Time-Out (4 page)

Onstage, all of the teams assembled the materials to build a bridge on their tables, and when the buzzer sounded, we all got to work.

Just as we'd practiced, I tied the drinking straws, Jason and Nitu tackled the popsicle sticks, and Marcus helped Sara with the string and paper cups. We had probably built thirty bridges since we'd first read the challenge, and through trial and error, we'd designed a structure that could support the single brick that would put it to the test.

At first, everything went smoothly, but as our fifteen minutes ticked away, the master of ceremonies announced how much time was remaining at regular intervals.

And when we had just three minutes left, I spilled our glue all over the straws.

“No!” I gasped.

“We've got it,” Sara said, leading the team in cleaning up the mess and making sure the structure was intact.

“It's fine,” Jason said as the final seconds dwindled away.

But we all knew it wasn't.

The judges tested each bridge, one team after another. Several crumpled while a couple managed to withstand the weight.

When our turn came, I was filled with shame and horror as I watched the bridge fall apart completely.

My stomach growled angrily.

While results were tallied, we stood under the hot, glaring lights next to Beaumont, in all of their smug glory.

The lead judge announced them as the winners and wished them luck at nationals.

My stomach performed a somersault, followed by a backflip.

I tried to swallow, but couldn't control the rising wave of sickly sweet syrup in the back of my throat.

The drive home from state was dead quiet. Mom and Dad had tried to cheer Russ up before we left the Schnitz, but he kept shutting them down by either grunting, sighing, or shaking his head.

We took the highway home and Russ waited until our exit before he finally said, “I choked.”

“No,” I said, chuckling. “You
puked
.”

“Owen,” Dad warned from the front seat.

“What? It was awesome!”

“I don't think—” Mom started to say, but I cut her off.

“It was the best revenge ever. I could tell that Peter kid from Beaumont was a total turd and when Russ nailed him, it was—”

“An accident,” Russ snapped. “I didn't mean to do it.”

“It was still awesome,” I said, mostly to myself.

Dad waited for the light and turned left. “I'm proud of you, Russ.”

“Can we please not talk about it?” my brother begged.

“What?” Mom asked, turning to look at him. “You did your best.”

“And blew it,” Russ said.

If “it” meant chunks, he was right about that. I had no idea chewed-up waffles would look so gross.

“There's always next year,” Dad said.

“Please stop,” Russ said.

“It's not that big a deal, Russ,” I told him.

He turned to face me. “It's like losing the NBA championship.”

Ha! “Yeah, right. Don't get too crazy, Russ.”

“I'm serious!” he hissed at me. His nostrils were bulging out. “To me, this was
exactly
like losing an NBA championship.”

“Honey,” Mom said.

“Everyone at school is going to know about this.” He blinked hard a couple of times.

Was he going to cry?

I guess if I lost an NBA championship, I'd probably cry, too.

I decided to cheer him up. “Okay, nobody at school even
knows Masters of the Mind exists, Russ. No one will know you blew it.”

“Owen,” Dad warned again.

“What?” I was trying to be positive!

“I let everyone down,” Russ said. “I was supposed to be the team leader and I cracked under the pressure.”

“It's not the end of the world,” Dad said.

“It's the end of mine,” he said, then went silent again.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Dad shot me a look in the rearview mirror, so I shut it.

Russ was in a funk for days after state and nothing seemed to pull him out of it. He hung out in his room alone most of the time, and moped around the house for the rest. All of his nerdy friends tried to talk to him at school and Nitu even stopped by the house twice, but he was still down in the dumps.

Of course, he kept studying like his life depended on it and he made it to Pioneer practices, but he just wasn't the same.

After a whole week had passed, it was my turn to set the table one night. Since Mom and I were alone, I told her how I felt: that Russ should be over the whole thing already.

“That competition was really important to him,” she said.

“Well, lots of things have been important to
me
and I've had to get over them.”

“Is that right?” She raised one eyebrow at me, like I was supposed to prove it.

“Yeah. I had to get over being outplayed by Dante Powers, getting benched when I knew I could make a difference in a bunch of games, and I even had to get over the Twinvaders when they joined the team.” And I was just getting started! “I had to get over Hoopst—” I stopped myself, realizing I had a golden opportunity right in front of me.

“What's wrong?” Mom asked.

“Nothing. I was just thinking,” I said, trying to buy some time while I came up with a plan. Something seriously genius was brewing and I only needed a second or two to pull it all together.

She opened the oven to check on the chicken. “Thinking about what?”

I waited until she'd closed the door again and turned to face me.

“Russ,” I said slowly, knowing I'd only have one chance to get it right. “I'm worried about him.” I paused to make sure I had her full attention. “He's spending so much time in his room lately and . . . I'm not sure it's good for him.”

“Really?” she said, like she didn't believe me.

“Yeah. I think he needs a . . . change of scenery or something.”

“I agree completely, Owen. That's why this Cannon Beach trip—”

“Won't help,” I interrupted.

