A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions by Alan Lawrence Sitomer Page B

shot back, not wanting to give an inch.
    â€œNo, we will.”
    â€œWe will!”
    â€œStop! Nobody is going to do that,” Principal Mazer explained. “I mean, sure, I’d like to think someone from this school could win it, but Saint Dianne’s has won it nine out of the past ten years, and the last seven in a row. Heck, we haven’t even been able to field a Septathlon team for the past two or three years. Students have just totally lost interest.”
    â€œWe’ll do it for you, sir,” Kiki said, straightening her spine like the world’s biggest suck-up. “We’ll carry the torch of school pride.”
    The torch of school pride? OMG, so pathetic.
    â€œNo, we will carry the torch of school pride,” I insisted. “And we will carry it to the educational summit of Mount Olympus!”
    Hey, no one’s going to out-suck-up me.
    â€œNo, we will!”
    â€œWe will!”
    â€œJust be quiet a minute!” Principal Mazer ordered, covering his ears. “Holy goodness, what is with all of you?”
    He stared at the flyer, considering how to proceed.
    â€œOkay, here’s what I’ll do,” he said, some kind of positive-discipline lightbulb going off in his head. “We’ll have a little qualification tournament. The team that earns the right to represent our school will have their PPWB time cut in half. And if you win and beat Saint Dianne’s, you’re off the hook entirely.”
    â€œAnd the team that loses?” Brattany asked.
    â€œPolishes,” he replied. “Polishes until I can see my smile in every door handle on this campus, no ifs, ands, or buts. Is it a deal, ladies?”
    Kiki looked over at her two pet Chihuahuas.
    â€œDeal,” she said.
    â€œDeal,” I replied, without a moment’s thought, not giving the ThreePees an inch. Beanpole practically bounced out of her seat with excitement. Considering that she was the type of girl who actually liked homework, the thought of an Academic Septathlon totally wound her dorkasaurus clock. Q, on the other hand, showed a glint of Wild West gunslinger in her eyes. In the battle of brains, there was no one coming to the table with more gray matter than her.
    â€œThe Septathlon is in four weeks. Our qualification tournament will be a week from Monday,” the principal explained.
    â€œTen days?” I exclaimed. “That’s not enough time.” Being that I had already participated in Math-a-thon a few years ago, I knew exactly how much work it would take to get prepared for this sort of thing. Science, history, music, language arts, these Septathlon things were no joke.
    â€œI have toilet-paper-roll dispensers that could use some buffing right now if you prefer, Miss Saunders,” Principal Mazer said. “And let me ask, have you ever been in the boys’ bathroom on the first floor? The smell alone can turn your nose hair green.”
    I recoiled in horror.
    â€œNo, ten days is great, sir. Easily done.”
    â€œHere are some study materials to get you started,” the principal said, opening up a closet. A moment later, each of us was holding a binder. Not just any binder, of course, but the biggest binder of intellectual materials ever put together. They must have been the size of two phone books, weighing twelve pounds each. I mean, brain surgeons probably need to know less to remove cranial tumors.
    â€œWait,” Sofes said to Kiki. “Do we, like, have to learn this, or do we just carry it around for show, like we do with all our other schoolbooks?”
    Kiki ignored her.
    â€œGood luck, ladies,” Principal Mazer said. My arms practically sank to the floor with the weight of the tome. “I love that Aardvark spirit.”
    In the corner of the room, Mr. Stone glared. Clearly, he wanted us to start polishing—and I’m sure buffing out his Christmas teeth was at the top of the list.
    â€œBy the way,