by Lubar, David
He got a nine and a three of spades. No help for his pair of kings, but it reduced the odds for the kid across the table who was probably trying for a spade flush. Things were looking good, even without another king. The player on his left was bluffing with queen high, and the player on his right was holding two jacks. The two guys farther away were harder to read—one kept thinking about spades, and the other had a high pair—but Cheater was pretty sure he had them beat.
Despite all his advantages, he knew he stunk at keeping his face from revealing his hand. He practiced every day, but it didn’t make a difference. His opponents always folded when he got good cards, until he discovered the obvious solution. If he couldn’t hide his excitement, he needed to be excited all the time. That was easy enough. He knew plenty of interesting facts. As long as he was enthusiastic about sharing them, he could conceal his reaction to his hand.
He pointed to a bowl of chips on the corner of the table. “Hey, did you know a Native American invented them? How’s that for a cool fact? George Crumb. At least, that’s what the stories say. Though the stories could be apocryphal. That’s a great word. It’s what you call a story that might not be true. Like Washington and the cherry tree. Anyhow, this one is probably true. It’s pretty interesting. The guy was a cook up in New York State.” Cheater chattered away about the origin of the potato chip while the dealer gathered the discards.
He was up enough to bet big. The bluffer folded, along with the player trying for a flush. The kid with jacks stayed in. So did the guy who was running the game—a senior named Fritz who’d somehow gotten a key to a room in a cheap motel where they could play all evening undisturbed. The place was only half a mile from Cheater’s home, but the run-down neighborhood seemed half a universe away.
Nice pot. Cheater met Fritz’s raise and bumped him the limit. If he won enough tonight, he’d be able to stake himself at one of the hold ‘em games he’d heard about over in Philly. He really wanted to go to Philly, one way or another. All afternoon, he’d been thinking about it. I could stay with Uncle Ray, he thought.
“Let’s see what you got,” the kid with the jacks said.
“Beat this.” Fritz laid out his hand. He had kings, too. But Cheater had kept an ace, which beat Fritz’s ten.
“Close one,” Cheater said as he reached for the pot.
“Too close.” Fritz clamped his hand around Cheater’s wrist.
“Hey, what are you talking about?”
“You’ve won every hand where you didn’t fold,” Fritz said.
Cheater shrugged. “Guess I’m lucky.”
“Guess I’m lucky,” Fritz said, mocking Cheater’s voice. “Nobody is that lucky. You marked these cards.”
Cheater’s pulse sped up as the players’ thoughts flooded his mind. They believed Fritz. None of them could accept the possibility of losing to a skinny little kid with glasses. Each person at the table knew he was the best poker player in the world.
“You brought the cards,” Cheater said. “And you dealt that hand.”
Fritz tightened his grip and yanked Cheater halfway across the table, scattering the neatly stacked piles of chips. “How’d you do it?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Cheater said. He picked up a clear thought from Fritz. It’s the glasses.
“These are just normal glasses.” As the words tumbled out, Cheater realized his mistake. Nobody had mentioned the glasses out loud. Now, he’d given them a reason to be suspicious. His only hope was to prove his innocence. He pulled the glasses from his face and held them out. “See for yourself.”
Fritz snatched the glasses from Cheater and stared through the lenses. “These aren’t any kind of prescription.” He dropped them on the floor. “You must be using them to cheat.”
“I have a mild astigmatism,” Cheater said. It was true—his glasses only made a tiny correction. But he felt he needed them. He used his eyes so much. He read constantly. His brother kidded him about it, calling him a book sucker. He wished his brother was here right now. Or his friends from Edgeview. He wished anybody was here besides these four angry poker players.
Fritz stomped down on the frames. “I guess we’ll have to beat the truth out of you.”
Cheater closed his eyes as more thoughts tumbled toward him, crackling with enthusiasm and anticipation. Let’s kick his butt.
flinch prepares for battle
“FOLKS, PLEASE WELCOME Willis Dobbs.”
Flinch stared out at the crowd as the applause came to an end. He loved the thrill of starting a set. He loved the applause. He loved the laughs. But he loved the combat most of all. At least, the verbal combat. He couldn’t help clenching his teeth when he thought about other forms of combat. Last summer, right after he’d gotten out of Edgeview, he’d used his talent for a different type of battle. It hadn’t been pretty.
There’d been a boxing program at the Rec League. His mom had fussed a bit when he’d asked permission, but she’d finally given in. He’d signed up, figuring his talent for seeing slightly into the future would make him unbeatable. Up until Edgeview, his talent had done nothing but get him in trouble. He interrupted his teachers whenever they talked to him, and seemed distracted and jumpy all the time. Everyone thought he was twitchy and weird, but all he’d been doing was reacting too soon. Now, he hoped to use his talent to fit in.
The first time he stepped into the ring to spar, he was matched up against a scrawny kid named Juan who lived right down the block from him. Juan was always walking around with his nose in a book. He reminded Flinch of Cheater.
“You trying to be tough?” Flinch had asked after they’d put on their gloves. He wanted to take slow, deep breaths, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate.
