Mr. Lemoncello's Library Olympics

  “That’s a cartoon,” said Kyle. “It’s not real.”

  Kyle didn’t know what to do.

  Mr. Peckleman was nuttier than any of them had suspected.

  And the fire pit was really blazing.

  If the police were busy downtown at the library, investigating the theft of the missing books, it would take them maybe ten minutes to race all the way up to the motel.

  Mr. Peckleman could burn a ton of books in ten minutes.

  Kyle had to do something. Saving Mr. Lemoncello’s library had to include protecting its books, even the ones some people didn’t like.

  “Look, Mr. Peckleman, let’s make a deal….”

  “Oh, that’s right. Andrew told me about you. You’re the game boy. You think you can make some kind of trade with me like you would if we were playing Monopoly?”

  “Why not? What are you afraid of?”

  “Not you, Kyle Keeley. Or any of your friends. What I am doing is right!”

  “Then let’s play a game. If we win, you don’t burn a single book.”

  “And if I win?”

  Kyle looked to Akimi.

  She nodded.

  He turned to Mrs. Yunghans.

  “Do what you have to do, Kyle. We’re running out of time.”

  Finally, Kyle looked at Marjory Muldauer.

  She nodded, too.

  “Okay, Mr. Peckleman,” said Kyle, “if you can beat us in a game—”

  The old man jabbed a finger at Kyle. “I get to choose the game, right?”

  “Fine. But remember—if we win, you have to leave the books alone.”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time,” said Mr. Peckleman. “But what do I get if I win?”

  Kyle swallowed hard. “The books.”

  Mr. Peckleman’s eyes bugged out and he sneered. “I already have the books. I want something more! Something to make this game a little more…exciting.”

  Kyle was stumped. He didn’t know what else to offer.

  A breeze fanned the flames. Made them leap higher.

  That’s when Marjory Muldauer stepped forward.

  “If you win,” she said, “you can burn this, too.”

  She held up her “Go to College Free” card.

  “Oh, this is interesting,” said Mr. Peckleman, rubbing his hands together and leering at the card in Marjory’s hand. “Very interesting, indeed.”

  “Wait,” Kyle said to Marjory. “That card’s worth thousands of dollars.”

  “Actually,” said Marjory, “it’s worth 234,428 dollars. I plan on attending Harvard. For four years.”

  “Well, that makes your card even more important. You can’t just throw it away.”

  “Yes, I can. Some things are even more important than a free college education. Including 323.443: ‘freedom of speech.’ ”

  She handed her card to Mr. Peckleman.

  Everyone gasped.

  Kyle glanced at the books. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do. He couldn’t believe he was even thinking about doing it. His brothers would tease him about it for the rest of his life, because it was definitely crazy.

  But that didn’t stop him.

  “Fine,” he said, pulling his college scholarship card out of his shirt pocket. “If you win, you can burn mine, too.”

  Akimi stepped forward. “And mine,” she said.

  “And mine,” said Angus Harper.

  “And mine,” said twenty-eight other voices as every single one of the Library Olympians stepped forward to hand Mr. Peckleman their orange prize coupons.

  “Excellent,” giggled Mr. Peckleman, crumbling the thirty-two cards in his hand, wadding them up into one extremely flammable paper ball. “You’re on, Mr. Keeley. Mr. Lemoncello won’t give you your scholarships. Not without these. Cards must be present to win.”

  “What’s the game?” demanded Kyle.

  “Let’s see. How about a riddle?”

  “Fine. We’ve got several players who are excellent at solving riddles.”

  “Who cares? You’re the one who made the challenge.”

  “I know, but…”

  “What? Afraid you might lose and ruin all of your friends’ dreams of a college education at the same time?”

  “Riddles aren’t my best sport.”

  “Too bad. I insist on trial by single combat. A duel between two champions that will decide the fate of everyone and everything else. No one may interfere or offer advice. You, Kyle Keeley, are on your own.”

  Kyle felt that nervous flutter in his stomach again. Trying to be a hero wasn’t always easy or fun.

