Checkmate

by Walter Dean Myers

  No!

  By Alvin McCraney, eighth grade

  The reason we have elite schools is that we have elite gene pools. Some people are just smarter than others and we have to face that fact. Why hold the smart kids back just so we can get along with the not-so-smarts? People who know things, who really know things, understand that it’s going to be the smart people who will be the leaders of tomorrow and who will do the inventing, write the books, and create the government that will be of most benefit to all people (including the not-so-smarts!).

  Yes!

  By Bobbi McCall, eighth grade

  The reason we should not have elite schools is that jean pools can be created by anyone.

  If I want my jeans shrunk so that they will fit me perfectly I can put them in a big pool created by someone with an IQ of 200 or an IQ of 55. As a matter of fact I left one pair of jeans out on my fire escape by accident and it rained on them and shrank them down. And as far as the leaders of tomorrow … have you ever heard of a war being started by anyone wearing tight jeans? No, you have not. It’s the baggy pants people of the world who start wars! ’Nuff said?

  Editor’s note: I am sorry that the representative from The Cruiser did not take this subject seriously, as we think she could have made a real contribution.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Papa Was a Strolling Pawn

  I met Bobbi at the coffee shop on the first floor of the Brooklyn Public Library. She pointed to an empty table and I grabbed it while she went for sodas. A geeky-looking guy came over and asked if the other two chairs at the table were taken.

  “One of them is,” I said.

  “Which one?” he asked.

  “The one my friend is going to sit in,” I said, pulling his chain.

  He looked at both of the chairs, then at me, and then walked away.

  Bobbi came back and plopped down. “I forgot to ask you what kind of soda you want,” she said, “so I got an orange soda for me and cola for you.”

  “I don’t like cola,” I said.

  “Then I spit in the orange soda so I would be sure to get it,” she said, not missing a beat.

  I took the cola.

  We waited fifteen minutes for Sidney. For some reason I thought he would show up half drugged and maybe smoking a joint or something. He didn’t. We knew he had arrived when the sound level went up about a half twist. A couple of the kids started taking pictures. I turned to see who they were taking pictures of and saw Sidney. He had shown up wearing a suit, a tie, and sunglasses.

  “Yo, they’re treating him like he’s a star,” I said.

  “In this crowd he is,” Bobbi said, waving past me to some Asian kids sitting across the floor. “These are all chess players from across the country. They’re here to see Pullman play.”

  “He really that good?”

  “Jamie Pullman played the King’s Gambit against a master last week and cooked him,” Bobbi said. Sidney was just reaching our table. “Pullman goes eighteen hundred to two thousand all year and then busts a master with a King’s Gambit? That’s like you going up against LeBron James one-on-one and shutting him out.”

  “How you guys doing?” This from Sidney.

  “I’m good,” Bobbi said.

  “I’m Zander,” I said. “You can draw your conclusions from that. How you doing?”

  “Pullman is playing Sam Manzi,” Sidney said. “No big deal. He’s a world-class hockey player but just a bit above average in chess. You just sit long enough and Manzi gets impatient and starts hurrying up his moves. He’s a fast-twitch dude in a slow-twitch game.”

  “Yeah, but if you fall behind Manzi you won’t make it up,” Bobbi said. “But I still don’t know how Pullman got by with the King’s Gambit against a master unless the guy was having a bad day.”

  “You ever play Pullman?” I asked Sidney.

  “Two draws,” Sidney said. “He played Sicilians both times. I think he’s going to try the King’s Gambit against me.”

  “And?”

  “The next time they play, Sidney will be Black, so Pullman starts the game,” Bobbi said. “He’s got all of the book openings down pat and relies on a strong middle game. You make a mistake and it’s death. It’s going to be a fun match.”

  They were talking like gunslingers. I liked it even though I didn’t know what they were talking about half the time. We were sitting having drinks like we were in Dodge City waiting for the big shoot-out at the O.K. Corral.

  Bobbi was doing more talking than Sidney, and I sensed that my man was getting freaked out by the pressure.

  A short black guy came to the drinks area, stood between the tables, and then did a little flip-doodle move with his hand for us to get up. All of the geeks and geekettes got up and started toward the stairs.

  Okay, so this is how the match was set up. There was a small stage and four chessboards on four tables. Each table had a clock and a chessboard. Above the tables were four computer screens, each with a chessboard and the names of the players. On board number one Pullman was playing a girl named Bashir.

  “She any good?”

  “She has a 1850 rating in Kenya,” Bobbi whispered to me. “But you can’t trust a foreign rating. I think she’s a rainbow trout.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Cute, but still a fish.”

  “Is she a nun?”

  “No, Zander, she’s Muslim,” Bobbi said. “That’s the niqab, the veil that some Muslim women wear.”

  Very cool.

  The games moved along slowly, with the geeks and geekettes watching them, analyzing every move and playing them on their own chessboards or on their laptops. For me, it was boring.

  “What do you think?” Bobbi leaned over and whispered to Sidney.

  “She’s going to force a draw against him if he isn’t careful,” Sidney said.