Juan grinned. “Sure. Why not. Just don’t hurt me too much.”
“No problem. I’m totally new at this, too. So don’t hurt me, either.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
The bell rang. Buzzed with adrenaline, Flinch had sidestepped Juan’s first awkward punch and thrown a counter-shot to the jaw that dropped him like he’d been zapped with a stun gun. Juan wasn’t the only one stunned. The whole gym went silent as heads turned toward the ring.
Flinch had looked down at Juan lying there with his eyes rolled halfway back in his head. He waited to make sure Juan was okay. Then he climbed out of the ring. He felt like he’d just done something dirty and shameful.
“Hey,” the trainer had called. “Where you going? You got the stuff, my man. I can make you a champ.”
“Takin’ my stuff elsewhere,” Flinch said.
He’d tried baseball, basketball, and even fencing. He wanted to find something to help ease the stress of constantly keeping track of his actions. But there was no joy when you knew ahead of time exactly where a pitch would cross the plate. The first hit or two felt good. Pretty soon, it all started to feel cheap and easy. Worse, it got boring—like playing a game of cards when you could see everyone else’s hand.
But there was joy now, because victory wasn’t guaranteed. He lived and died not just by his hidden talent, but by his true talent. Flinch reached out and pulled the mike from the stand. Then he smiled at the crowd. Bring it on, he thought. Give me your best shot.
martin walks the walk
“DROP DEAD!”
The second he shouted those words, Martin knew he’d crossed a line. But there was nothing he could do about it. Life didn’t come with a backspace key.
As his father shouted back, veins bulging in his head, Martin stormed to the front door.
“Martin. Don’t go,” his mom called.
“Let him go,” his dad said. “Good riddance. Let him find out what it’s like in the real world. He’ll come crawling home soon enough.”
“He’s only fifteen,” his mom said. “We’re responsible for him.”
“Nobody’s responsible for him. And fifteen is plenty old enough for a dose of reality.”
There was more, but Martin rushed off, still fueled by anger, and let th
e words fade into the distance. He couldn’t believe what his dad had done. The phone had rung right after dinner. Martin reached for it, but his dad snatched the receiver and snarled, “Hello?” Then he frowned, glanced at Martin, and said, “Who wants to know?”
“Is it for me?” Martin asked.
His dad ignored him. “He’s grounded. No calls.” A second later, he shouted, “I told you, he’s grounded.” Then he slammed down the receiver.
“Who was it?” Martin asked.
“Nobody.”
“You don’t have the right to do that.”
The rest of the discussion did not go well. A moment later, just like that, he was a runaway. He didn’t even look back until he’d traveled half a block. No sign of his dad. His mom was on the porch, her hands clutching the railing while moths swooped at the light behind her. He hoped she at least wanted to chase after him. But it didn’t matter what she wanted to do. She wouldn’t step off the porch. His dad probably wouldn’t even let her call the cops. It doesn’t matter to him that I’m underage. Doesn’t matter if I keep walking and never come back.
Martin looked ahead to where the sidewalk blended into the darkness. How perfect. Everything in front of him was murky. The world could come to an end a mile up the road, and he wouldn’t have a clue until he got there and stepped off the edge of the earth.
That described his future, too. Everything ahead of him seemed to be shrouded in darkness. He checked his pockets to verify what he already knew—not a dime. Not anything. All he had with him was a ton of rage and a useless talent for getting people angry.
torchie makes
a joyful noise
“MOM, CAN I go to camp?” Torchie asked.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Remember what happened the last time you went?”
“I’m a lot older now. And this isn’t regular camp, so there aren’t any tents to catch fire. This is accordion camp.” Torchie pointed to the ad on the page next to the comics. “It’s in Philadelphia.”
His mom leaned over his shoulder. “Oh my, that’s expensive.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” In his excitement, he hadn’t noticed the price. “That’s okay. I don’t need to go.” He enjoyed staying home, especially after having to live away from home when he was at Edgeview. And he liked keeping his mom company since his dad was on the road a lot driving his truck cross-country. But for some reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about Philadelphia. It didn’t matter. He knew his mom was right—the camp was too expensive. And he really didn’t need music lessons. He was learning so much on his own. He could teach himself just about any instrument.
Torchie got up from the table and grabbed his accordion. It was time to entertain the neighbors. That was his mom’s idea. Torchie remembered when he’d gotten the accordion. He’d come home from school one day in April to find the huge box sitting on the porch. He’d carried it right to the living room and opened it as fast as he could. The accordion was way bigger than it had looked in the picture on eBay, and a lot shabbier, but that didn’t matter. He gave it a squeeze. What a great sound. He started right out working on his favorite song. The accordion wasn’t just big. It was also really heavy, which made him sweat, but he didn’t mind. He sweated all the time, anyhow.
“Philip,” his mom had called from the kitchen a half hour later.
“Yes, Mom? Want to hear a song? I’ve got ‘Oh Susannah’ almost figured out. At least, the first part of it.” The absolute best thing was that, unlike the harmonica, he could sing along with the accordion. That meant he could make twice as much music at once.