  He looked at his best friend, Akimi.

  “Do it.”

  “You can take him, Kyle,” said Andrew.

  “Go on, Keeley,” said Marjory Muldauer. “Even I’m rooting for you.”

  Kyle turned to face Mr. Peckleman.

  “Okay. I accept your challenge. If I answer your riddle correctly, you don’t burn a single book. We take them all back to Mr. Lemoncello’s library.”

  “But if you can’t answer my riddle,” sneered Peckleman, “if you fail, you and your library-loving friends have to stand here and watch me destroy all of these horrible books and all of these lovely orange cards.”

  “Deal.”

  “Oh, this is going to be fun,” said Mr. Peckleman. “Let me think….I need a really good riddle…one that’s almost impossible to solve….”

  Kyle waited, giving a little voice deep inside his head time to remind him that every chance to win is also a chance to lose.

  So Kyle told that little voice to shut up.

  Because he needed every brain cell he could spare focused on Mr. Peckleman’s riddle.

  “All right, Mr. Keeley. Here is your riddle: You are a prisoner in a room with two doors. One leads farther down into the dungeon and certain death; one leads to freedom. There are two guards in the room with you, one at each door. One guard always tells the truth. One always lies. You don’t know which is which. What single question can you ask one of the guards that will help you find the door that leads to freedom?”

  Oh, man.

  Kyle wished somebody else had made the challenge.

  But they hadn’t. He had.

  Concentrate, Kyle told himself. You can do this thing.

  Okay.

  If Kyle wanted to find out which guard told the truth and which one told lies, he could ask, “If I asked the other guard whether you always told the truth, what would he say?” If the guard he asked said, “No,” that would mean he was definitely talking to the truth teller. If the guy said, “Yes,” that would mean he was the liar, because he never told the truth, about himself or the other guard.

  Kyle’s head was starting to hurt.

  “I’m waiting, Mr. Keeley,” said Mr. Peckleman, pinching the thin picture book Earl the Squirrel between his thumb and forefinger so he could dangle it over the fire pit.

  “Gimme a second.”

  But Kyle had only one question to find the right door.

  He couldn’t do a two-step dance and first find out who was the truthful guard and then ask him which door to use.

  So…

  He had to ask…

  “My single question,” he said, “to either one of the guards…”

  Everyone was hanging on his every word.

  “…would be…‘If I were to ask the other guard, which door would he say leads to freedom?’ I would then choose the door opposite of the one the guard told me.”

  “Are you certain, Mr. Keeley?”

  “Yes! Because if the guard I ask is the one who always tells the truth, he would tell me the other guard, the lying guy, would point to the door of death. If I asked the guard who always lies, he would also point me to the door of death, because he’s a liar. So in either case, I’d choose the door the guard wasn’t pointing to.”

  “He’s right,” declared Marjory. “Right?”

  Mr. Peckleman lowered his book.

  But not into the fire.
br />   He gently placed it on top of the heap in the little red wagon.

  “Well done, Library Olympians. Bravo!”

  All of a sudden, Mr. Peckleman had a British accent.

  “By being willing to sacrifice everything you thought you came here to win, you have all proven yourselves to be true champions.”

  Kyle half expected the guy to say “pip pip, cheerio” or something.

  Instead, he heard sirens approaching.

  The police.

  They were flanking a car shaped like a big boot and another one that looked like a pouncing cat.

  The boot was another playing piece from Mr. Lemoncello’s Family Frenzy board game.

  So Kyle had a pretty good idea who was driving the bootmobile.

  His hero. Luigi L. Lemoncello.

  The boot car turned into the motel driveway with Dr. Zinchenko’s green-eyed catmobile following close behind.

  Kyle couldn’t figure out what was going on. Mr. Lemoncello had said he was leaving town. Going to New York or Terabithia, which sounded like it might be in Indiana.

  The police cars escorting the two game pieces on wheels had flapping Library Olympics flags attached to their bumpers. They weren’t coming to the motel to arrest Mr. Peckleman. They were just part of Mr. Lemoncello’s motorcade.

