The Potato Chip Puzzles_ The Puzzling World of Winston Breen - Eric Berlin [12]
“Holy moly,” said Mal. “Not before the light turns green.”
(Answer, page 240.)
CHAPTER FOUR
SIMON’S SNACK FOODS was in Maplewood, the next town over. The factory was huge, with pipes jutting out of the walls and roof. Every pipe emitted smoke or steam in various shades of gray. Winston imagined that Dmitri Simon would have a crazy, Willy Wonka-like factory, but this was a disappointingly normal brick building. Also, Winston had expected an overwhelming odor of frying potato chips, but the air here was just air.
The office building, on the other hand, was more eye-catching. It was glass and steel, and had been designed by someone with a sense of humor. It went off at all kinds of odd angles and had shiny metal beams sticking out for no particular reason. The office was attached to the factory, and the effect was that of a flashy sports car towing a dump truck.
In the parking lot, there was a section roped off for visitors. As they got out of the car, Mr. Garvey said, “I want us all to stay together.” The universal command of teachers escorting students on a field trip.
The pretty receptionist pointed them down a long hallway before Mr. Garvey could even speak. “All the puzzlers are meeting in the main conference room,” she said. “You’ll see the signs.”
“How many puzzlers are there?” asked Mr. Garvey.
“I have no idea. You’ll meet them all soon enough.” She pointed again, all but declaring that question time was over.
They passed a number of small offices as they walked down the hall. Phones were ringing, and men and women were at their desks doing who knew what. They followed the signs and wound up outside a closed door with a sign that said “Puzzlers Welcome.” Winston felt an electric tingle in his bloodstream. They were minutes away from the true start of the day.
Mr. Garvey said, “All right, boys. Best behavior. No spitballs or flamethrowers.”
“I left my flamethrower at home,” said Mal.
“Mine’s broken,” said Jake.
Mr. Garvey nodded, accepting this bit of humor. He opened the door.
The main conference room had a hundred seats or more. Groups of three or four seats were fastened to their own little tables facing a small stage. The stage, at the moment, was empty.
There were a couple dozen kids here with their adult chaper-ones. Some kids were pacing, while others sat and chatted with their teammates. There was a tension in the air, the kind that precedes an exciting event you know is supposed to happen at any moment.
Mr. Garvey led his team to one of the empty tables. Nearby teams eyed them curiously. Winston saw that all the kids were about his age—no little kids from an elementary school and no high-schoolers, either. So Dmitri Simon must have restricted the contest to middle schools, after all. This was good.
“I wonder how many teams there’ll be,” said Jake. He swiveled back and forth in his chair, restless. A lot of kids were swiveling.
“They must be coming from all over the state, don’t you think?” said Winston.
“I hope not,” said Mr. Garvey. “The fewer the better.” Something across the room caught his attention. “Oh, no,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Lincoln is here,” Mr. Garvey said with quiet horror.
“Abraham?” asked Mal.
The math teacher set his jaw, as if jokes were not appropriate at a time like this. “Lincoln Junior High. Well, of course they would be here. That’s Rod Denham, their Mathlete adviser. I bet he has three kids from their math team here.”
“Are they good?” Jake asked.
“They’re very good. In fact”—there was the slightest pause before Mr. Garvey said, “we’ve never beaten them.” He shook his head, as if this news could hardly be worse.
The teacher in question, Rod Denham, was a short, wide fellow wearing a brown sportcoat. He was talking with two boys and a girl, all of whom were listening intently. Mr. Denham must have felt them staring—he suddenly glanced over and, seeing Mr. Garvey, waved, an ironic smirk on his face.
“Oh, he