“What?”

I leaned on the counter. “Think about it, Mom. He's depressed already and the coast will be all gray and gloomy. I guarantee he'll bury his face in a book the whole time, and what good is that gonna do him?”

“He'll probably . . .” She paused for a second or two. “What are you suggesting?”

“I think it would be really good for him to go to Hoopsters. With me, I mean.”

Mom groaned. “Are we honestly back to this?”

“Back to what?” Dad asked as he came in from the garage. “Hey, is that rosemary chicken?”

“Yes, and your son is claiming that Hoopsters camp would be good for Russ.” She paused. “
And for himself
.”

“I never said that,” I told her.

She just gave me a long look, like she could read my mind.

She probably could.

Figuring it might be an easier sell to Dad, I took another run at it.

“I just think that he's got this big black cloud over him right now, you know?”

“Sure,” Dad agreed, frowning.

“What he needs is a chance to blow off some steam, meet some new kids, and hang out somewhere besides his bedroom for a week.”

“The beach is—” Dad started to say.

I made a desperate play by blurting, “Romantic.”

Yuck.

The word left a bad taste in my mouth, like sour cream and onion chips.

My parents both stared at me like I was from another planet.

“What?” they asked at the same time.

In a flash, I knew just what to say.

“You guys never have any, uh, time alone. I know Nicky's parents went to San Diego for their anniversary and had an awesome trip.”

“It's not our anniversary,” Mom said, hands on her hips.

“I know, but just think about this for a second.” I held up one finger. “You guys have a . . . um, romantic week together.” I added another finger. “And Russ gets over this funk he's in and has a great time.” I shrugged. “It's win-win.”

“
Win
,” Mom said. “You forgot your own win. You get to do exactly what you wanted.”

“Is that so bad?” I asked, with a big smile. For once, I wished I had dimples.

“Is it?” Dad asked, glancing at Mom, then putting an arm around her. “Is win-win-win so bad?”

I knew I was getting somewhere when I saw the look she gave him, like they were in a mushy movie.

“It
would
be nice to have some time together,” she admitted. “And the camp
does
sound like a lot of fun for the boys.”

Yes! It was working.

Russ walked into the kitchen, his nose deep in a book.
Without speaking to any of us, he took the milk out of the fridge and poured himself a glass. He was just about to head into the living room when Mom said, “Russell?”

“
Mmmhmm?
” he mumbled, almost to the doorway.

“Can we talk to you for a minute?” Dad asked.

He looked up and saw all of us staring at him. “What's going on?”

“Have a seat,” Mom said.

Russ sat down at the table with a suspicious look on his face.

“We've been talking about a change of plans for spring break,” Dad said. When Russ didn't say anything, he continued, “We think Hoopsters would be a lot of fun for you two.”

Russ gave me a cold stare, then asked Dad, “Do you mean instead of the coast?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“We think it would be a nice change of pace.”

“Really,” Russ said, looking from one parent to the other.

“And, as Owen pointed out, it's a good opportunity for Dad and me to have a little getaway together.”

Russ turned toward me again, only this time he glared. “Wow.”

“I know!” Dad said, totally missing that it wasn't that kind of a wow.

“I think they deserve a vacation, don't you, Russ?” I asked, to put the pressure on. I knew he loved Mom and
Dad, and it was obvious how excited they were about being alone.

He wouldn't mess that up for them.

He was too nice.

“Yes, they do,” he said stiffly.

“So, you're in?” Dad asked.

“Sure,” Russ said, forcing a smile onto his face. “I'd
love
to go to Hoopsters with Owen.”

I knew sarcasm when I heard it, but I didn't care.

Before Russ had a chance to take the words back, I directed everyone into the home office to get the details from the Hoopsters' website.

We read all about the dorm rooms and cafeteria, the top-of-the-line coaches and equipment, and the fact that the office was open until six o'clock if Mom or Dad wanted to make the call.

Mom smiled at Dad and headed straight for the kitchen phone.

I couldn't believe how easy it had been to convince them! I wished I'd thought up the whole diabolical plan way earlier.

I got back to setting the table, only half listening to Mom's call. That is, until she said, “Only one spot left?”

I dropped the forks with a clatter and spun around to face her.

No way!

“Yes. Sure, I understand. I'll need to talk it over with the kids and call you back.”

“What happened?” I practically screamed when she hung up the phone.

“There's only one space left for Hoopsters.”

I felt my heart sink all the way down to the soles of my feet. The plan had been so perfect!

“That stinks.” I groaned.

“And there are no openings for any other individual sports. But she did say there's a slot available for the Multisport Sampler.”

“The whatty-what-whatter?” I asked, feeling a headache coming on.

“It's exactly what it sounds like, Owen. The same dorms, the same week, but a variety of sports instead of solid basketball or soccer or . . . you get the idea.”

“So . . .,” I said, looking at Russ hopefully.

“I assume you'd like the basketball spot,” he said, rolling his eyes.