  “You talking about Bashir against Pullman?” I asked.

  “It’s the only game anybody is watching,” Bobbi said.

  I couldn’t tell who was winning and I was ready to leave. Nobody was making any noise, they weren’t selling hot dogs, they didn’t have any foxy cheerleaders, but they were intense!

  Bobbi seemed cool, but she was playing the game on her laptop. Every time either Pullman or Bashir made a move she would make the same move and then she and Sidney would look it over. Bobbi kept looking at Sidney when Pullman made a move. Sometimes he would nod, at other times he would give a little shrug.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked.

  “Okay, but I think he expected to have her by this time,” Sidney said. He was leaning forward, sitting on the edge of the chair. “He hasn’t broken out of any of the usual variations so far. She could be playing from memory. He’s got to break that.”

  “Memory of what?”

  A bunch of heads turned toward me when I raised my voice. I leaned forward and asked Sidney again, “Memory of what?”

  “Most players have the openings memorized through the first twenty or so moves,” he said. “Even the variations. But he’s tippy-toeing around waiting for her to make a mistake. She’s tippy-toeing around waiting for him to make a mistake. It’s going to look bad if he doesn’t get a full point against her.”

  I knew that a full point meant a win and a half point meant a draw.

  “He should take her inside and slam-dunk over her,” I said, smiling.

  Sidney didn’t smile. Neither did Bobbi.

  I sat. I watched the game. I sat some more.

  Then Sidney slapped my arm. “He made his move!” he said.

  “He got her?”

  “No, it’s a trap,” Sidney said. “But it’s risky.”

  Around the room I saw the other kids who were watching move around in their seats. They all knew something was up. I looked at the screen. I didn’t see anything.

  “Bobbi,” I whispered, “I don’t see anything.”

  “He’s going after her knight,” Bobbi whispered.

  I didn’t see it. I looked at
her knight and it looked fine to me.

  We waited, and waited, and waited, while Bashir considered her move.

  The girl behind the veil rocked slowly forward and back. She seemed calm. I wondered if, behind the veil and the differences, she was nervous, if her heart was beating faster. Finally, after a long while, she reached out her incredibly skinny fingers and made a move.

  There was a flurry of movement around the room as all of the spectators made the same move on their boards. Then, as if there was one simultaneous recognition of an event, there was a huge sigh that seemed to float to the ceiling.

  Sidney slapped his hand against his forehead. Bobbi leaned back in her chair and seemed to slump downward.

  “He lost his rook!” Sidney said. “It’s over!”

  There were a few more moves on the stage, quick moves that went on over the growing buzz from the onlookers. But it was clear that something important had happened and a few moments later I saw Pullman reach over and lay down his king. The game was over.

  There was a brief smattering of applause. Bashir stood and put her head down.

  “I would have kicked her butt,” Bobbi said.

  Some of the kids watching were already leaving, and when I saw Sidney and Bobbi standing I was ready to go, too. We went down the stairs to the first floor with Sidney reciting all of the mistakes he thought that Pullman had made.

  “The biggest was playing the King’s Gambit against a girl,” Sidney said. “When he sent that pawn strolling out to the middle of the board she had to grab it, and you know she’s going to have all the variations memorized. That’s what girls do.”

  “Bull!” Bobbi said. “He thought he had an easy win and he played her easy. She just waited for him to blow and he blew! Case closed. Look, there’s Pullman with his father. His father used to play at City University a thousand years ago.”

  I looked over at Pullman talking to a man only an inch or so taller than he was. Mr. Pullman had shockingly white hair that stood out on all sides. He was looking at his son and kept pushing the chess player’s head up so that he could look him in the eye.

  “He’s probably telling him the same thing you said,” I began. I was going to say something about what Pullman would do if he played the Kenyan girl again, but then I saw it. Mr. Pullman slapped his son across the face.

  It was shocking, almost as if I had been hit. The kid stepped back and looked around quickly, bringing his hand to his face and looking around the fingers. I knew how he felt. He was embarrassed for everyone to see his father hit him like that.

  “What’s that all about?” I asked.

  “We’re not supposed to lose,” Sidney said softly.

  I turned to Sidney and saw that his face was flushed. There were tears in his eyes. I could feel myself tearing up and I turned away from Sidney and Bobbi.

  I hated to see kids get hit. Maybe even more than being hit myself. Pullman had made a mistake, had lost a chess game, but it wasn’t all that bad.

  Sidney had one hand on my sleeve and one behind Bobbi’s back as we went toward the huge doors of the Brooklyn Public Library. Outside there was a light rain that was moving people from the tables that fronted the library and off the stairs.

  “I got to get home,” Sidney was saying.

  “You want to stop for a soda or something?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  “I got to get home,” he repeated.

  “See you in school Monday,” I called to Sidney as he started down the stairs.

  “I never thought of chess as being that serious,” I said.

  “Look over there,” Bobbi said, nodding toward our right.

  I saw the Pullman kid and his father walking down the stairs. The kid was about three steps behind, head down. Some dudes who looked as if they might be from the islands were on the stairs, talking. They wore bright yellow-and-green jackets that were close enough in design for them to be in a club or something. On the plaza in front of the library the blue umbrellas looked like a modern painting over the white tables. There were colors everywhere. Only the Pullmans were in black and white.