“Not right now. But you know what I was thinking. I’ll bet that your music would sound even nicer if you played it outdoors.”
“Okay, Mom.” Torchie carried his accordion outside. What a great idea. The sun seemed to be smiling at him, just waiting for a song.
He discovered he liked to stand in the yard near the kitchen so his mom could still enjoy the music. But she’d started keeping the window closed, even though the weather was getting warmer. When he asked her about it, she explained that she liked it really hot in the kitchen so it was easier to cook stuff. To help her hear better, he moved closer to the window. That way, she wouldn’t miss any of his music.
Soon after that, his mom had told him, “It doesn’t seem right that I’m the only one enjoying this. Music is meant to be shared. I’ll bet some of our neighbors would like to hear how well you’re playing.”
“That’s a great idea.” Torchie had gone up the street to Mrs. Muller’s house. He knocked on her door and waited for her to come to the porch. Then he played his best song for her.
“Want to hear another?” he asked.
“Why, Philip, I think your music is so beautiful, you should share it with lots of people. I’d feel selfish if you just played for me.”
So he’d gone to the next house on the block, and then the next. Everyone loved his music so much, they told him he really needed to share it with other people. Some of them even gave him rides to houses far down the road. People in Yertzville really did love their neighbors and look out for them.
As far as Torchie could tell, they also traveled quite a bit. A lot of folks didn’t seem to be home when he knocked, even if their lights were on and their cars were in the driveway. It didn’t matter. Torchie was even happy playing for himself.
lucky has left
the building
“PHILLY,” LUCKY SAID.
“What?” the nurse asked.
“I gotta go to Philadelphia,” Lucky told her. He hated cities. There was lost stuff all over the place, calling out to him. Walking down a city street was like sticking his head into a room with a thousand televisions. But it didn’t matter how much he hated cities. He had to go to Philadelphia. That was the strongest voice. The one that almost drowned out all the others. That was the voice that knew him.
“Easy there,” the nurse said, smiling at him as she held out his medicine.
Lucky gulped down the pills, not even bothering with water, then fell back on the bed as the wonderful numbness flowed through his mind, smothering all of the voices. They were still there, but they didn’t seem to matter.
“Lucky,” they whispered, calling him by a nickname that was pathetically inaccurate. He’d never had any real luck, except for meeting the guys. Thanks to them, a normal life had seemed possible after he’d left Edgeview. As he drifted into the comfort of nothingness, he saw the moment when it had all come apart.
At first, school hadn’t been bad. He did okay in his classes and even made a couple friends. He thought he’d escaped his past. Until early last February, when they’d moved to the new building. That’s when it all went horribly wrong.
As the door to his room closed, he heard the nurse say, “Doctor, I think we’ve made a breakthrough. He talked to me. He actually made sense.”
“That’s encouraging. What did he say?”
“He wants to go to Philadelphia.”
cheater discovers that
poker is a contact sport
THE FIRST PUNCH knocked Cheater to the floor. Flashes of pain mixed in his mind with flashes of panic and scattered fragments of the laws of motion. Good old Newtonian physics. Equal and opposite reactions. A body at rest. His face had been at rest, and resisted the impulse to move, but the force of the fist had overcome inertia. His brain, inside his skull, had also been reluctant to move, even after his skull had shifted its spatial location. His brain had no choice but to follow. Do thoughts have inertia? he wondered.
A kick caught him in the middle of his back, right under the shoulder blades. More laws burst into his mind—force equals mass times acceleration. A heavy boot has more mass than a shoe. A fast jab has more acceleration than a looping hook. A whole lot of force was coming his way.
Cheater curled into a ball and tried to protect himself. A sphere had the least surface area of any geometric solid. But any surface at all was far too much right now. Thoughts rained on
him, too, along with the punches and kicks. They hated him for a thousand reasons. He was smart, he talked too much, he looked different, and he was cleaning them out at a game they thought they were good at. They even hated him because he was short.
Something stomped down hard on his side. He let out a whimper, but clamped his teeth together. He knew anything he said would just provide more fuel for their rage.
After the next kick rocked his head, the sharp pains faded, replaced by numbness. He heard a conversation from far away.
“Oh great, I think you killed him.”
“No way. He’s still breathing. We’d better get out of here.”
“What if he tells on us?”
“You’re right. Maybe we should make sure he can’t talk.”
“Why bother? It would be his word against ours. Nobody would believe him. We can say we were at a movie or something. Let’s just get out of here.”
Cheater waited, not really caring what they did next. Though he was curious what they would decide. It was an interesting ethical problem. Commit a greater crime to eliminate the risk of being accused of a lesser crime? Maybe he could solve it using a game-theory matrix. First, he’d have to quantify the parameters …
He was still thinking about situational ethics when he passed out.
flinch kills his audience
“THANK YOU. IT’S good to be here.” Flinch scanned the crowd, wondering who’d be the first to take a shot at him. Probably someone at the table in the second row that was filled with college kids. I’ll find out soon enough.