Mr. Lemoncello's Library Olympics: Chapters 8–18

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

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.

“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.”

“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.”

In California, a boy named Pranav Pillai became a finalist for the Pacific team after he correctly deciphered that 683.3, the Dewey decimal code for Louie the Locksmith’s Big Book of Padlocks, Dead Bolts, and Tumblers, was also the combination for the lock securing the exit of the Los Altos Public Library: 6-R, 8-L, 3-R, 3-L.

A gangly seventh grader, a foot taller than any of her competitors, Marjory Muldauer had memorized the ten categories of the Dewey decimal system before she entered preschool.

Mr. Lemoncello does not love libraries as libraries. He thinks they need to be tricked out with gadgets and gizmos and holographic displays.

“Akimi was teaching me how to play that new Lemoncello video game where you squish all the different-colored jelly beans with a sledgehammer,” said Sierra. “I made it to level three.”
Kyle nodded. “Jujitsu Jelly Jam.”
He didn’t mention that he’d already made it to level fifty-three. Friends didn’t gloat to friends.

“So what’re we doing today?” asked Akimi. “More rebus puzzles? Dewey decimal drills?”
“First things first,” said Miguel, jerking his thumb at Kyle. “Our fearless leader here is getting cold feet.”
“Wha-hut?” said Akimi.

There were so many mistakes most of the contestants didn’t know what it meant, what they were supposed to do, or why the judges hadn’t proofread their paragraph before passing it around.

Marjory didn’t wait for the librarian to finish.
“The Very Hungry Caterpillar, by Eric Carle.”
“Correct. ‘Mrs. Rachel—’”
BUZZ!
“Anne of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery.”
The other contestants never had a chance.

“A public library should serve the public,” said Charles Chiltington’s mother on the radio and TV. “Not the whims of an eccentric billionaire.”

“A public library should serve the public,” said Charles Chiltington’s mother on the radio and TV. “Not the whims of an eccentric billionaire.”

Mr. Lemoncello’s wacky idea was an economic boon for the whole town.

“Look, Keeley, I’ll take your place,” said Charles. “Mummy and her group are keen to have me on the inside, keeping an eye on Mr. Lemoncello. Besides, who knows? I might be able to whip your atrocious teammates into shape. With me at the helm, we could actually bring home the gold.”

He stood proudly, looking down his nose at Kyle. “Do I need to fill out a form or something?”
“For what?”
Charles rolled his eyes. “To take your place. We all know that’s why you came here, Keeley. You’re afraid. Abashed. Apprehensive. Frankly, I don’t blame you. You’re a loser who got lucky. Once. I, on the other hand, am a Chiltington. Chiltingtons never lose.”

He stood proudly, looking down his nose at Kyle. “Do I need to fill out a form or something?”
“For what?”
Charles rolled his eyes. “To take your place. We all know that’s why you came here, Keeley. You’re afraid. Abashed. Apprehensive. Frankly, I don’t blame you. You’re a loser who got lucky. Once. I, on the other hand, am a Chiltington. Chiltingtons never lose.”

“Welcome,” said Mr. Peckleman, with a voice even more nasal than Andrew’s. “The Blue Jay Extended Stay Lodge—also known, this week, as Olympia Village—is, as you may have noticed, my personal bird sanctuary. Please enjoy our feathered friends’ colorful, song-filled company and merry antics.”

“Welcome,” said Mr. Peckleman, with a voice even more nasal than Andrew’s. “The Blue Jay Extended Stay Lodge—also known, this week, as Olympia Village—is, as you may have noticed, my personal bird sanctuary. Please enjoy our feathered friends’ colorful, song-filled company and merry antics.”

“Woo-hoo,” cried Kyle.
Now everybody in the crowd turned to gawk at him.

“Welcome, everybody, to Ohio and Olympia Village,” she said. “Kindly report to the bookmobile with your region’s name affixed to its side. Our library staff will give each of you a welcome packet containing the card key for your room, meal tickets, and information about this week’s exciting events. The bookmobiles will be at your disposal throughout the games...."

Marjory ignored her.
“It was 1857,” she said. “It was a horse-drawn cart. Donated by a Victorian merchant named George Moore to ‘diffuse good literature among the rural population.’”

“Well, that monstrosity that Mr. Lemoncello constructed isn’t really a library, Andrew. It’s an indoor amusement park.”

“Have you seen it?” Andrew asked.
“Not yet. But I’ve seen pictures. They should close it down and turn it into a Chuck E. Cheese’s—after, of course, I win my college scholarship from loony old Lemoncello.”
Andrew smiled.
Because Marjory Muldauer was a kindred spirit.

For the opening ceremonies’ “Parade of Champions,” Kyle, Akimi, Miguel, and Sierra had choreographed the footwork to play a burp-squeak version of “Hang On Sloopy,” Ohio’s official rock song.

“I’d like to say a few short words. 'Terse,’ ‘diminutive,’ ‘stubby,’ and ‘I,’ which is one of the shortest words I know, until it becomes ‘we,’ as in ‘We the people of the United States,’ the same ‘we’ that secured the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity, which, by the way, would be you, children, and not my fanny, which would, of course, be my ‘posterior-ity.’”

“I’d like to say a few short words. 'Terse,’ ‘diminutive,’ ‘stubby,’ and ‘I,’ which is one of the shortest words I know, until it becomes ‘we,’ as in ‘We the people of the United States,’ the same ‘we’ that secured the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity, which, by the way, would be you, children, and not my fanny, which would, of course, be my ‘posterior-ity.’”

“I’d like to say a few short words. 'Terse,’ ‘diminutive,’ ‘stubby,’ and ‘I,’ which is one of the shortest words I know, until it becomes ‘we,’ as in ‘We the people of the United States,’ the same ‘we’ that secured the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity, which, by the way, would be you, children, and not my fanny, which would, of course, be my ‘posterior-ity.’”

“Gamesters, if you’re game, let the gaming begin!” He heaved up the humongous switch. The ginormous flashlight’s beacon sliced through the night sky. “I now pronounce the games of the first Library Olympiad officially open...."

“Yep. Mr. Peckleman is kind of working for Mr. Lemoncello this week—running Olympia Village. And in Mr. Lemoncello’s Marvelously Mysterious Mine Shaft game, there are devious dwarves who offer you cheat cards that let you do stuff like use elf shovels even if you’re not an elf. But elf shovels, you find out after it’s too late, can’t dig up diamonds, only gold, and you need a ton of gold plus two diamonds to win.”

Today’s guest-librarian hologram, the lady with the trembling voice, was somebody new. She looked frazzled. Worn out. The way teachers sometimes look at the end of a really long day right before spring break.

Marjory Muldauer, walking with her Midwest teammates, chuffed a sarcastic laugh. “Thanks for the sappy bumper sticker, ceiling lady.”

Marjory Muldauer, walking with her Midwest teammates, chuffed a sarcastic laugh. “Thanks for the sappy bumper sticker, ceiling lady.”

“Find books about historical events and places you’ve always wanted to visit,” suggested Sierra.
“How about the bathroom?” said Kyle, feeling queasy. “I wouldn’t mind visiting it right now.”

“In other words,” said a new voice in the ceiling—Mr. Lemoncello’s—“play nice, cart runners—not to be confused with kite runners, a book you should all definitely read when you’re a little older. Dr. Zinchenko? Let the book-sorting shindig begin!”