Three

Cora

We’re supposed to be memorizing state capitals, but Mia and Owen are busy arguing about Junior Quiz Bowl strategy. Mia thinks it’s best to always reach for the buzzer, even if you only have a vague idea of the answer. Owen thinks you shouldn’t hit the buzzer unless you’re more confident.

“What do you think?” Mia says, leaning over toward me. I’m sitting between the two of them, pretending to be completely engrossed in the map of the United States that’s in front of me. Really, I’m pretending not to be thinking about what could be inside the box from Quinn McCauley that’s sitting upstairs at my house.

I shrug, trying to forget about the box. But I can’t. “I think you’re both wrong. You only hit the buzzer if you’re going to get the answer right.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Owen holds his hand out for a high five.

I shake my head. “No. You said if you feel more confident. I’m saying, I only want people who always know the answer.” I give both him and Mia a teasing smile.

“Ugh!” Mia says, poking me right in the ribs. “You are seriously annoying.”

I shrug again. “I just like to win.”

“Okay,” Owen says, snatching the map of the United States from me. “So what’s the capital of Vermont?”

I was literally just staring at the New England states, but my brain goes mushy. When I try to picture the image of Vermont, all I see is the outline of the unopened box from Quinn. Not helpful.

“Um—”

“Montpelier,” Mia interjects.

“Ding, ding!” Owen says.

Mia is admittedly better at state capitals, but I still think I’m a little better of a Quiz Bowl player overall. I’m more well-rounded in my trivia knowledge. Or that is, I was a better player until today. Today, I can’t focus at all.

Quiz Bowl is new this year. Even though our school is for grades five through eight, only grades seven and up are allowed to join sports teams. Quiz Bowl is a sports team. To participate, you have to get a physical. This made Dad and Grams laugh and laugh, but I took my blood pressure results seriously.

Quiz Bowl practice takes place in Coach Pearlman’s room. Or rather, Mr. Pearlman. He’s Mr. Pearlman when he’s my science teacher during sixth bell. He’s Coach Pearlman when we meet after school for Quiz Bowl.

We practice twice a week and compete once a week in meets against other local schools. If we have a winning season, we’ll qualify for the regional playoffs, and if we do well in the regional playoffs, we’ll make it to state. That’s the goal.

The questions at the meets vary from presidential history to wildlife biology to state capitals to solving mathematical equations. It’s basically one big mix of nerdy trivia, and I’m 100 percent here for it.

“I hope the noise I’m hearing over there is the sound of future glory and not fooling around,” Coach Pearlman says, looking up from his desk, where he’s grading science quizzes. I resist the urge to ask if he’s gotten to mine yet. I’m worried that I might have gotten question number three wrong, but I feel good about the rest of the quiz.