Let's Get Quizzical, page 1
LET’S GET QUIZZICAL
A Novel
KELLY OHLERT
For my daughters, who are my everything.
But girls, put the book down. You can’t read it until you’re older.
And if you’re related to me … maybe skip the second halves of Chapters Twenty-One and Thirty-Seven.
CHAPTER ONE
CHARLOTTE
“Pop!” I shout over the ear-splitting beeps of the smoke detector. I contort my body, trying to cover my ears, put down the drinks I’ve been balancing, and reach for the microwave at the same time. I pry that sucker open, and smoke pours out, filling the kitchen. An alarm in the living room adds its voice to the shrill chorus. Surround sound. Excellent. Just another Saturday at the Evans house.
“Pop! How long did you put the popcorn in for?”
“Four minutes! Why?” he yells. Sometimes I wonder if I’m experiencing the same reality as the people around me. The shrieking alarms didn’t give it away?
“Who told you to put it in for four whole minutes?” I throw open the kitchen windows, then grab a towel and begin my dance solo across the room, fanning out the smoke.
“Orville!”
“Mr. Redenbacher also surely instructed that four minutes was for five hundred watts.”
“Well, how much is ours?” he asks.
“It’s because he left it unsupervised,” Ma says. “You’re supposed to supervise it. Listen for it to stop popping.”
“I didn’t know I was expected to babysit popcorn,” Pop says.
Despite the ordeal, the alarm ceases its screeching, and the smoke clears out nicely. Visibility is getting to be less Grand Banks, Newfoundland, and more Hamilton, New Zealand—the number one and number ten foggiest places on earth, respectively, according to WorldAtlas. The air is practically breathable again.
Even though I moved out years ago, I still come to my parent’s house most weekends to keep the tradition of watching family game shows alive. I’ve wanted to be a contestant ever since I started watching them with Gran at age four.
“Charlotte dear, we need more butter!” Ma shouts from the living room. I move aside some papers, to set down the popcorn bowl. My stomach twists, seeing it’s another fresh stack of bills. I’ve got a running spreadsheet of Gran’s medical expenses, but apparently it’s going to need an update.
I risk another quick adventure in electromagnetic convection, to melt some butter.
“Over here.” Gran sets aside her cross-stitch and holds up the enormous bowl of unburnt popcorn for me to christen with the melty goodness.
“What’s this one going to say?” I ask, nodding toward her project.
She leans to the side, allowing me a better view of the start of a quote about honesty and transparency.
“Mother Teresa?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “Very good. I still have to figure out where I’ll put it.”
We both scan the wall, already crowded with her work, most of which are stitched quotes.
“I’m sure you’ll find a spot.” I bring the bowl back to the kitchen and am tossing it with butter when there’s a rogue beep from the smoke detector. I yelp and juggle the bowl, just barely keeping popcorn from raining down from the sky like edible confetti. At least popcorn makes a better confetti alternative than the gold, silk, and paper confetti made for a sultan’s harem in 1895, which has since been outlawed for health concerns—although Pop’s version of our snack may have qualified as being just as toxic.
I split everyone’s popcorn into individual bowls and distribute them to Ma, Pop, Gran, and myself.
The familiar intro tune comes on, and I bust a move in my chair and hum along to it.
“Who’s ready to Brain Battle?” Bobby Bailey, the long-time host of the show, asks in that chipper and suave voice he has. I’m going to miss him when he retires soon. His shoes will be difficult to fill. The studio audience roars, as is customary for the show, but it’s more of a battle cry than a cheer.
Brain Battle is my favorite game show, which is saying something. Some of my most cherished memories are, oddly enough, sick days as a kid. I’ve tuned out the miserable-being-ill part and instead remember curling up on the couch with Gran. We’d spend hours snuggled together, basking in the warmth of a mountain of throw blankets and watching back-to-back episodes of every program on GSTV—the game show channel.
The lightning round begins, where the contestants individually answer questions to earn their spot on the team that competes in the second half of the show.
“This fictional volcano was instrumental in Tolkien’s Middle-earth legendarium.” Bobby Bailey raises an eyebrow before the cameras cut to the contestants keying in their answers.
“Mount Doom!” I shout at the screen.
“The correct answer is Mount Doom,” Bobby Bailey says, and I beam in satisfaction.
“Well done, Charlotte,” Ma says as I succeed at my sixth question in a row.
“When are you supposed to hear from the show again?” Dad asks.
We fall into an uncomfortable silence. Ever since I was old enough to audition for game shows, I’ve applied to every one I could find. I always pass the initial online test. I’ve even made it to the live interview rounds, where they coach us on energy level and on-screen mannerisms, but never any further.
I may be full of spunk in my family living room, but I lean toward being a bit more reserved out in public. Just in case a lack of enthusiasm was to blame, I’ve been practicing my jazz hands. Surely those would do the trick. My latest interview was only two weeks ago, and it was the big one: Brain Battle.