  The boot car skidded to a stop near the patio. Dr. Zinchenko’s cat car crawled to a halt behind it. Mr. Lemoncello popped open the boot ankle and stepped out.

  “Donald?” cried Mr. Lemoncello, his voice booming across the parking lot. “Extinguish thy flame!”

  “I fly with haste to do thy bidding,” said Mr. Peckleman, sounding all of a sudden like he was in a play by Shakespeare. He bent down and flipped a switch on the fire pit. The flames disappeared in a poof!

  “Gas logs,” said Mr. Lemoncello. “Just another part of our glorious charade.”

  “Huh?” said Kyle.

  Mr. Lemoncello was dressed in a bright yellow tracksuit and a half-lemon crash helmet, which he unbuckled and tucked under his arm as he strode onto the patio.

  “Please cover those books with their protective tarps,” coached Dr. Zinchenko, who was dressed in her standard red leather minidress, scarlet stockings, red high heels, and red-framed librarian glasses.

  “Thy wish is my command, milady!” Mr. Peckleman ruffled open a bright blue tarp with a theatrical flourish and draped it over all the squirrel books.

  Mr. Lemoncello approached Andrew Peckleman.

  “Andrew?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “My grandmother isn’t Strega Nona, and you don’t have a long-lost great-uncle-twice-removed named Woody.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. Meet Sir Donald Thorne, one of the finest actors in all of England!”

  Sir Donald, who everybody had thought was Uncle Woodrow “Woody” Peckleman, took off his Blue Jays baseball cap and twirled it in front of his face as he took a bow.

  “ ‘All the world’s a stage,’ ” he said. “ ‘And all the men and women merely players.’ ”

  “Sir Donald also coached Dr. Zinchenko and me so we might play our own parts with passion and panache.” Mr. Lemoncello started imitating himself, acting much more melodramatically than he had in his original performance. “Oh, boo hoo. I, Luigi Libretto Lemoncello, hereby officially declare the games of this first Library Olympiad to be over. Done. Kaput!”

  “Wait a second,” said Akimi. “That was all an act?”

  “Indeed.”

  “You were very convincing, sir,” said Sierra.

  “Sir Donald is an excellent coach.”

  “And thou, sir, art an excellent pupil.” Sir Donald took another bow.

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Lemoncello, taking his own little bow.

  “But why were you pretending to give up on the library?” asked Kyle.

  “To make absolutely, positutely certain that all of you would not do the same. Now, before I made my dramatic exit, I promised I would appoint a new board of trustees for my library on Monday. All public institutions similar to ours have such boards….”

  “Indeed they do,” added Dr. Zinchenko. “Mostly to raise funds and to make certain the institution fulfills its mission.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Lemoncello, “my library never has to worry about raising funds. Did I mention I’m a bazillionaire?”

  “Yes,” said Abia Sulayman. “We have heard.”

  “However, I do need a board of trustees to champion my cause here in Alexandriaville. That’s the real reason I hosted these Library Olympics. I told you it was a quest for champions. And it was. I was looking for library lovers willing to stand up and fight for what’s right, no matter the cost or personal sacrifice.” He paused and looked directly at Marjory. “Even if they did not agree with my way of doing things.”

  “I’m sorry I took that book,” said Marjory.

  “We figured somebody would once Mr. Peckleman started passing out his ‘Go to College Free’ cards. It was a test. To see if you, or anyone else, were here for the wrong reasons. I’m overjoyed that, in the end, you fought so hard to save these books, because believe it or not, Marjory, I, too, love libraries qua libraries. I just don’t like saying ‘qua.’ It makes me sound like a duck.”

  Everyone, including Marjory, laughed.

  “Now then,” said Mr. Lemoncello, putting down his crash helmet so he could clasp his hands behind his back and address his Library Olympians, “seeing the results of this final game, I feel confident that I have finally found my first board of trustees. In the end, you all worked together to save the library even though there was no prize except the knowledge, joy, and wonder contained inside the pages of its books.”

