by Bill Cameron
Every few minutes I check my phone, resist the urge to text Trisha. I read The Crucible. Make progress on my DI project. Sleepwalk through a couple of Chemistry worksheets. At intervals, I sneak into the kitchen to scarf pizza rolls, potato salad, and pretzel sticks. Grazing from the food group P.
During the afternoon, I watch from a second-floor window as Philip pulls the 740i out of the garage and washes it in the driveway. Should be my job, but I am burning through a shit-ton of pudding cups so I can’t really complain about a missed hour of paying work. It’s been a week since I faced a plate of creamed chipped beef.
Sunday night I sneak through the basement to the kitchen—reading alone for hours is hungry work. As I pass through the rec room, I hear the sound of violin music. At first, I think it must be coming from upstairs. I wonder if the Huntzels have guests. But as I near the door to the utility basement, the music grows louder. For a moment I find myself caught up. The sound is strange and resonant, loud, frenetic. And missing something, though it’s not clear what until the sound abruptly stops and Philip steps through the vault door. He’s carrying a violin in one hand, bow in the other. Wearing nothing but a pair of tighty-whities, his body slick with sweat.
Wriggling bugs crawl through my gut. It’s only because he goes the other direction, toward the kitchen stairs, that he doesn’t bust me. I slink back to Kristina’s room, no longer hungry. Getting late anyway.
As I’m trying to fall asleep, I think back to my dream the first night I was here; the feverish violin music must have been Philip. I had no idea he could play anything except chess. I don’t know classical music, but even I could tell he’s good.
What I don’t want to know is why he plays alone, in the vault. And definitely not why in his underwear.
1.17: That Was a Joke
Monday morning. I guess it’s fall now, since I tramp down to Hawthorne through rain and the smell of wet leaves. But I forget my soggy shoes when I get to Uncommon Cup. Trisha sits with the fish, mug in one hand, The Crucible open in the other. I get a regular coffee—cheaper than a double shot—and skip the donuts. Coagulated eggs, soysage, and watery orange juice await me at school—repulsive, but free.
I sit down. Before I can say anything, her eyes spill over me. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry about what?”
“He wouldn’t let them ask me any questions.”
I can’t believe I’ve forgotten the detectives already. Maybe not forgotten them. Just…other things on my mind. Guns and green-haired girls. Secret money. I meet Trisha’s gaze. “Why not?”
“Maybe he doesn’t like cops.”
One thing Mr. Vogler and I have in common.
“Did you invoke?”
“Is that what it’s called?” She grins. “How many times have you been arrested, Joey?”
I look at the fish. “I’m surprised they didn’t call your caseworker.”
“That guy’s useless. Probably doesn’t even remember my name.”
They can’t all be Mrs. Petty I guess. As I sit there wondering what it would be like to have a caseworker who didn’t know my name, Trisha tips something into her mug from a silver flask.
“You want some?”
“Uh.”
“Good grief. It’s just Baileys.” She taps the flask with her index finger, but then she tucks it away in her jacket. Her eyes scan the café. “I like it here. Want to come back after lunch?”
I swallow. I can’t tell if she’s changing the subject on purpose, or actually likes Uncommon Cup. I want to know more about the police, but she’s more interested in the café.
“Well?”
“I have to show up for DI today. And then after that I need to spend time in the computer lab before Trig.”
“Right.” She nods as if she understands, but a shadow of disappointment darkens her gaze. Unless it’s my own reflected back at me. “You know, Joey, you could borrow my Katz laptop. I got a MacBook for my birthday.” The Comp Lab Troll must love her.
“You don’t have to do that. It’s only a few weeks.”
“Don’t be silly. You could come home with me and pick it up instead of going to the lab.”
The mental image of Mr. Vogler setting attack dogs on me flares behind my eyes. “Let me see how it goes today.” Before she can press, I add, “How was the beach?”
Now I’m the one changing the subject. She hesitates, then lets it go. “Tedious. Mom had some big work project, so it was just me and dad until Saturday night.” Her cheeks darken. “He took my phone.”
She must see the panic on my face.
“Don’t worry. I erased all the messages. I always erase my messages.”
“I texted you a couple of times.”
“I know. He told me.” She turns her book over and leans forward, her voice going quiet and conspiratorial. “He got all weird about it, like you were communicating in code. ‘What does he mean, bring me a shell?’ I said it meant you wanted me to bring you a shell.”
“It was a joke.”
“Obviously, dumbshit.” A gleam dances in her eyes, then she leans to her side to root around in her book bag. When she raises up again, she’s holding a sand dollar. “I brought you a shell anyway.”
Electricity arcs up my spine. She presses the sand dollar into my hand. Part of me wants to run, like I’m caught in a burning building. Instead, I run my thumb over the coarse surface. It’s white as milk and fits perfectly in my palm.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
A trace of adhesive on one side tells me she got it at a tourist gift shop. I stare at it for a long time, trying to figure out what to say. Thank you would probably do. A random factoid is what trips off my tongue.
“They call these sea cookies in New Zealand.”
She snickers. “They do not.”
“They do too.”
“How do you know that? And don’t give me some dippy male-answer-syndrome bullshit either.”
