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on earth was going on?
    The light finally found its target, at the top of the aisle. A blast of music came through the speakers and a group of five familiar figures started walking toward the stage to the beat of a song I’d heard a hundred times in my own living room: “We Are the Champions.”
    I glanced at Nitu, who shrugged.
    My eyes were drawn, against their will, back to the spotlight.
    The Beaumont team wasn’t wearing the T-shirts they’d had at districts, but dark suits, white shirts, red ties, and sunglasses. They carried their trademark briefcases, complete with the Masters’ logo, and wore the smirks I was all too familiar with.
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding me,” Sara muttered as they passed our row.
    â€œOh, it’s on now,” Jason said, smiling. “We’re going to take these guys down.”
    â€œOur only goals are to do our best and to have fun,” I murmured.
    Nobody heard me over the music.

    I’d suspected we were in trouble as soon as Beaumont entered the Schnitz, and my suspicions were confirmed in the first round.
    Word and math problems should have been our strong suit, but as soon as we sat down at our group table onstage, everything felt . . .
wrong
.
    â€œIt’s bad feng shui, or something,” Sara said, looking as awkward as I felt.
    â€œDo you want to switch seats?” Marcus asked her.
    Sara shook her head as one of the judges placed an egg timer on the table and the speed rounds began.
    First, we had to make as many words as we could out of “acknowledgment,” but we couldn’t agree on whether it was spelled with two
e
’s or three. Then there were word problems, involving hours, mileage, and props.
    The ticking of the egg timer was borderline sinister.
    I felt sweat trickling down my neck while the glare of the lights practically blinded me. Every whisper and cough from the audience was amplified and I had a terrible time tuning out the noise.
    When it was time for a break before the big challenge, it was obvious that we were all feeling disappointed in the first round.
    â€œLet’s not freak out,” Nitu said. “We can still ace the challenge.”
    â€œTotally,” Marcus agreed.
    I nodded firmly, knowing we still had time to redeem ourselves.
    Nationals depended on it.

    Onstage, all of the teams assembled the materials to build a bridge on their tables, and when the buzzer sounded, we all got to work.
    Just as we’d practiced, I tied the drinking straws, Jason and Nitu tackled the popsicle sticks, and Marcus helped Sara with the string and paper cups. We had probably built thirty bridges since we’d first read the challenge, and through trial and error, we’d designed a structure that could support the single brick that would put it to the test.
    At first, everything went smoothly, but as our fifteen minutes ticked away, the master of ceremonies announced how much time was remaining at regular intervals.
    And when we had just three minutes left, I spilled our glue all over the straws.
    â€œNo!” I gasped.
    â€œWe’ve got it,” Sara said, leading the team in cleaning up the mess and making sure the structure was intact.
    â€œIt’s fine,” Jason said as the final seconds dwindled away.
    But we all knew it wasn’t.
    The judges tested each bridge, one team after another. Several crumpled while a couple managed to withstand the weight.
    When our turn came, I was filled with shame and horror as I watched the bridge fall apart completely.
    My stomach growled angrily.
    While results were tallied, we stood under the hot, glaring lights next to Beaumont, in all of their smug glory.
    The lead judge announced them as the winners and wished them luck at nationals.
    My stomach performed a somersault, followed by a backflip.
    I tried to swallow, but couldn’t control the rising wave of sickly sweet syrup in the back of my throat.

The drive home from state was