While I’d be happy with any game show, Brain Battle is the ultimate dream. A dream that, despite being close to fruition, may never come true if the whispers in the trivia chat groups and a recent news article are to be believed. Rumor has it Brain Battle’s viewership has dropped. As labor costs rise, they’re having trouble keeping up with production costs of the live format, rather than taping in batches. Concern that it won’t be the same after Bobby’s departure has only fueled those rumors.
“I might never hear from them. They don’t reject you if you miss the cut. They either call you or they don’t.” The unspoken worry that I may never hear from any of them hangs in the air. With each week, month, and year that goes by, my dream dies a little, and with it, my motivation in other areas of my life. I metaphorically brush the thought away as I sweep the excess popcorn seasoning from my fingertips and onto the legs of my overalls.
“Well, I think that’s a silly system,” Ma says as the show cuts to commercials.
“Patience, sweet girl. It will happen,” Gran says from her armchair. I walk over and give her a hug and check her oxygen tank.
“How are you feeling today, Gran?” I ask.
“Living the dream.” That’s why she’s my favorite human. She’s not even being dishonest about her feelings. She’s the most positive person in the world. She fell ill a year ago with a mystery disease doctors haven’t been able to put their finger on. Still, she treats every day as if it’s the best, no matter how much pain she’s in.
If she really felt like her day was terrible, she’d say it. Honesty is the single quality she values most, and she’s full of quotes about it. I suspect she’s always been an honest person, but she decided it was the hard and fast rule we’d all live by after the great scandal involving the man who is technically my grandfather.
Entire secret families don’t exactly qualify as harmless lies. Supposedly, I have aunts and cousins out there that I’ve never met, but we don’t talk about that, just like we don’t talk about grandpa. Instead, we throw ourselves into honesty and integrity. If you’re going to live by a core value, honesty seems like a good way to go, so I’m on board with it.
“The first novel written by this author was published posthumously in 2014, eighty-four years after it was first written.”
“Laura Ingles Wilder!” Gran and I shout together.
“Jinx.” I laugh and we bump fists gently.
“I haven’t gotten a single answer today,” Dad whines.
“That’s nothing new,” Gran and I say, again in unison, a broad grin splitting my face.
“Jinx again,” Gran says, and Dad rolls his eyes.
Gran smiles and sinks back onto her chair, the lines on her face more prominent than ever. Oh Gran. She stays optimistic, even though we’re all worried about her and about the cost of her care. Despite my parents and I all working hard and contributing to the costs, the money is getting short. If I could make it on a trivia show, I’d have a chance to win enough to get her the best care money can buy.
The show ends, and Gran is fading, her smiles seeming more forced and her breathing heavier. The music for the next show kicks in—a half-hour word-based show that was never our favorite.
“I think I’ll take a quick nap before It’s Trivial,” she says, and the rest of us exchange worried looks. Mom subtly waves Pop and me to the other room while she gets Gran some painkillers and helps adjust her seat and fluff her pillow.
“I wish we knew what was wrong,” I whisper to Pop once we’ve reached the kitchen and are out of earshot. I feel so helpless not knowing what to do to take care of her.
“I know, kiddo—me too.” What lies unspoken is that we both know reaching a diagnosis means more testing, and second and third opinions, all of which costs money that we don’t have. We were never rich, but we’d always been able to live comfortably until Gran got sick. It’s incredible how quickly hos
I pull the heating pad out of the cabinet and pop it in the microwave. It’ll end up smelling like popcorn, but Gran will just say she likes her pain relief with a little seasoning anyway, or something like that.
Mom walks into the kitchen, carrying our empty bowls. “You can shut that off.” She nods at the microwave. “She’s already fallen asleep.”
“That was fast,” Pop says.
“She’s been taking these power naps for the last week. She’ll probably be wide awake again in fifteen minutes.”
“Think she’s okay?” I ask, not really knowing what I mean. Of course she isn’t okay.
“She’s a fighter.” Mom’s smile is tired, not quite reaching her eyes. Despite my being thirty, she still acts like she needs to protect me from hard truths. She doesn’t lie, but she tells a truth that avoids answering the actual question.
“I guess we may as well make use of the time until she wakes up.” I pull my laptop out of the bag hanging on the coatrack by the kitchen door.
Pop grabs the stack of bills off the counter and meets me at the kitchen table to crunch numbers, trying to twist them into a new shape that isn’t quite so daunting. We spend our evening searching for salvation in a spreadsheet.
CHAPTER TWO
ELI
The pounding of feet against the belt of the treadmill slows its rhythm, fading to a stop, the upbeat music piping in through the room’s speakers becoming more audible in its absence. Even when I’m not standing directly next to a running treadmill, it’s always loud in here; the clanging of weights and whir of equipment a noisy background to my day. My last client of the afternoon steps off the track and onto the rubber floor of the gym. I hand him a towel from the nearby wooden bench.
“Great workout!” I high-five Ty.
He glares at me, bent over and still breathing hard after his cooldown. I chuckle. To be fair, I did run him hard today. “Let’s go stretch before your muscles get as mad at me as the rest of you seems to be.”
“Just because you can run those ridiculous intervals doesn’t mean the rest of us can,” he grumbles. Ty always gets grumpy with me when I push him, but he’ll be over it in a couple minutes.