It’s possible I’m making it up, but it feels like actual information. “I read it somewhere.”
“Let me guess. Wikipedia.”
“Probably.”
“Dumbshit.”
At least she’s smiling as she leans back in her chair and stretches her arms over her head. My gaze falls on her breasts, rising and falling as she breathes, and the electricity returns. Then I catch movement behind her. From the counter, Marcy leers as my face goes molten. Trisha drops her arms and leans forward. “What?”
“What what?”
“You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not.”
She cups my hand in hers, hiding the sand dollar inside. “I like it.”
I turn to the fish tank and will my flesh to blanch. Fail. “Thanks for the sea cookie, Trisha.”
“You’re welcome, Joey.” With that, she stands up. “I’ve got to go. Denise and I are getting together before school.” Her warm fingers brush the back of my neck. “Think about my offer.” After she’s gone, I catch Marcy gazing at me, a half-smile on her lips.
For the first time in days, the overheated pressure in my chest is gone. The lack of sensation throws me, as if I’ve lost something important. Tension gives me an edge. Worry reminds me of the danger lurking behind every encounter. Anxiety keeps me from making mistakes. Trisha feels like a mistake. A beautiful mistake. I’ll see her again before the day is out, but already I miss the feeling of her hand on mine.
I grip the sand dollar in my pocket, walk to school in a daze. Not wanting what I want.
At Katz, the corridors are jammed with people, moving in clots, talking, opening and closing lockers. I lose my way in the hallways, hear nothing, forget to eat free breakfast before Day Prep.
The noise comes crashing back in the form of the two cops who cut me off on the way into Harley May�
��s classroom. Detective Man-Mountain puts a hand on my shoulder, heavy as a sandbag. Detective Heat Vision does the talking, her squirrelly voice sharp in my ears.
“Joey, we need you to come with us.”
At first, the command makes no sense, but slowly the meaning penetrates my fog. Where? But I’m unable to speak aloud, or to twist out of Man-Mountain’s grip. He smiles grimly, and guesses my question.
“Not to Directed Inquiry, that’s for sure. It’s time for you to explain to us where you really were when your buddy Duncan got run down in the street.”
0.18: The Book
It’s fair to say my idea to escape school, the Boobies, and even Mrs. Petty and state custody grew out of the punch I threw at Duncan Fox. Not that The Plan came to me in the moment.
In that moment, last April, all I knew was my fingers were tingling and Moylan was demanding an explanation.
“Joey gave Duncan a beatdown.”
Moylan stormed across the room to separate us, eyes like boiled eggs, but the words seemed to dampen the fire in me. Philip was already on the floor collecting pages of the Book. Trying not to cry. I exhaled, turned my head toward the rain-swept windows. Saw nothing but gray light and uncertainty. I imagined my next school. Somewhere with yellow lines painted on the floors.
“Boys. With me. Now.”
I only knew Moylan as the Chess Club advisor—I didn’t yet have him for Math. The tournament season was over, so he worked with the ranked players after school. Since there was no danger I’d ever be one of those, I sat at the back of the room during club meetings and did homework while I lost my game.
I had a feeling I was about to get to know him better.
He didn’t push us. Didn’t touch. Smart teacher. But I could feel his eyes guiding us through the door, up the hallway, and across the Commons. We passed near Trisha, who sat with Denise and Beth Black and a senior I knew only as Jen the Amazing. Their table was covered with printed manuscript pages, marked up in red and purple ink. “What happened?” Trisha mouthed, concern darkening her eyes.
Moylan didn’t give me a chance to answer. He marched us to the office, barked at Mrs. An as we came through the door. “Is Mr. Cooper available?”
“I’ll page him.” Mrs. Huntzel was there, too, but rushed out when Moylan told her to “see to Philip in the chess room.”
He turned on us. “You two. There.”
There was a bench against the wall outside Cooper’s office. We sat as far from each other as possible, a four-foot expanse of oak between us. Not far enough. Moylan vanished and the office hum settled in around us. I exhaled adrenalin vapor and stared at an ink-jetted sign taped to the counter. NO TALKING. From the other side, Mrs. An chatted with a student aide who came in after Moylan left us to stew. Maybe they couldn’t see the sign.
Duncan put his elbows on his knees, grabbed his head. I’d never really looked at him, but now his hands drew my gaze. Tufts of his hair stuck out between long, meaty fingers. His forearms were as thick as my calves, his shoulder muscles piled up around his ears.
If I hurt him, it was only because I landed a sucker punch.
“Duncan.”
“Don’t talk to me.” He sounded like he had marbles in his mouth. I didn’t want to talk to him. Or maybe I did. I remembered the look on Philip’s face as he gathered up his scattered pages of notation. Thought about Duncan’s big hands and his desperate need to be first board. It was all so stupid. Not just the fight, but everything leading up to the fight. Hell, wind it all the way back to the moment Cooper first led me into the lunchroom and the original act of stupidity was mine, thinking I might have a place there.
All wanting something ever gets you is trouble.
“Listen—”
“Read the sign.”
“You want me to tell you how to beat Philip or not?”
