Tournament Trouble

by Sylv Chiang

  “Waaaaaaah! Holy crap, J, you idiot!”

  “Scared ya!”

  Josh stands up and tucks the green Chinese pendant he always wears back into his T-shirt. “Loser! You’re lucky I didn’t totally beat the crap out of you just now. I thought you were a home invader or something until I noticed how skinny you are. I could have thrown you across the room.”

  He’s not exaggerating. Josh is almost double my size. I zoom back into the kitchen, partly to avoid being beat up and partly because I’m hungry.

  Josh follows me. “You made me mess up that fight, nerd. Now Mario won and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Come on, stop playing with that loser. Play with me. Of course, then you’ll have less chance of winning . . .” At the fridge I scan the selection of leftovers Mom brought home from her job at the diner and grab a container of noodles.

  “Look, I’ll play you,” Josh says, grabbing the noodles out of my hand, “but show some respect. You’re forgetting who taught you everything you know. Plus, if I don’t play with you, who are you gonna play with?”

  He’s got a point.

  “Okay, I’ll go easy on you then. I’ll even let you pick what character I play.”

  He’s already back on the couch. “I don’t need help to beat you, little brother . . .”

  “Yeah, you do,” Melanie calls from the front hall. She and Roy must have come in when Josh was screaming.

  “Yeah, Jaden’s the man. I can’t even beat him if he plays with one hand,” Roy adds.

  “I know. I watched you try the other day. It was pathetic.” Josh opens the selection screen. He picks Cantu for himself and Lerus, the unicorn-cross he knows I hate, for me.

  For the hundredth time in an hour Lerus spears Cantu with her horn and stomps on her head.

  This must be what Yuudai Sato feels like when he plays with his friends. I yawn. “Can I play Kaigo now? I need to practice a move.” I really want to figure out how I hit the Dragon Fire Super yesterday.

  Josh tosses his controller to the side. “Do whatever you want. I gotta go do some homework.”

  “Sure. That’s what I’d say too if a guy four years younger than me was owning me.” I stick out my tongue and make the “rock on” sign with my fingers.

  “Well then, as your much older and wiser brother, I suggest you stop playing and do your homework too.”

  “If you’re so much wiser than me, why can’t you beat me anymore?”

  “Oh please. That’s hand-eye coordination, not intelligence. You play a lot, and your fine motor control is awesome. Too bad your gross motor skills suck. Later we can take it outside and shoot some hoops. I’ll remind you who the real man is.” He sticks out his tongue and makes the “rock on” sign back at me. “But seriously, Mom and Dad will be home soon. Turn the game off.”

  I stash the Cross Ups IV disk, with the plain blank label we placed over the original, in the case for the latest NBA game. Josh’s number one rule when he started sharing his games was: never leave any evidence lying around.

  I follow him up the stairs. “You ever think about entering a video game tournament?”

  “You still making fun of me?”

  “No, I mean for real.”

  “Nah. Why?”

  “Just thinking it would be fun.” I kind of want to tell Josh about Kn1ght_Rage and T3, but I know he’ll make fun of me because I can’t compete at real sports. He’s always MVP and I’ve never even made a team. Even his part-time job is at a sports store.

  Sadly, everyone in my family is sportier than me. Dad plays every sport and coaches some of Josh’s teams. Melanie is on her school’s golf team—although Josh says golf isn’t a real sport. Even Mom still plays soccer in a league on Sundays. How pathetic is it that my mom is more athletic than I am?

  “Well, don’t bother asking Mom.”

  “Don’t ask Mom what?” Melanie calls as we pass her room.

  “Nothing,” we answer in unison.

  “Why is Mom so uptight about this stuff anyway? Cali says her mom calls our mom a ‘real tough woman.’ Why would anyone think Mom is tough?” I flop onto my bed so my head lands on my Kaigo pillow. When I look up, Melanie’s standing in our bedroom doorway.