  “But, um, we’re not adults,” said Akimi.

  “Thank goodness. Adults can be so serious and dull. And as you all know, reading and learning are anything but dull!”

  “You really want me on your board?” asked Marjory.

  “Oh, yes. Couldn’t do it without you. Or Andrew.”

  “I wasn’t in the Olympics,” said Andrew.

  “Minor technicality. You’re a trustee now, Mr. Peckleman. Congratulations!”

  “But I live in Michigan,” said Marjory.

  “And my library has state-of-the-art technology, including very high-speed Wi-Fi, so we can all chat via your brand-new smartphones. I need your help—Marjory, Andrew, all of you—to make certain my library is the best that it can be. All I ask is that you always champion freedom of speech, freedom of expression, and freedom of fun!”

  “Well, I guess a little fun is okay,” said Marjory. “As long as there’s always a quiet place for people to read.”

  “It’s why the Electronic Learning Center has soundproof walls.” Mr. Lemoncello opened his arms to the group. “So, will you thirty-three new trustees share this quest for truth and knowledge with me?”

  “We will!” everyone answered, including Marjory Muldauer, who actually seemed to be enjoying herself.

  Kyle thought the closing ceremonies were a blast.

  Mr. Lemoncello handed out thirty-three full college scholarships before switching off the giant swirling flashlight. A DJ spun dance tunes. There was a huge sheet cake shaped like an open book. On it, written in yellow on a sea of fudgy frosting, were these words: “Open a Book and Open Your Mind.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Keeley,” said Dr. Zinchenko, who was slicing the cake and passing out pieces. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Mrs. Gause wanted me to give you this. I checked it out of the nine hundreds room.”

  She handed Kyle a book.

  “Mrs. Gause?” said Kyle. “The holographic librarian from when the old library was torn down?”

  “That’s right. She thought you might like to know why.”

  Kyle studied the book’s cover: Ohio River Pirates and Scallywags.

  “It’s a history book, obviously,” said Dr. Zinchenko. “It was written by a teacher at Chumley Prep. I think you’ll find chapter eleven to be very enlig
htening. It’s all about a bandit named Ugly Chuck Willoughby, who led the Hole-in-the-Rocks gang, a group of pirates who plundered flatboats along the Ohio River in the late 1700s.”

  “Wait a second,” said Kyle. “Isn’t Charles Chiltington’s super-rich uncle, Mrs. Chiltington’s brother, named Willoughby?”

  “Yes. James Willoughby the third. This book will tell you exactly how the Willoughby family fortune got its start and why Mrs. Chiltington was so disappointed to find the book on the shelves of the new Lemoncello Library.”

  “Did she want it banned from the old library, too?”

  “Of course. And when Mrs. Gause refused to do her bidding…”

  “Mrs. Chiltington sent in the bulldozers.”

  “Actually,” said Dr. Zinchenko, “Mr. Chiltington is the one in the construction business. Together, they were hoping to rewrite the history that didn’t fit their family myth.”

  “So this book is the real reason why Mrs. Chiltington wanted to take over the Lemoncello Library, isn’t it?”

  Dr. Zinchenko smiled. “Knowledge can be a very powerful and, for some, frightening thing, Kyle. Especially when it’s shared with the whole world, including your neighbors.”

  “Thank you for this,” said Kyle.

  He tucked the Ohio history book under his arm and, balancing his cake plate, went over to where Mr. Lemoncello was chatting with Sir Donald Thorne, the actor who didn’t look so much like a chicken now that he was out of costume and had taken off his fake rubber nose.

  “Oh, you should have seen me when I held that book over the flames, Luigi! I was amazing.”

  “Yes, Donald,” said Mr. Lemoncello politely. “I’m sure you were.”

  “And when I tricked Mrs. Chiltington into thinking we were co-conspirators? That was some of my best work ever.”

  “Yes, Donald…”

  “And my eyes. This is how I bugged them out when I was pretending to be a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

  “Very convincing, Donald…”