cheek and poking out of his mouth. It makes my stomach do a little flop, and I have to look down so I don’t get queasy. “Maybe you’ll have a good time,” I say, thinking that I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat. “That stadium is really fun. They have lots of stuff to do besides just watching the game.”
Tucker tilts his head, like he’s annoyed with me, clomps up the steps, stops and faces me. “Bean, you’ve known me long enough to know baseball’s my dad’s thing. He wishes it were mine, but it’s not.”
Then he shakes his head, like I couldn’t possibly understand what he’s saying, turns and goes inside.
I feel empty, like the wind could blow right through me, which is completely ridiculous becauseTucker Thomasand I aren’t even friends anymore. We used to be great friends, going over each other’s houses all the time, but that was a long time ago -- before my dad left and before the unfortunate hula hoop incident in fifth grade.
I stare at Tucker’s closed door for a couple seconds, trying to comprehend what just happened. I decide, simply, that Tucker Thomas is an idiot.
Mr. Thomas is taking him to the last Phillies game of the season, and it’s totally unfair. Tucker doesn’t even want to go. Take me. Actually, what I really wish is that Dad were here and he would take me.
Even though I rarely miss a show, I’d happily miss Jeopardy! for that!
On my way home, Tucker catches up to me at the corner of Kindred and Rutledge, our street. He’s chewing on something red and talks with his mouth full. “How’d you do on the geography test, Bean?”
I take a deep breath and consider sprinting for home. I could get there first if I ran the whole way, but for some reason I don’t have the energy. “Okay,” I lie. “How’d you do?”
“It was easy,” he says, which makes me want to kick him. “You remembered the five oceans, right?”
“Right,” I lie again.
“Name them,” he says, practically bursting with conceit.
“The Atlantic,” I say. “The Southern, the Indian, the Pacific.” And then I mumble something incomprehensible, hoping it sounds like the name of an ocean.
“Ha! I thought you might have missed one, Bean. It’s the Arctic.”
“Oh!”
“Lucas’ll give you partial credit, though.”
“You think?”
Tucker nods and stuffs a thick red licorice rope into his mouth. He doesn’t offer me any. I wouldn’t have accepted anyway. He’s probably had it in his pocket since last Halloween. Tucker’s gross like that. His shirts are always 40% tucked in, 60% hanging out and 100% wrinkled. His hair always looks ruffled like he uses his head as a Habitrail course for his hamsters, Gypsy and Rose. And Tucker always, ALWAYS has a food product smeared across his shirt. Today, it looks like ketchup . . . or maybe it’s red licorice slime.
We stop at the bottom of our steps. “So, what are you doing later?” he asks.
The question startles me. Tucker never asks what I’m doing or where I’m going. He’s usually too busy picking on me with Matt Dresher. And we haven’t done anything together for about two years. Why is he being nosy all of a sudden?
“Um, I watch Jeopardy! at 7:30.” I feel like a dork, but it’s the first thing that pops into my mind. I’m mad at myself for sharing that bit of information with Tucker. Jeopardy!’s the one thing Dad and I always did together, our special tradition, and I didn’t mean to tell Tucker about it. Although, he probably remembers that back when we were friends – when he used to be nicer – I’d go home every day at 7:30 to watch Jeopardy!, no matter what we were doing. ”Cool,” Tucker says, gnawing off another bite of licorice. “My grandma watches that show.”
“Oh.” Now I feel like an uber-dork, knowing I have the same social life as Tucker’s grandma.
“It’s pretty funny,” he says, chomping his licorice. “She won’t even talk to us if we’re at her apartment while it’s on, and if we call between 7:30 and 8 on weekdays, she doesn’t answer the phone. I think she has a crush on Alex Trebek or something.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Tucker smiles.
My cheeks heat up. I can’t believe I’m having a normal conversation with Tucker Thomas.
I press my lips together, determined not to say another word to him, but it’s hard because Tucker says, “Talk to you later, Bean.” Then he looks at me with his blue eyes. How come I never realized he had blue eyes? Pale blue, like a summer sky. Eww! I grab the key from the string around my neck and give it a hard tug to snap me out of this. “Whatever,” I say and march up the steps that lead to the door to my house.