  Even though they are twins, Melanie and Josh don’t have anything in common besides the round, green pendants they always wear on red string around their necks. Even then, Josh always hides his inside his T-shirt while Melanie proudly displays her piece of Chinese culture. They definitely do not have that special “twin bond” people talk about.

  They fight.

  A lot.

  I usually take Josh’s side, partly because he’s a guy and partly because we share a room.

  As usual, Melanie joins our conversation without being invited. “Uncle Sammy said something like that once too. About how he and Mom went through a lot back in Taiwan, but Mom told him not to talk about it in front of me.”

  “They had another brother.” Josh swivels on his chair. “I think he died young or something. One time, there was a report on the news about some guy getting shot and killed, and Mom left the room, crying. Dad said it was too hard for her to watch because it reminded her of her brother.”

  “How’d he die?” I ask.

  “Maybe he was a soldier in a war,” Josh says.

  “Duh, there was no war in Taiwan when Mom was a kid.” Melanie rolls her eyes.

  “I don’t know.” Josh shrugs. “I just know that whenever I used to bug her to let me watch a movie or play a game that she thought was too violent, she’d get this look on her face, like she had bad heartburn. Then she’d scrunch her lips together and take these deep breaths through her nose like an angry bull. After a while I just stopped asking.”

  “Yeah, I get the angry-bull look too.” I sigh.

  “I don’t know why you guys want to play those stupid games anyway,” Melanie says. “They’re such a waste of time: living in a pretend world, as a pretend person, pretending to beat up other pretend people.”

  “Thanks, sis, you’re right. We should spend more time walking across fields and rolling a ball into a hole like you, because golf’s not a waste of time.” He leans over and shuts the door in her face. Then he opens our laptop.

  I stare at the stars on our ceiling that glow in the dark at night, my thoughts drifting back to the tournament. Man, it sucks that Josh is the one old enough to sign up for T3, but I’m the one with the skills to actually win.

  Chapter 5

  Mom is at the sink washing dishes. “Come on, er zi, eat your breakfast.” As always, she speaks to me in Mandarin and calls me er zi, son.

  “I’m not hungry.” As always, I answer in English. It’s not that I can’t speak Mandarin, I just don’t. English is easier. As I take my bowl to the sink, I feel a jab from Josh’s student ID in my jeans pocket.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t feel well?” She puts her hand on my forehead, and the jade bracelet she always wears for good luck slides up her arm, along with some sudsy water.

  “I’m fine, Mom, just not hungry.”

  “What did you eat last night? Junk food? I know you kids don’t eat well when we’re not home.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Really.” I eat a spoonful of cereal from my bowl on the counter. “See? Fine. Don’t worry so much.”

  We continue with the dishes in silence. People often say I look more like my mom than Melanie and Josh do. I worry that means I’m going to be short like her too. I notice my shoulder is now as high as hers. That’s a good sign.

  Dad comes into the kitchen with the day’s paper in his hand and does a double take. “You feeling okay?”

  “That’s what I say.” With Dad, Mom speaks English. She still has a Chinese accent. “He look sick to you?”

  “No, honey. I’m just surprised to see him doing dishes, that’s all.”r />
  None of us have Dad’s blond hair and blue eyes. The twins both have light brown hair; mine is jet black. Josh’s skin burns in the sun, but I end the summer tanned like crispy Peking duck. And where Melanie’s eyes are round, mine are thin and definitely Chinese.

  Dad tousles my hair and looks at me closely. “Actually, wait, he does look a little stressed. Jaden, I think there’s something you need to give me.”

  My breath stops. Josh’s ID burns against my leg. How does Dad know? I follow his gaze down to my hands and notice that my thumbs are tapping against my index fingers like they always do when I’m nervous. Dad raises his eyebrows. It takes me a second to notice he’s holding up the cover of the sports section. “Montreal lost last night. They’re officially out of the playoffs. So, hand it over, son.”

  I exhale. “Oh, yeah. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. I’ll go get it.” I run upstairs to grab the mini Stanley Cup that me, Josh, and Dad pass back and forth throughout the season, depending on whose favorite team is up in the standings.

