Chaotic Good

by Whitney Gardner

  Do I want to go and play? Hell yes, I do. I want to see how it’s done, how all of the rules play out on a real table. But would Why have asked me if he knew I was a girl? Doubtful. I’ll just text him back, tell him I was dressing up for a project, an article, something stupid ripped from a bad teen movie. We’ll both laugh, and I’ll show up and play like it’s no big thing.

  Brody.

  * * *

  The dollar store can be hit or miss, but it’s a cosplay gold mine if you have imagination and you know what you’re looking for. Quentin’s costume is so close to done. I run through the final touches in my head: some yellow-lensed glasses, a pair of really long shoelaces, and the perfect shade of pink hair chalk for his Mohawk. Finding the right pair of shoes will be the hardest part. Cooper promised he would check around the mall after he gets off work.

  No yellow shades, but there are plenty of clear faux-hipster glasses. I pick up two pairs along with the laces. A calculator watch calls to me—I feel like it would suit Quentin well—and I add it too. I grab some oversized safety pins and a pack of beginner-artist chalk pastels. They work great for coloring hair in a not-so-permanent way.

  I make another stop over at Kozy Corner for glass paint and a few more buttons. Five minutes and a coat of paint is all it takes to transform dollar-store glasses into designer shades.

  The purchases are eating into my profits, but I’m having such a good time I don’t really care. The bell at Kozy’s jingles, and Dotty looks up from her crochet hook.

  “Cameron! How’s tricks?”

  “Got my first commission.” I beam.

  “Congratulations! You’re on your way!” She claps her hands with excitement and her acrylic bracelets clack together in agreement.

  Dotty goes back to hooking yarn while I browse paints and dyes. My phone buzzes, a brick in my pocket, weighing me down. I didn’t know how to respond to Why’s invite last night, and now I’m afraid to check it. I keep thinking about myself as dude Cameron, Cameron Boom, a Chaotic Good Rogue. Would that Cameron just go and play, for justice? For fairness? For the good of girlkind? I’d like to think so. If he would stand up for us, so should I. I take out my phone. I bypass Cooper’s text about picking up pleather boots at Payless and head straight for Why’s thread.

  I take a moment and try to get into Cameron Boom’s head. How does a guy sound when he texts? If there’s a major difference, I can’t tell.

  On my way home from Kozy Corner, I try to piece together who I am when I’m him. Should I be the same—exactly the same—with one minor difference? Or do I start over, reinvent everything, be a person I never thought I would need to be?

  It’s certainly an interesting way to create a character. But the makeup, the clothes, the voice, it’s all too much to keep track of in the first place. I’ll just be me; Cameron Birch is every bit the geek Cameron Boom is. And hey, if they accept him, maybe, eventually, they’ll accept me. If not…I don’t know.

  The wind tosses my hair while Cooper drives and I windsurf, waving my arm through the air currents out the passenger-side window. He sings along with Adele at the top of his lungs. It’s a perfect start-of-summer moment. And to top it all off, I’m about to get paid.

  We’re headed to the post office. Quentin Quire is finished, folded, and all boxed up. The only thing that’s left to do is ship it off. My first sale ever, complete.

  “When are you gonna learn to drive?” Cooper asks me over the music.

  “I know how to drive.”

  “Your four failed attempts at the road test say otherwise.”

  “Whatever.” I don’t need to learn how to drive, or at least I didn’t when we lived in Portland. We were three blocks away from the MAX, and I had my bike and the bus. Now I’m lucky I can walk to Kozy Corner and Atomix, but that’s pretty much it. Cooper is tired of schlepping me everywhere, but he has to, because he loves me.

  “What about that portfolio thing—how’s that going?” He turns down the volume a bit, and I wish he hadn’t. I don’t want to talk about it, not now.

  “Who are you? Mom?”

  “Just asking, Snip.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Sorry, I just…I’m nervous. It’s so much work. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Start with one, then move on to the next,” he says.

