it was yesterday,” he said to no one in particular, for Nate had already gone deep inside.
A voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention, players,” it said. “Welcome to the tournament. Everyone please find your tables and take your seats. Round one is about to begin.”
Chapter Ten
22 MINUTES ON THE CLOCK
T he ballroom went dead silent. Duncan Dorfman, his heart wild in his chest, sat beside Carl and across the table from the Tile Hustlers. They did not look like hustlers at all, but still Duncan felt as if he were going to die. What was he doing at a major Scrabble tournament? He didn’t belong here.
Duncan shifted in his seat and something rustled in his back pocket. He reached in and pulled out a folded piece of looseleaf paper, having no idea how it had gotten there. Oh no, he thought, my mom put a humiliating note in my pants. It would be covered with hearts and would say something corny like, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, DUNCAN, AND NO MATTER WHETHER YOU WIN OR LOSE, YOU ARE “TILE-RIFIC.” XOXOXO MOM
Duncan unfolded the note and saw that he was wrong. It was a note with doodles of space aliens all over the top—the same kind of cartoons that Andrew Tanizaki always drew. He read it to himself:
“What’s that?” asked Carl.
“Nothing.”
“‘Turnoment?’” said Carl, reading over Duncan’s shoulder. “Oh, right, the Chinaman. He made you a sweet little drawing. Awww,” he said in a sarcastic voice.
Duncan carefully placed the note back in his pocket. He felt a little guilty that Andrew, who he no longer sat with at lunch, had given this to him. But he also felt pleased that he had. Though Duncan was nervous as he waited for the game to begin, he realized he would have felt even worse if he hadn’t had Andrew’s good-luck drawing.
The room was completely hushed now, all the kids focused and alert. Some of them, like Duncan, felt their hearts thumping in their chests.
“We are about to start,” said the director of the YST, a slightly red-faced, earnest man named Dave Hopper, speaking into a microphone. “Are there any final questions?”
Everyone looked around the ballroom. No, there were no questions.
But then, oh wait, wait, how annoying, there was a question. Just when you thought everyone had silently agreed not to ask questions, someone always ruined it. A boy’s hand had shot up from the corner. He looked very young, and he and his teammate, a girl, wore matching cowboy hats.
“What if you have to urinate?” the boy asked.
Some kids laughed, and someone else shouted out, “URINATE is an anagram of TAURINE!” but the director took the question seriously.
“I’m glad you asked that,” he said. “The answer is in the official rules, which I hope you’ve all read. But just to remind you: If a player has to go to the bathroom, the other teammate may continue playing, but the bathroom-goer must leave after his or her team has played, and before new tiles are drawn.”
Now, were there any more questions?
No, it seemed, there were not.
“Well,” said the director, “I guess that’s it. Good luck, everyone. Draw your first tiles.”
At each of the fifty tables, a player picked up a little tile bag, held it up high, and with the other hand reached inside and blindly swirled the letters around to pick a tile. The player then handed the bag to one of his or her opponents, who selected a tile, too.
At Duncan and Carl’s table, Carl drew a P. He handed the bag back to the Tile Hustlers, and the boy with freckles bursting all over his face drew an M. This meant that the Tile Hustlers would go first, since their letter was closest to A. The P and the M were returned to the bag. Duncan gave it a hard shake and placed it on the table. As soon as one of his opponents picked the first tile and looked at it, Duncan slapped his hand down on the button of the electronic timer. It made a pock sound, and the clock began counting down from twenty-two minutes.
All around the room came
A voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention, players,” it said. “Welcome to the tournament. Everyone please find your tables and take your seats. Round one is about to begin.”
Chapter Ten
22 MINUTES ON THE CLOCK
T he ballroom went dead silent. Duncan Dorfman, his heart wild in his chest, sat beside Carl and across the table from the Tile Hustlers. They did not look like hustlers at all, but still Duncan felt as if he were going to die. What was he doing at a major Scrabble tournament? He didn’t belong here.
Duncan shifted in his seat and something rustled in his back pocket. He reached in and pulled out a folded piece of looseleaf paper, having no idea how it had gotten there. Oh no, he thought, my mom put a humiliating note in my pants. It would be covered with hearts and would say something corny like, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, DUNCAN, AND NO MATTER WHETHER YOU WIN OR LOSE, YOU ARE “TILE-RIFIC.” XOXOXO MOM
Duncan unfolded the note and saw that he was wrong. It was a note with doodles of space aliens all over the top—the same kind of cartoons that Andrew Tanizaki always drew. He read it to himself:
“What’s that?” asked Carl.
“Nothing.”
“‘Turnoment?’” said Carl, reading over Duncan’s shoulder. “Oh, right, the Chinaman. He made you a sweet little drawing. Awww,” he said in a sarcastic voice.
Duncan carefully placed the note back in his pocket. He felt a little guilty that Andrew, who he no longer sat with at lunch, had given this to him. But he also felt pleased that he had. Though Duncan was nervous as he waited for the game to begin, he realized he would have felt even worse if he hadn’t had Andrew’s good-luck drawing.
The room was completely hushed now, all the kids focused and alert. Some of them, like Duncan, felt their hearts thumping in their chests.
“We are about to start,” said the director of the YST, a slightly red-faced, earnest man named Dave Hopper, speaking into a microphone. “Are there any final questions?”
Everyone looked around the ballroom. No, there were no questions.
But then, oh wait, wait, how annoying, there was a question. Just when you thought everyone had silently agreed not to ask questions, someone always ruined it. A boy’s hand had shot up from the corner. He looked very young, and he and his teammate, a girl, wore matching cowboy hats.
“What if you have to urinate?” the boy asked.
Some kids laughed, and someone else shouted out, “URINATE is an anagram of TAURINE!” but the director took the question seriously.
“I’m glad you asked that,” he said. “The answer is in the official rules, which I hope you’ve all read. But just to remind you: If a player has to go to the bathroom, the other teammate may continue playing, but the bathroom-goer must leave after his or her team has played, and before new tiles are drawn.”
Now, were there any more questions?
No, it seemed, there were not.
“Well,” said the director, “I guess that’s it. Good luck, everyone. Draw your first tiles.”
At each of the fifty tables, a player picked up a little tile bag, held it up high, and with the other hand reached inside and blindly swirled the letters around to pick a tile. The player then handed the bag to one of his or her opponents, who selected a tile, too.
At Duncan and Carl’s table, Carl drew a P. He handed the bag back to the Tile Hustlers, and the boy with freckles bursting all over his face drew an M. This meant that the Tile Hustlers would go first, since their letter was closest to A. The P and the M were returned to the bag. Duncan gave it a hard shake and placed it on the table. As soon as one of his opponents picked the first tile and looked at it, Duncan slapped his hand down on the button of the electronic timer. It made a pock sound, and the clock began counting down from twenty-two minutes.
All around the room came
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