  Dad calls behind me, “And tell your brother to hurry up.”

  Josh is sitting on the floor of our room surrounded by a mess. He has dumped everything out of his backpack and now he’s stuffing it all back in with much more force than necessary.

  Should I give the ID back? But then he’ll want to know why I took it. I’m in too deep. Might as well go for it now.

  My stomach feels gross, and I wish I hadn’t eaten any of that cereal. Without looking at Josh, I tiptoe through the mess and grab the toy trophy from the shelf over my bed where I keep all of my action figures. Josh has a shelf over his bed too, but his is full of actual trophies. Normally, he’d rub it in that I lost the prize, but this morning he doesn’t even notice.

  I run back downstairs, hand the cup to Dad, and grab my bag from the hook by the door. “I’m gonna take the bus today,” I say.

  “Don’t be so upset, Jaden. We all knew this day would come.” Dad kisses the cup like he just won the real thing.

  I rush out the door faster than a Dragon Fire Super.

  In math class I hold the ID next to my face. “You think I can pull it off?”

  “Totally!” Devesh nods and goes back to placing the points on our graph for the problem of the day.

  Hugh puts his glasses on and examines the photo. “I don’t know, dude. I mean, you can pass for thirteen no problem, but this ID says you’re sixteen.” He picks up the ruler and starts connecting Devesh’s points.

  “You just have to go in acting confident. I’ll come with you,” Devesh says.

  “And your brother is huge and looks way more white than you,” Hugh continues.

  “You worry too much,” Devesh says. “No one’s going to look that closely.”

  “You really think so?”

  “And anyway, what’s the worst thing that can happen?” Devesh asks.

  “They could take away the ID card and call the police,” Hugh says.

  Devesh waves his hand at Hugh. “The registration is at a comic book store. They’re not going to call the police over this.”

  “You sure?” I ask.

  “Of course.” Devesh sighs. “Don’t you guys watch TV? The police don’t have time to deal with fake IDs. The worst thing that can happen is the guy says you can’t go to the tournament. So what? That’s where you’re at now, right?”

  “That’s true.” I pause. “Okay, I’m gonna do it.”

  “Fine,” Hugh says. “Now, what are we gonna do about Ty and Flash? Could they make it any more obvious? Ty is standing on his chair.”

  “Just let them look. Who cares?” Devesh rolls his eyes.

  “No way. Why should we do all their work for them? We are not going to do that, are we, J?” Hugh’s face is turning red and he’s clenching his fists.

  I think about it. “I don’t know. Maybe Dev has a point. It’s not like we’d be giving them some groundbreaking equation that we slaved over for months. These questions take us about twenty seconds to solve.”

  “Relax, Hughie. The sad thing is they copy our work but they still get it wrong,” Devesh says. “Last week, when they copied our geometry, they must have read my writing wrong. Under ‘proof,’ they wrote, ‘a triangle has two sides.’”

  “That is kind of sad,” Hugh says, his hands relaxing.

  When the bell rings Mr. Efram calls out, “Will and Tyrell, I need to speak to you.”

  Ty shoots us a look and mouths the word snitches. Next to him, Flash pretends to use a knife to cut his throat open.

  Chapter 6

  “Do you think Mr. E figured out they’re copying us?” Hugh whispers as we walk down the hall.

  Devesh punches him in the arm. “Duh. You think he’s keeping them in to tell them they’re getting the math award this year?”

  “Dude, why are you so mad? Isn’t it good? Now they’ll have to do their own work and stop using us,” Hugh says.

  Devesh glares at him.

  “Not that simple,” I say. “Did you see the death stares we just got? Now we have bigger problems than them copying us.”

  “But we never told on them. They can’t be mad at us!”

  Devesh stops. “Why don’t you go tell them that, Hughie?”

  Hugh puts up his hands. “Okay, never mind. Are we still going to the comic book store after school, or what?”

