The New Champion Read Free Page B

identify all the Last-Chance Lottery winners. Be inside by then.”
    Cameron held back a growl. Strains of music leaked from the arena. Streams of people flooded the entrance. Cameron was ready for the party, his invitation was pinned to his chest, and old Aunt Marilyn was nowhere in sight.
    â€œI’m getting inside some way,” said Spencer.
    Cameron didn’t bother to tell him about the face recognition program.
    â€œHey, Mom,” said Walker, “if you’d had me one year and eight months sooner, maybe we’d all go in.”
    â€œYou’ll have fun with Aunt Marilyn. She has pinball machines at her house. If Spencer’s not in, the three of us will take her to lunch, then go play mini golf or see a movie.”
    â€œAunt Marilyn’s coming?” Cameron blurted out.
    â€œOn her way,” said his mom. “What did you think?”
    â€œNothing. I just thought if Spencer got lucky and Aunt Marilyn couldn’t come, I’d be waiting out here with you and Walker.”
    His mom laughed. “You need to stop worrying about things like that.”
    Maybe so, but if . . .
    Did Cameron really want to focus on that? Now? He was going in! But when? They waited near a basketball player statue, where Aunt Marilyn was supposed to meet them, every second ticking louder in his head. “What time is it?” he finally asked.
    His dad looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes until they start the lottery.”
    A guy with a Golly Toy and Game Company badge stopped and pointed to Cameron’s bib. “If you didn’t hear, you can go in now.”
    â€œThanks,” said his dad, “but if my other son gets in, we want to find him. No cell phones allowed, you know.”
    â€œWait if you want,” said the guy, “but you won’t sit with him. Walk-ins have a separate area. If I were you, I’d find a seat near the walk-in section—two twenty-six—and watch the lottery process on the big screen.”
    His mom nodded. “She’ll be here any minute.”
    His dad nodded. “We’ll be in two twenty-seven,” he said.
    Cameron headed toward the music.

I t was a rock band, the first live band of any kind Cameron had heard outside his school’s clashing mess of clarinets, tubas, and his own decent trumpet notes.
    His hands craved to hold his videocam—to zoom in on the guitar picks and the drumsticks and the fingers beating time on the mic—but he’d had to check the camera at the door along with his dad’s cell phone and watch. Golly people were bar coding and storing pretty much everything except underwear. Even hearing aids and eyeglasses went through special scrutiny after reports, last year, of transmission/receiver devices.
    In the next line, a mom had raised a big stink about handing over her purse, but the guard said, “If you don’t want your child to compete, that’s your right.” She handed it over.
    By the time they got to section 227, the whole world knew to wait there. In 225, too. Instead, Cameron and his dad moved to an emptier area with a better view of 226.
    Cameron’s attention, though, was riveted to the live feed of the band on the four-sided video screen suspended from the ceiling. His guessing game—Which Angle Will They Show Next?—came to an abrupt halt when the band finished its last song and the video screen switched to live shots of the audience.
    People jumped and screamed when they saw themselves and went even crazier when Golly workers ran on, cleared the band’s equipment, then divided the seating areas with orange construction fencing into sections A, B, C, and D. The only difference from the original Games? Chairs now filled the arena floor. Where would the announcer stand?
    Apparently, he wouldn’t. “Around the country,” boomed a voice over the speakers, “in one hundred arenas from Alaska to Florida, from Hawaii to Maine, at