The Best at It: Chapters 26–37

The last few weeks before winter break, I hole myself up in my bedroom every day after school, surrounded by a flurry of practice tests.

Chelsea, Arun, and I get to wander around the mall while Mom, Dad, and Bhai shop for presents to, as Mom tells Arun, “supplement the presents from the North Pole.”

And then, without any warning, Brent’s sister begins to wail so hard that her entire body convulses.

The first few questions aren’t hard. At all. A fraction here, some integers there, pretty basic formulas.

“Two minutes until all pencils are down,” the moderator calls out.

We’re headed toward our table when we hear a sarcastic “Ooh, which one of you nerds thought of those hilarious T-shirts?”

I look down at the front of my maroon shirt, a large “π, anyone?” emblazoned across it in white.

“I can’t believe how ignorant you are!” I say. “He belongs right here! We all do. Just because we’re brown doesn’t mean we’re terrorists. What’s wrong with you?”

You’ve all done a great job today. You’ve learned about hard work, you’ve honed your skills, you’ve gotten to know yourselves better, you’ve built camaraderie.

You’ve all done a great job today. You’ve learned about hard work, you’ve honed your skills, you’ve gotten to know yourselves better, you’ve built camaraderie.

“You’ve learned how to work as a team, how to respect one another, and you’ve learned discipline. So it’s not just about who wins.”

I’m seriously going to start hyperventilating.

“Not the humblest group I’ve ever met.” Mr. Scoky smiles as he hands us our medals. “But you all really deserve it.”

I don’t know if it’s the sheer exhaustion from getting up in the middle of the night to check all the locks and appliances, or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline from the day. But at some point on the ride home, the gentle rocking of the van lulls me into a deep sleep.

I must have been way more tired than I thought, because on Sunday morning, I’m still in bed when I hear the familiar sounds of my favorite Bollywood song, “Yeh Dosti Hum Nahi Todenge,” reverberating through our whole house.

“This is so cool!” Chelsea said, her fingers tracing the embossed “1st Place” on the front of it.

“Now the tradition of Sadie Hawkins, ironically, is to buck tradition. There’s no need for girls to have to wait around for boys to ask them to a dance. Girls can feel empowered to make the first move, too.”

Look, I know you’re all excited about the dance tonight, but that’s no excuse for all this unruliness.

“But in those ten years,” Principal Jacobson goes on, “there has been one honor that has eluded these talented teams. I’d like to ask Mr. Hayden, Gina Carvallo, Jenny Ikeda, Rahul Kapoor, David Nguyen, and Jai Parikh up to the stage.”

There is a smattering of applause, but I have to be honest—I thought there’d be more.

My heart flies up into my throat as the room thunders with “Math-letes! Math-letes! Math-letes!”
If this standing ovation never ends, I’d be totally fine with it.

Her fingers brush against mine like she’s trying to hold my hand, and I don’t mean to, but I instinctively pull my arm back.

Her voice lilts up like a question, but it’s like it’s a question she already knows the answer to.

I rummage around for my calculator and two backup batteries.

I slide into my assigned seat as a screen scrolls down up front. Projected rules start rolling into place, the words washed away under the stark white fluorescent lights.

Projected rules start rolling into place, the words washed away under the stark white fluorescent lights.

And I know it’s my name I see in black calligraphy on the certificate next to the words Fifth Place.

I even concoct plans to convince them I’m sick, but when you have a dad who’s a doctor, holding a thermometer next to a hot lightbulb and acting like you have a fever doesn’t exactly cut it.

I’d planned on spending the week of spring break sulking in my room, but instead the time off gives me a chance to think about things.

“You wore your kurta!”

The football field has been transformed for the International Bazaar. On one end is a giant stage framed by towering scaffolding.

Huge lights and enormous speakers dangle over the stage at dangerous angles, and the whole setup is flanked by two stadium-sized jumbotrons.

Arun and I each carry a tray of food as we follow Mom over to the India-Na Chutney booth.

“Okay, okay, everyone in this group is too skinny! Let’s go see all the food!” Nandita Auntie starts corralling everyone toward the rest of the booths.

“You’d think they’d at least have cleaned the one by the football field for all the guests today. I mean, right?” She looks around, appalled.

“We celebrate Holi by dousing each other with all the colors of the rainbow. We use colored powders and water balloons filled with colored water. I think you’ll get the hang of it pretty quickly.”

There’s some more whooping, and I can tell that people are intrigued.

They’re doing a medley of Bhai’s greatest hits!

I’m dancing my head off when a water balloon smacks me in the chest and explodes colors all over my shirt. I turn to see Arun standing next to a cardboard box filled with artillery.

But somehow I summon up the courage to keep going.