  It’s raining when we step off the bus in front of the strip mall.

  “What do I say?”

  “Just say what he told you to say. ‘Kn1ght_Rage sent me to sign up for T3.’ Just be cool.”

  “Easy for you to say, Dev. I’m never cool. Can’t you go in and sign up for me?”

  Hugh shakes his head. “No way. You hardly look like your brother yourself. There’s no way that Dev is going to pass as Josh.”

  We walk up to the door of Fly By Knight Comics. I reach out to grab the handle, then change my mind and spin around, crashing into Hugh’s bulky frame.

  “Ow. What’re you doing, dude?”

  “I’ve got to plan this better. I’m not ready.”

  Devesh grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. “That’s the beauty of it. When you plan out what you’re going to say, you sound like a robot. Remember your speech about Pythagoras for math class?”

  “Yeah, that sucked, dude,” Hugh says.

  “First off, put your hands in your pockets. When you tap your thumbs like that it’s so obvious you’re nervous.”

  I look down. Devesh is right; I’m tapping again. I stuff my hands in my jeans pockets.

  “Now, just pretend you’re Josh,” he says. “What would he do? Be Joshua.”

  “Seriously?” Hugh waves his hands in front of him like a magician, laughing. “‘Be Joshua.’ That’s your advice?”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. I feel the student ID in my left pocket. “Be Joshua. That actually makes sense.”

  “Good. Let’s go, before you change your mind.” Devesh pushes me to the door and looks back over his shoulder at Hugh. “You stay out here.”

  Inside the store Devesh nudges me past the large bins of comic books straight to the counter.

  “Can I help you boys?” A bearded man in his thirties wearing a Star Trek uniform shirt looks up from the comic on the counter in front of him.

  Devesh pokes me in the ribs.

  What comes out isn’t much louder than a whisper. “I’m here to sign up for the Top Tiers Tournament.”

  “What?”

  Devesh cuts in. “Kn1ght_Rage told him to come by and sign up for T3. Said he’d waive the fees.”

  The Trekkie looks me over. “Oh yeah? What’s your gamertag, kid?”

  “J-J-JStar . . . sir.”

  The Trekkie rifles through papers under the counter. “Yeah. You’re on the list. You must be good if Kn1ght_Rage sco
uted you out. Here’s the form.” He pushes a piece of paper on a clipboard across the counter.

  I fill in the lines with a pen attached by a string to the board. Then I hold it out shakily, but the Trekkie doesn’t notice for a few more pages of his comic.

  He skims the form and looks at me. “You need to bring your mom or dad in to sign the consent form. The tournament plays 13A games.”

  “He’s sixteen. Show him your ID, Jo-shu-a.” Devesh hits my hand, which has started tapping again. I shove both my hands back into my pockets. I pinch Josh’s ID and start to slide it out.

  The Trekkie eyes Devesh. “According to the birthdate here, he’s not turning thirteen until December. Sorry, kid. Just get your parents to come in and sign the form.”

  OMG. Epic noob fail of the century. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and turn to go.

  “What . . . but . . .” Devesh stares at me, his mouth hanging open.

  I head to the exit, but Devesh doesn’t give up as easily. “Can he take the form home to his parents? They’re really busy people and they don’t have time—”

  “Nice try, kid.” The Trekkie snorts.

  Defeated, Devesh follows me to the door.

  Outside, Hugh rushes us, rain dripping down his glasses. “So, you in?”

  Chapter 7

  The rain has stopped, but my hair and clothes are drenched and my running shoes are slooshing when I walk down the street to my house. I don’t even care.

  The front path is covered with fallen cherry blossoms, their life cut short, just like my tournament dreams.

  Cali is on her porch swing again. Her head is bent over a book and her long, black hair covers most of her face. My squeaky shoes on the steep porch steps make her look up.

  “Looks like you had a crappy day.”

  I tell her the story.

  “Ouch, that sucks.”

  “I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m gonna go in and beat some people up before my mom gets home.”