  “I love chess, but I hate being a star,” Bobbi said. “That’s what Sidney’s message on the chessboard read in code. Now you know why.”

  THE CRUISER

  THE TEN COMMANDMENTS

  OF BEING A GOOD PARENT

  By Kambui Owens

  1. Thou shalt not hit thy child.

  2. Thou shalt not be ashamed of thy child.

  3. Thou shalt not wish thy child was more like another kid.

  4. Thou shalt talk to thy child, not just yell.

  5. Thou shalt not tell thy child how he should feel.

  6. Thou shalt not tell thy child how he should think.

  7. Thou shalt help thy child to feel good and think well.

  8. Thou shalt be friendly to thy child.

  9. Thou shalt not want thy child to be just like you.

  10. Thou shalt love thy child.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Plot Thickens

  Zander, are you playing that child?” LaShonda asked me at lunch. “Playing who?” I asked.

  “Everybody’s talking about you telling Caren you’re in love with her,” LaShonda said. “And I can’t believe you fell in love that fast.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “What am I …?” LaShonda’s hand found her hip. “It’s all over the school that you and Caren are going out this weekend and she’s telling everybody about how you said you’ve been sweating her for over a year now and just got up the nerve to make your move! What you got in mind for that seventh-grader?”

  “We’re going out this weekend but … who told you I was in love with her?”

  “Marie Castro told Evelyn Nesbitt who told Zhade and you know if you tell Zhade anything you might as well put it in the newspapers,” LaShonda said.

  “My grandmother said that she’s seen guys get lynched for messing with young white girls,” Kambui added.

  “I didn’t know this train went to Stupid City,” I said. “I’m not messing with Caren, I’m just taking her to the movies.”

  “I don’t like that girl all that much, but don’t use her, Zander,” LaShonda said.

  I watched as LaShonda slung her book bag over one shoulder and stalked off.

  Kambui shook his head and left our table right after LaShonda.

  “Yo, Bobbi, you know anything about this?” I asked.

  “I think sometimes Caren makes up stuff,” Bobbi said. “When we were in elementary school she told everybody her house had burned down one weekend. It hadn’t.”

  “Why would she … you know, tell people I was in love with her?”

  “Okay, I didn’t want to get into it but how come you’re going out with her all of a sudden?” Bobbi asked.

  “She told me she thought her father was racist and we could find out by me calling him up and asking if … I could take her out.” I was beginning to see a whole scenario. Caren hooked onto the race thing and now everybody was thinking we were a couple. “You think I’ve been had?”

  “It happens when you’re young,” Bobbi said, opening her laptop. “You want to talk anymore about Sidney’s problem? I think I have a solution.”

  Me, tearing my head back from Caren and getting it back on Sidney. “Go on.”

  “When we play next, Sidney is supposed to play Pullman,” Bobbi said. “That’s going to be a hard match. Suppose I get the coach to put him on the fourth board. That’ll put him on a weaker player and he can relax a little. It’s a bit of a comedown for Sidney but he’s going to get his points anyway. This team is the last really hard one we’re going to face this year until we reach the play-offs.”

  “Okay, but do you think Sidney will go for it?”

  “He will if you talk him into it. You can tell him that it’s to set up the play-offs,” Bobbi said. “That’ll put me up against Pullman, who’ll probably beat me, but we might get a full three points out of the match
if the two and three boards play well. If Sidney loses to Pullman in a quick game it’ll blow morale and we might all lose. We just have to convince Sidney to go along with it.”

  That sounded good. I thought I could convince Sidney that it was best for the team and he’d go along with it. I told Bobbi that I would talk to him later.

  I was on Wednesday schedule and had Language Arts and Physics to do after lunch. I couldn’t think straight in Language Arts, and Physics could have been in Greek.

  I couldn’t believe that a seventh-grader had smoked me, but Caren had. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t started telling everybody that I was in love with her.

  In the hallway. There she was talking to Marie Castro. I went right up to her.

  “Yo, Marie, mind taking a walk?” I asked.

  Marie looked at Caren, giggled, and moved away.

  “What are you going around telling people?” I started.

  “Zander, don’t hate me for loving you,” Caren said. “Please don’t say you hate me.”

  “I don’t … I don’t hate you or anything, but I just want to know what you’re telling people,” I said.

  “Just the way I feel about you,” Caren said. Her eyes were tearing up. “Can we talk about it Friday — please?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Caren smiled, turned, and started down the hall.

  I wasn’t sure if I had just set up a conversation for Friday or if I had just been had by a sneaky seventh-grader. Again.

  Home. Mom had left a note on the television saying that there was food on the bottom shelf in the fridge and that she would be home late. I checked and saw two bags. One read SNACK and the other SUPPER. I opened them both. The snack was a sandwich: meatballs and peppers on a roll. The supper was an aluminum tray of fried chicken and yellow rice. I ate the chicken and rice first and then the sandwich.