  “Right. I know. Right.” I crank the volume back up; the next song is too good, and I’m done being stressed out. We keep singing together. Cooper sounds perfect and I sound like a goose, but we make it work all the way to the post office. I dash in with the box, and Cooper keeps the car running.

  “That’ll be thirty-four ninety-nine,” the stocky man behind the counter says. He rocks on his heels and smiles. It’s a lot for shipping, but I got all the bells and whistles. Had to. It needs to arrive in two days, and in one piece, so I’m willing to pay extra. Do I want insurance? Yes. Do I want a signature? Yes. Certified receipt? You know it.

  “Be careful with it, okay?” I tell the postal worker as he takes the box from the scale.

  “Of course, miss.”

  “It’s really important.”

  “They always are.”

  “But this one really is.” I poke the box, punctuating the sentence, trying to seal the deal, trying to ensure no one chucks the box into a truck and the hair chalk explodes all over the costume. Not that I didn’t anticipate that—the chalks are wrapped up tight in a ziplock and, like, half a roll of saran wrap.

  He laughs and pats the top of the box and places it very, very gently onto the shelf behind him. Before addressing the next customer, he crosses his heart, making an X on his chest with his pointer finger. He gets it. I leave.

  Cooper guns it out of the parking lot. My phone’s been ringing for three full seconds. Why’s name is displayed over his dorky, thumbs-up selfie. Who actually makes phone calls anymore? Four seconds. Ignore or answer?

  “You gonna get that or not?” Coop reads my mind, trying to steal a glance at the screen. A few more fake old-timey rings and it’ll go to voice mail. Luckily, I never set up an outgoing greeting. Why’s not actually going to leave me a voice mail….He wouldn’t do me like that, would he? I clear my throat and answer deeply, “Yo, ’sup?” Cooper can barely contain his laughter. I motion for him to keep his eyes on the road.

  “ ’Sup?!” His voice is so bright and cheery I could be blinded by it. “So, like, we were gonna start the game tomorrow night,” Why starts, and stops.

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Right, and, you know, I really want to play and stuff, but our DM says we need another player.” He goes from buoyant to sinking.

  “Why?”

  “Yeah?”

  “No, I mean, why do we need someone else?” I ask.

  “Not as fun with only three players. He wants at least four,” Why sighs. Cooper’s face is pink from holding back his snickering.

  “That sucks, bro,” I say, and Coop lets out a snort, his eyes watering from my apparent hilarity. “Oh, you know what?” I ask, glaring hard at my brother. “My brother would totally play with us.” Cooper almost stops the car short. That certainly shut him up.

  “NO EFFING WAY,” he mouths.

  “Really? That would be so awesome; I was really looking forward to—” Why pauses. “Like, you know, hanging out or whatever.”

  “Yeah, sure. He’ll love it.”

  “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO.” Cooper pulls into our driveway and slams on the brakes.

  “Make your characters and bring them tomorrow. See you at Atomix at eight?” Why asks.

  “We’ll be there.” I smile devilishly at Cooper. He snatches the phone from me and hangs up.

  “There is no way in high holy heck I’m going to—” Cooper looks at my phone, Why’s selfie still up on the screen. “Wait. This guy is going to be there?”

  “Yep.”

>   “What should I wear?”

  * * *

  I’ve flipped through the player’s guide Dad passed down to me a dozen times, but I’m no closer to figuring out what kind of character to make. I have no idea what kind of game we’re in for. Cooper’s character comes to him so effortlessly, his writing chops fully on display. Now that we’re actually going to play, I have to pay attention to the rules, and I can barely understand them all.

  The font in the guide is so small and dense, I wish I owned a magnifying glass. Each page loaded with charts. What’s your ability score? What’s your weight allowance? What’s your hit probability? My eyes glaze over.

  “I thought this was supposed to be fun,” I whine at Coop.

  “Isn’t it?” He scribbles something down in his notebook.

  “I don’t understand any of it.”