“And yet, you did. That limit is in your head, man.”
“I still think you’re using me to work out your own stress.” While his workout was planned and purposeful, I can’t argue with the need to destress and its impact on my own workouts lately.
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off.
He reaches for his toes in a stretch. “For real, you doing alright?” Some clients like to keep things strictly business, but I have several I’ve been working with for years, Ty included. While I haven’t dumped all my shit on him before, we’ve talked enough about life that he knows it isn’t great for me right now, nor has it really ever been.
“You know how it is.”
He frowns at my nonanswer, but leans into another stretch, and changes the topic, filling me in on his weekend plans as we head toward the locker rooms.
“I added a nine AM appointment for you tomorrow,” Dave at reception says. “Someone new—asked for you by name.”
I cringe, already knowing exactly who it is. I’d overheard one of our regulars giggling with her friend and suggestively recommending a session with me. I was well aware of the looks I drew from individuals attracted to men, but if they thought I was going to be sleeping with a client, they were going to be disappointed.
He laughs at my expression, “Looks like another one destined for a broken heart.”
“I don’t sleep with everyone who glances my way. That does not equate to breaking hearts.” I should know. I’d broken one heart before, and that was more than enough guilt to live with.
“You coming out with us tonight?” he asks, breaking me from my thoughts.
Nia, one of the gym’s other trainers, had said people were meeting for drinks, but a night out wasn’t happening for me. I had to study, and alcohol was an unnecessary expense I wasn’t splurging on.
“Not tonight.”
Dave frowns, probably annoyed that I’m once again being antisocial. I do what I have to in order to get by.
“Will we see you on Thursday?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.” The Thursday basketball games with the guys were one of the few social outings I managed these days. Pickup games at the park didn’t cost a thing, and while time was a finite resource too, I needed those games to get out of the house for something other than work, before the weight of my responsibilities crushed me.
* * *
Once home, I fling my gym bag in the corner of my room, next to my scratched-up, hand-me-down dresser. I peel my shirt over my head, wincing at the soreness in my muscles. It was a long day on my feet. Even when I don’t work out alongside my clients, I’m active all day. Today, I did several of the workouts, and I’m beat.
I shower, the heat soothing my aches. It’s not as long as I’d like, but I don’t want to jack up our water bill, and I have shit to do. I towel off and rub some muscle-relief lotion onto my shoulders. Then it’s back to work, this time on the house.
I rock out to “Nine-to-Five,” as I multitask my way through cooking dinner and running around the house, cleaning things whenever I can step away from the stove. I’m aware it’s not exactly the anthem anyone would expect me to have, but that song is a jam. It’s a favorite song that a high school ex introduced me to, and I still shamelessly enjoy it.
I take a step away from the stove, and a tile cracks under my feet. Damn it. Cooking, cleaning, and repair. I’m not Mary Fucking Poppins, and I can’t keep up. The repairs on this house have become impossible, but it’s my home, and it was there for me when my parents weren’t.
I pull a load of laundry out of the dryer and set aside my father’s work polo for him. He works two jobs, so I try to take care of the house we share.
My father is the king of doing the wrong things for the right reasons. He spent much of my teens behind bars, for theft and dealing drugs, but we’re both determined that this time will be different. It has to be. Each time it isn’t, the judges become less lenient. I’m afraid he’s out of chances.
Dad gets home right as I pull dinner off the stove.
“Smells delicious.” His eyes are ringed with an exhaustion that we don’t talk about, but kills me to see. He’s trying so damned hard. “Thanks, Eli.”
We both sit at the table, allowing him a few minutes to relax while he eats. I pull out my laptop—so ancient its functionality is best suited for The Oregon Trail—to finish an assignment before my virtual course later this evening.
I’d barely finished high school when Dad got locked up the second time, but college was not an option then. Twelve years later and I’ve busted my ass with scholarship applications, though, and I’m taking courses to get my degree. College is one of my many projects to eventually get to a place where Dad and I can both work reasonable hours and not have a stack of bills to worry about.
“How are your classes coming?” he asks with genuine interest. I know he feels guilty for the path my life has gone down, but I don’t blame him. I’m determined not to make the same mistakes he has. I didn’t get off to the best start, and every minor misstep scares the shit out of me.
“Good. One more semester after this one.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says, and my heart splits open. That’s another thing that’s changed. He and I have gotten better at talking.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He clears his throat. “I ran into Lucky today.”
My muscles tense, and I’m rooted to the spot. Lucky was a friend of Dad’s before. The type of friend not likely to help him stay on a good path.
“I said I hoped he was doing well and went on my way. If you see him around too, I didn’t want you to worry.” His shoulders slump. He’s embarrassed to have to say things like this.
My muscles relax and I nod, not wanting to drag the conversation out and embarrass him any further.
He finishes his dinner, washes his plate, and disappears to shower before his next shift. I immerse myself in my homework, typing away at a paper. I should have had it done sooner, but damn if it isn’t hard keeping all the balls in the air sometimes.
