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'