When he answered, “Shut up,” I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. He sat clutching his head for a minute like he was trying to hold his skull in place. “Fine. What?”
“I didn’t beat him.”
“What do you call it?”
“He made a mistake and I jumped on it.” The aide laughed at something Mrs. An said, then greeted a newcomer with way too much enthusiasm. Lunch must have ended—I recognized Beth’s voice.
“So all I have to do is wait for the next time Philip Huntzel screws up? Great tip there, Einstein.”
“Just listen for a minute.”
He slouched away from me, radiating nervy heat. I closed my eyes, inhaled a scent like warm metal. Tried to ignore the noise and chatter on the other side of the counter. A pencil tapping, phone ringing. Lockers slamming out in the hall. Finally Duncan let out a long breath.
“Okay. Tell me.”
“You don’t lose to Philip because of the Book.”
“What do you know about it? You’re not a student of the game.”
Which is why I won. I thought about Philip’s mistake, my unexpected victory, and wondered if what I was about to tell Duncan was an apology—or an act of revenge. Maybe a little of both. “I know Philip can only see things his way. The Book is all about trends and analysis. What did you do before? What are you likely to do next?”
“So?”
“So you play against the Book, you lose. No way can you analyze better than Philip. His brain works like a spreadsheet.”
He lifted his head. One side of his face was twice the size of the other, but what got my attention was the sudden intensity in his gaze. The Book was Philip’s greatest asset, a looming presence in every game. Philip’s muscle-bound thug menacing every opponent.
“What are you suggesting?” Duncan’s voice was urgent now.
“Do what I did. Make screwy moves. Surprise him. If you go off-Book, he can’t fit you into his analysis. He gets frustrated.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “Like Fischer-Byrne.”
“Who?”
“Fischer against Byrne, 1956.” He stared at me. “The Game of the Century?”
“If you say so.”
He shook his head at my tragic ignorance. “In 1956, Bobby Fischer beat Donald Byrne. Fischer was thirteen, Byrne an adult champion who didn’t expect a challenge, even from a prodigy. Fischer won by exploiting a Byrne error in the development phase and then luring him with an unexpected queen sacrifice which netted him a material advantage. Byrne never recovered.”
I had no idea what he said. “So there you go.”
I leaned my head against the wall. Felt a slight vibration, like a motor. Behind the desk, the aide answered the phone. I couldn’t see her, but it sounded like Courtney. Fresh from her loss to Philip, witness to Chess Club Fight of the Century. When she got off the phone, Mrs. An asked her and Beth to stuff envelopes in the supplies nook. Based on the giggles, a hilarious chore.
“You’re not a student of the game.”
Duncan was back to holding his head in his hands.
“So you said.”
“You open with your rook pawns, then bring your rooks out. You think you’re being aggressive, but you concede the center.”
I regarded him for a moment, realized this was his quid pro quo.
“Aren’t the rooks my strongest pieces, aside from the queen?” Mad Maddie taught me that.
“Not if you concede the center.”
I didn’t have an answer to that. Maybe he was right.
He lifted his head to look at me, guessing my thought. “I am right. Think about it.”
At that moment, I realized Cooper and Moylan were standing there eavesdropping. Cooper had a faint smile which dropped when Moylan cleared his throat. He directed us into the office, told us to have a seat. Moylan stood at one end of the desk, arms folded. Cooper sat on his throne and made church fingers. The stench of pomade just about brought my lunch up.
“You boys have been very disruptive today. I think I speak for both Mr. Moylan and myself when I say we’re very disappointed.”
I remember thinking the verys were a bit much. He waited, but I didn’t know if he expected us to say something, or if he wanted his words to settle in. I wouldn’t have spoken up either way. Duncan glanced at me, then looked down at his hands, palms up in his lap. He probably figured I had more experience getting reamed in the principal’s office. If I wasn’t going to talk, neither was he.
Cooper proceeded to outline our offenses as Moylan nodded in stern agreement. They’d done a whirlwind investigation; neither Duncan nor I disputed the facts as presented. Aggravated assault against the Book seemed to bug Moylan more than the fight itself. Duncan never raised his head.
“Fighting will not be tolerated. You’re both on three-day in-school suspension, effective tomorrow.” He looked at me and added, “The only reason it isn’t more severe is because this is your first strike.” At Katz, he seemed to be saying. “As for Chess Club itself…?”
Cue Moylan. He opened his arms like a spider uncurling. “Joseph. You are dismissed from the club. It’s clear you’re not interested in the game.”
Back to the general population, but at least I wasn’t facing another school. Three days ISS was easy time.
“Duncan, you’ve been an important part of the team since your freshman year. However, our club officers can’t be brawling. You’ll have to step down as president. Your rank is unchanged, of course. Should this kind of thing not happen again, you’ll be eligible to run for club office for your senior year.”
I didn’t think Duncan was surprised either. He seemed even less troubled than I was by my sentence. He could power-trip with the best of them, but I don’t think he wanted president nearly as much as he wanted first board.
“We’ve also decided the club meeting behind closed doors creates too much opportunity for mischief. From now on, the club can use my classroom during lunch so I can supervise.”