Trivia (Conclusion), by Tom Dinard

Things aren’t the same. There’s no rhythm to the questions. For the first time in the competition, I misspell a word: onomatopoeia. And I know how to spell it. How is this happening? The heat lamps above me are getting hotter. I move my shoulders in front of my armpits so the soaking doesn’t show on TV.

How is Wheaton’s captain, a pudgy Asian kid named Kohta, beating me to every other buzzer? Why is he taking five seconds to utter each answer? And how are they all correct? I’m not looking at the scoreboard but I know we’re losing.

I can’t get anything going and this is the final round, the championship, and the speed round that I dominated in the semi comes and goes and I’m not even paying attention to host Jack Reynolds. I look into the crowd and see Gilda Steinman, and she’s trying to look hopeful but she knows it’s over. Once again, I’m disappointing her. We’re back to the usual.

We’re filing out of the studio now, losers by a score of 210 to 140. I can barely see, barely feel the floor beneath my feet, and my friend Steve walks up to me.

“They were cheating,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they were cheating. Just what I said. Their friends in the audience were mouthing answers to them. I swear.”

I tell Mrs. Steinman. She laughs.

“Preposterous,” she says.

I tell Jack Reynolds. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. You really played a heck of a tournament.”

“You don’t understand. They cheated. We have witnesses.”

“I understand how you must feel. But the results are official. I’m sorry.”

I storm away. I’m ready to leave. Mrs. Steinman is yukking it up with Kohta and his mother. I approach.

“Let’s go,” I say.

She puts up one finger.

“Now,” I say.

She sees how serious I am. She nods and follows me outside.

“Where did you park?” I bark.

She points to the van. I start walking to it.

“Wait!” she says.

“What?”

She points again to the entrance of the studio, where Jack Reynolds beams, trophy in hand, followed by Sam and Juan, expressionless.

“Tom, I want you to know that you have been selected MVP of the tournament,” Reynolds says. “Congratulations.”

“Really?” I say, to awkward silence. “Nobody from Cheaton gets it?”

More awkward silence.

Gilda Steinman beams anyway, grabbing the trophy from Jim and presenting it to me with a Splenda grin. It depicts Rodin’s “The Thinker” in faux-gold and doesn’t have anything etched into the faux-marble base.

I grab it and raise it above my head, pointing it to the sky in mock victory in front of Reynolds and Steinman and Sam and Juan and anyone else who might be observing.

I heave it with all my might into the stone outer wall of the building. It shatters into countless pieces and I smile.

To read the beginning of the story, click here.

***

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