  “You got me involved in this mess, and now you’re backing out?”

  “Just help me, okay?” I lean into his shoulder.

  “Fine. Start here and pick a race for your character. Dad highlighted it, look.” Cooper talks slowly, without patronizing me. So completely different from Brody trying to mansplain comics to me.

  “Which did you pick?” I ask, glancing over the list.

  “Wood elf, and sexy as hell.” He goes back to his paper and lets me look over my choices. Elves look fun; half-orcs do not. I could be a human, but I suppose it’s not all that creative of a choice. I settle for a good mix of everything and choose halfling.

  “I shouldn’t play a girl character, should I?”

  “Jesus, Cam. How much more complicated could you make this situation?” Cooper looks at me, shocked.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be a dude. A dude halfling thief.”

  Cooper names his character Jade Everwood. He doesn’t let me look at his stats, claiming that it’s only his first draft. Writers. He takes his notebook and my glittering d20 up to his bedroom, leaving me with the handbook and a half-baked character.

  I didn’t think Dungeons & Dragons would be so much work. Without a board or cards or pieces, I figured you’d just make it up as you went along. I pore over the classes and the abilities again. If Brody is playing, I have to know every rule inside and out, like threading my sewing machine with my eyes closed. I have something to prove: That girls belong in Atomix. That girls belong, period. I’ll be the best halfling thief he’s ever seen, and then I’ll show him who I really am. Cue the fireworks; cue the “I told you so.”

  It’s not part of his character sheet, but I can’t help wondering what costume Cooper’s character would wear. As I lie in my dark bedroom, ideas come instantly. I wouldn’t go full Lord of the Rings—it’s been done; it’s had its moment. No ornate scrolling filigree and silver. I’d make it more natural, from the forest, from the earth. And of course, since this is Cooper we’re talking about here, I’d have to make it a little scandalous.

  Maybe a dusty jade tunic with a low neckline, or it could have wooden buttons and a collar. That way he can decide how provocative he wants to get with it. I’d give him a crushed-velvet-lined vest that evokes birch bark, a pocket watch with a vine instead of a chain.

  I flick on the bedside lamp and grab my sketchbook from my desk, accidentally sending Why’s little green glowing d20 across the floor. It lands on eighteen. I get to work.

  * * *

  “Does it look all right to you?” I hand my dad the notebook with my character’s stats. He runs down the list with his finger, smiling proudly, a huge mound of wood chips at his back. The entire garden smells of cedar and sunshine. His tomato plants are only shin-high, but they look healthy and strong.

  “Sure, why not?” he chuckles.

  “I want it to be good, Dad. It has to be perfect.”

  “There’s no perfect in D and D, I promise you,” he says, and passes the notebook back. “Especially if you have a good DM.”

  “That’s, like, the guy running the show, right?”

  “Exactly. Any decent Dungeon Master will make sure everyone shines at one point or another.” As he explains, Mom weaves through the path to join us. She’s getting sunburned, her cheeks flushed red. I can see the sun reflecting off her forehead, sweat pooling in her wrinkled brow. Mom hates yard work.

  “Cameron! You’re finally awake, good,” she pants.

  “It’s two p.m., of course I’m—”

  “Come on, I want you to show me your portfolio.” Mom takes my wrist and leads me toward the garage.

  “You’ll be fine!” Dad calls out. I don’t know if he’s talking about Dungeons & Dragons, or my mother.

  “There isn’t much time left, right? Show me what you have so far.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter, Mom,” I protest, but neither of us are convinced. The only thing I’ve managed to make up until now is Cooper’s D&D drawing.

  “I’m curious. Humor me.” She climbs up the stairs to the loft and collapses into our enormous beanbag chair. I pull three old costumes out from the Ikea armoire.

  “I was thinking about showing these,” I lie, draping them across my sewing table. I hold up the long blue-and-white Corpse Bride gown.

  “I saw those already. Especially that zombie-wedding one. Don’t bring that one; it’s too scary. Where’s the new stuff?”

