فصل هشتم

chapter-8

Blazing circles of bright light swung across the second-floor balcony to shine on Mr. Lemoncello.

Spotlights following him, he scampered to the nearest spiral staircase, slid down the banister, and dismounted with an impressive backflip. When his boot heels hit the ground, they squawked like a chicken, then mooed like a cow.

“Dr. Zinchenko? Kindly remind me never to borrow boots from Old MacDonald again.” Mr. Lemoncello wore a bright red and blue Revolutionary War outfit with a ruffled collar and a cape. A plumed tricorne hat completed the costume. He pulled out a brass handbell and rang it. Loudly.

“Welcome, boys and girls, families and friends, esteemed members of the press.” Mr. Lemoncello smiled for all the television cameras aimed at him.

“Clarence? Clement?” He clanged his bell a few more times. “Please bring in today’s mail.” Clarence and Clement, the beefy twins who headed up security for the Lemoncello Library, marched into the Rotunda Reading Room flanked by six robotic carts loaded down with United States Postal Service mail bins.

“Dr. Zinchenko? How many emails have we received on this same subject?” Dr. Zinchenko consulted the very advanced smartphone clipped to the waistband of her bright red pantsuit. “Close to one million, sir.” “One million?” Mr. Lemoncello shuddered. “And that’s just the bad beginning. But, not to worry, I have come up with the happy ending! You see, fellow library lovers, kids all across this wondermous country are eager to prove that they are bibliophilic champions, too. Therefore, oyez, oyez, and hear ye, hear ye.” Kyle covered his ears. Mr. Lemoncello was clanging his bell like crazy.

“Let the word go forth from Alexandriaville to all fifty states. I, Mr. Luigi L. Lemoncello, master game maker extraordinaire, am proud to announce a series of games that will rekindle the spirit and glory of the ancient Olympic Games held, once upon a time, in Olympia—the one in Greece, not the capital of Washington State. Therefore, I hereby proclaim the commencement of the first-ever Library Olympics! A competition that will discover, once and for all, who are this sweet land of liberty’s true library champions. Dr. Zinchenko?” “Yes, Mr. Lemoncello?”

“Kindly invite your network of crackerjack librarians all across this country to organize regional competitions.” “Immediately, sir.”

“Oh, it can wait until tomorrow. I, of course, will pay for everything, including the Cracker Jacks.” “Of course, sir.”

“Bring me your best and brightest bookworms, research hounds, and gamers. Our first Library Olympiad shall commence on March twentieth. The ancient Greeks had their summer games, so we’ll take the first day of spring.” “How many members should be on each team?” asked Dr. Zinchenko, who was furiously tapping notes into her tablet computer.

“Five,” said Mr. Lemoncello, “the same number as on Team Kyle. Our hometown heroes are hereby officially invited to these Library Olympics, where they will defend their crown—which, to keep things Greek and chic, will be made out of olive branches.” Kyle gulped.

Another competition?

Against the top library nerds in the country?

He didn’t like the sound of that. He liked being a champion and staying a champion.

“Um, sir?” said Miguel, raising his hand.

“Yes, Miguel?”

“Haley Daley moved to Hollywood. We’re down to four.”

“What about Andrew Peckleman?” asked Mr. Lemoncello. “He only cheated in the first game because someone who shall remain nameless bullied him into doing it.” Mr. Lemoncello pretended to cough, but his cough sounded a lot like “Ch-arles Ch-iltington.” “Andrew won’t play,” said Miguel. “He says he hates libraries.” “Oh, my. Well, we must certainly work on changing that. For now, we will stick with four members on every team. Just like the four horses pulling that Spartan lady Cynisca’s chariot.” Yep, thought Kyle. Sierra was right. Again.

“Once we find our other Library Olympians,” said Mr. Lemoncello, “we’ll fly them here to Alexandriaville and commence our duodecimalthon.” “Your what?” asked Akimi.

“Duodecimalthon. It’s like a decathlon, only with twelve games instead of ten.” “Why twelve?” asked Kyle, who was already trying to figure out how many games his team would need to win to keep its title.

“Because ‘duodecimalthon’ sounds a lot like ‘Dewey decimal system’ if you say it real fast with a mouthful of malted milk balls, don’t you agree?” “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Mr. Lemoncello, raising his bell and striking a heroic pose. “The four members of the winning team shall each receive a full scholarship to the college of their choice.” The audience applauded. Some parents even whistled.

“That’s right. It’s very whistle-worthy. The winners will receive four years of paid tuition plus free room, board, and books. Lots and lots of books. Now go find me my champions!”