Tucker calls from the bottom of the steps: “Watching Jeopardy! sounds way better than what I have to do tonight.”
Wind whistles, and I watch gray clouds motor across the sky. I shiver and, against my better judgment, turn and ask, “What?” I think maybe Tucker and his blue eyes have to go to the dentist to get a tooth pulled or to the doctor to get a shot. But you don’t do those things at night.
Tucker stands lopsided, like the weight of his backpack is too much for him. He almost looks like one of the cool kids. Almost. That’s if one of the cool kids had a red stain a mile long across his shirt and a glob of something half-chewed showing from his mouth.
Tucker trudges up one step, stops and looks at me. “Dad’s making me go to the Phillies game with him. Last game of the season.”
A strong wind whips my hair, and I pick strands out of my mouth. “Baseball? With your dad?” I squeeze my house key till it bites into my palm. “Tucker, that sounds fun.” I’d do anything for my dad to take me to the Phillies game tonight.
“Fun?” Tucker says, his cheeks turning as red as the licorice he’s chomping. “Fun?!”
Tucker’s anger surprises me. I take a step back, so I’m pressed against my front door.
“Bean,” Tucker says. “On a fun scale from one to ten, baseball, for me, is a minus three thousand.”
“Are you nuts, Tucker?” The one Phillies game Dad took me to was during the World Series. The World Series! And Dad took only me; Charlie had to stay home with Mom. As soon as we handed the guard our tickets and stepped inside the stadium, Dad bought me a green Phillies Phanatic doll – a plump creature with a snout like an anteater, who wears a Phillies jersey and baseball cap. Oddly, though, no pants.
I named my doll Phil. I still keep Phil on my bed and hug him every night before I go to sleep, even though somewhere along the way, Phil lost his jersey, and he now has a hairy green torso and some stuffing coming out of a small hole under his armpit. I think Phil’s adorable, even if he is almost the same color as the throw-up green carpet in my bedroom.
During the world series game, Dad was hunched over in his I-can’t-hear-you mode, but it was still great. The energy from the crowd was amazing. When the Phillies hit a homerun, a Liberty Bell lit up and bonged, bonged, bonged and the crowd went wild, waving their white and red towels above their heads. I held onto Phil’s sneakered foot and waved him high above my head. It was the most fun I’d had with Dad since Disney World.
When the game was over, Dad rocketed out of his seat and punched his fist in the air. “Yes!” he shouted and gathered me in a tight hug. He even hugged the people around us. Everyone did that, but I think Dad had bet on the game. Judging from his reaction when they won, it must’ve been a hefty bet.
After the game, Dad took me to the Country Club Diner – my favorite – and let me order anything I wanted, including a slice of lemon meringue pie and a vanilla soda.
How could any normal person not like doing that stuff with his dad? Then again, who said Tucker Thomas is a normal person?
I look at the glob of licorice puffing out Tucker’s cheek and poking out of his mouth. It makes my stomach do a little flop, and I have to look down so I don’t get queasy. “Maybe you’ll have a good time,” I say, thinking that I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat. “That stadium is really fun. They have lots of stuff to do besides just watching the game.”
Tucker tilts his head, like he’s annoyed with me, clomps up the steps, stops and faces me. “Bean, you’ve known me long enough to know baseball’s my dad’s thing. He wishes it were mine, but it’s not.”
Then he shakes his head, like I couldn’t possibly understand what he’s saying, turns and goes inside.
I feel empty, like the wind could blow right through me, which is completely ridiculous becauseTucker Thomasand I aren’t even friends anymore. We used to be great friends, going over each other’s houses all the time, but that was a long time ago -- before my dad left and before the unfortunate hula hoop incident in fifth grade.
I stare at Tucker’s closed door for a couple seconds, trying to comprehend what just happened. I decide, simply, that Tucker Thomas is an idiot.
Mr. Thomas is taking him to the last Phillies game of the season, and it’s totally unfair. Tucker doesn’t even want to go. Take me. Actually, what I really wish is that Dad were here and he would take me.
Even though I rarely miss a show, I’d happily miss Jeopardy! for that!