  “Jeez, Ma. It’s coming.”

  “Look, you’re not working this summer. We’ve moved out here and given you this lovely space. You can’t waste it.” She sinks farther into the beanbag chair, and my fists clench. I haven’t wasted one inch of the space here. “Do you need money for fabric?”

  “No, actually. I just got paid for a costume yesterday.” It feels good, not having to ask her for cash. I can build the portfolio all on my own, and I won’t have to answer to Mom if one of the costumes is too “scary.”

  “Well, that’s excellent! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. Just in case something, you know, went wrong.” I drape the gown over the other two outfits.

  “Oh, Cameron. Listen.” Mom reaches out and pulls me down next to her. We sink into the chair and look up at the ceiling. She pets my arm. “I know, I know—I get after you to do well. It’s only because—”

  “You want the best for us,” I sigh.

  “Yes, well, that’s part of it.”

  “And hard work builds—” I do my best Mom impression before she cuts me off.

  “You’re talented. You and your brother both, just like your father. Not everyone is blessed with talent. I know I wasn’t.” She talks quietly, deliberately. Mom has always encouraged Cooper and me, but this is the first time she’s praised us so openly. My throat dries up, like it’s stuffed with fiberfill. I don’t know how to respond.

  “But talent isn’t everything, Cam. Talent is nothing if you don’t do the work. And I couldn’t bear to see it go to waste, you understand?” she finishes. I nod, guilt pooling in my stomach, knowing I’m going to be goofing off at Atomix tonight when I should be sweating away over my sewing machine. “Good, now how do you get out of this thing?” Mom and I roll out of the beanbag onto the floor. She stands and clomps back down the stairs.

  She’s right. I get my scrap bin and start sewing. Doesn’t matter what yet, I just need to work. I take a few scraps and sew them together, edge by edge, into a patchwork. I stitch fast and loose. The pieces are strangely shaped, but I find sides that fit together and make a mosaic out of the material. First the dark green scraps, then lighter and lighter, a yard of pixelated ombré fabric spits out from the machine in front of me.

  My shoulders ache, but I don’t want to stop. My fingers keep working, adding white fabric to the lightest edge of my miniature quilt. I hold it up. It’s beautiful, but…what is it? Whose is it? Bits and pieces sewn up and Frankensteined into something new. Something more beautiful than the sum of its parts. In this moment, I understand wh
y people make quilts.

  “How the heck can you see anything up here?” Cooper stumbles as he gets to the top of the stairs. I’ve been at it so long I didn’t even notice the sun had set. I’d been working by the little light of my sewing machine for who knows how long.

  “Sorry, got distracted.” I stuff the quilt into the scrap bin and slide it under my desk. I don’t feel ready to share it with Cooper yet. He turns on the light.

  “You’re not ready? We have to go in like ten minutes!” He points to my skirt.

  “Oh crap!”

  “That’s right, oh crap,” he echoes. “Come on, Snip. You have permission to raid my closet.”

  * * *

  Cooper’s closet is immaculate, his shirts organized by color, print, and style. No wonder they love him at the Republic of Bananas. My closet erupts as soon as you open the door. Nothing I own is wrinkle-free; I can’t even find one pair of matching socks. I slide the hangers across the bar, shirt after shirt, slacks and jeans. Nothing jumps out at me. I mean, I don’t know who boy Cameron really is. I know what I like, but what if that’s a giveaway? I’m on my second tour through Cooper’s closet when he stops me.

  “No one is going to care. Pick anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You really think the gathering of the geeks is going to give one half of a shit what you wear?”

  “Fine.” I grab a plain pair of jeans and a color-blocked button-down. A sports bra under a ribbed tank top is enough to smooth out what little curves I have. Cooper starts fretting and flipping through his closet while I tuck my hair into my beanie.

  “I thought you said no one is going to care what we wear.”

  “No, what I said was no one is going to care what you wear. I still have to look good.”