by Rich Wallace
“So what else did Jenna want to know?” Zeke asks.
“What do you mean?”
“She knows she'll probably wind up playing me in the fourth round. Was she asking you about my game or something?”
“No. You never came up.”
“I bet,” Zeke says.
“Don't be a jerk. Like I'd give away your game to her?”
“Well, she must have had some motive for talking to you.”
“Maybe she was just being friendly.”
“Watch what you say if she comes up to you tomorrow.”
Randy doesn't respond. He walks past the beds to the bathroom and brushes his teeth again. Dinner was garlicky and he can still taste it.
“You got any mouthwash in there?” Zeke calls.
Randy stops brushing. “Yeah,” he says as toothpaste dribbles onto his chin.
“I didn't brush my teeth either… My toothbrush is in my room.”
Randy looks into the mirror and laughs. What an idiot, he thinks. He rinses his toothbrush and puts it into its blue travel holder. He carries the toothbrush with him into the bedroom and sets it on the table next to Dina's picture. Then he picks up the remote and switches on the television.
Zeke gets up to gargle. “Two o'clock,” he says when he comes back. “I think Star Trek‘s on.”
“No thanks.” Randy flips rapidly through the channels.
“I thought you liked that show.”
“When I was ten maybe. Did you want to see it?”
“No… I don't care.”
They watch a stand-up routine for a few minutes, then Randy turns the TV off.
“You got anything to eat?” Zeke asks.
“A bag of M&M's.”
“Can I have some?”
“They're over by the window.”
Zeke gets out of bed again. The candy bag is huge. He tears it open, then picks up Randy's chessboard from the dresser. He takes Randy's toothbrush, the phone, and the picture of Dina off the bedside table and sets them on the shelf underneath with the Bible. Then he pulls the table out a bit from the wall and sets the chessboard on it.
“Want to play?” he asks.
“Sure. The pieces are in my gym bag.”
“Got a better idea,” Zeke says. He pours some of the M&M's onto his sheet and separates some red ones and blue ones. “Checkers!”
He starts setting the M&M's on the board.
“What if we get kings?” Randy asks.
“If you get a king, it changes to orange; if I get one, it's brown.”
Randy picks up a red M&M and holds it between his fingers. It's flattened somewhat on one side and has a lump at the edge. “Look!” he says. “A misshapen one!”
“So what?”
“Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
“No. I don't.”
“It's very rare. Probably extremely valuable.” He pops it into his mouth and chews it up.
They play two games, each winning once.
Randy brushes his teeth again, since he ate his pieces after the games.
They lie quietly again for a while.
“She's really nice, you know,” Randy says.
“Who?”
“Jenna. McNulty.”
“Seems kind of stuck-up to me.”
“She can't help it if she's brilliant.”
Zeke snorts. “She looks good, I'll give you that much. But she acts like she sat on a rook.”
“She was pretty funny. Said Buddy Malone doesn't move his feet when he dances. Just floats his arms up and down and wiggles his hips. She demonstrated. It was hilarious.”
“She went out with him?”
“No. She said it was at some student-leadership thing at Marywood. He kept hitting on her.”
“He would… Well, I would, too.”
Randy doesn't respond.
“I would!” Zeke says. “What? You think I wouldn't?”
“I don't know.”
“She thinks she's so frickin’ gorgeous. Acts like we're all beneath her.”
“You already said that already.”
“So?”
“It's redundant,” Randy says.
“And saying ‘already already’ isn't?”
“No, that's reinforcing. I like that.”
“Well, you're a jerk,” Zeke says. “And that's why she was talking to you. To try to make a point that she doesn't need to acknowledge any of the rest of us.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing… Like the guys her own age—guys who might actually want to go out with her like we're …” He hesitates over the phrase beneath her again and finally says, “invisible or something.”
“I didn't get that impression,” Randy says.
“What impression?”
“That she's a snob. I mean, imagine if you looked that good. Don't you think you'd get a lot of attention?”
“I don't look that good?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I think I look good,” Zeke says. “I'm in shape, at least.”
“So?”
“And I don't have a frickin’ Cub Scout haircut like you do.”
“What the hell's a Cub Scout haircut?”
“And you're wearing pajamas, like you're seven years old.“
“What does that have to do with anything?” Randy asks.
“Just shut up and go to sleep.”
“I've tried that. You keep butting in.”
“Yeah, well, don't go getting ideas that she's interested in you, for God's sake,” Zeke says. “Just because she talks to you about music. She was probably trying to find out about me. About my game, at least.”
“Like I said, you never came up.”
“Then just shut up and go to sleep. It's like three o'clock in the morning. We've got a tournament in a couple of hours.”
“You think I don't know that?” Randy rolls to his side, facing away from Zeke's bed, and tries to lie still. After about thirty seconds, he throws the sheet off his body, says, “It's hotter than hell in here,” and yanks off his socks, tossing them one at a time over Zeke's head against the window.
“What was that?” Zeke asks.
“My socks.”
Zeke starts laughing. “You know where 17131 socks are?”
“No. How would I?”
“I don't know either. I took off my shoes and socks during the poker game and left them in the room.”
Randy starts laughing, too. “So you're totally de-shoed?”
“Completely.”
“Whose room was it?”
“I don't even know. Some kid from North Pocono, I think.”
“So you lost your key, your socks, and your shoes?”
“Yeah. You got some I can borrow for tomorrow?”
“You could wear my sandals.”
“Thanks.”
“You win any money?” Randy asks.
“Nah. I lost about two bucks.”
“Who won?”
“Pramod. I think he was cheating. He kept getting aces.”
“Were they his cards?”
“Yeah.”
“He probably had them marked.”
“Probably. He couldn't have won more than fifteen bucks, though. If that.”
Randy looks at the clock again. It's 3:17.
“We tried to find her room,” Zeke says.
“What for?”
“I don't know. To hassle her, I guess. Try to shake her up a little; mess with her head for tomorrow.”
“I don't think she's easily perturbulated,” Randy says.
“We would have found a way.”
“Real mature.”
“Hey, that's competition,” Zeke says. “You have to get in your opponent's head somehow. Psych them out.”
“So I hear. But it probably would have just psyched her up.”
“Well, anyway, it would have cost her some rest time. She's probably been asleep for five hours.”
“Unli
ke us,” Randy says with a sigh.
“Yeah, we're toast if we don't get to sleep soon.”
“So shut up, why don't ya?”
“You shut up, too.”
“I will when you do.”
“Consider it done.”
THREE
Fried Eggs Hard
It seems like they've only been asleep for five minutes when there's another knock, but Randy looks at the clock and it's nearly 7:30.
His brother rolls off the bed and their father's at the door, having driven the thirty miles from Sturbridge this morning. He looks a lot like Zeke—short and lean with thick, curly hair—but he's wearing a sports jacket and a green golf shirt over new jeans and loafers. He smells of cologne. His speech has an odd diction from growing up in North Jersey: the word just comes out almost as junst, for example; milk spills over toward melk.
“I figured you might be over here,” he says to Zeke, “since you weren't in your room.” He frowns when he notices that Randy's still in bed. “Better move your butt, Randy. You should have been up an hour ago.”
Randy props up on one elbow and wipes his nose with the other hand.
“What for?”
“The thing starts at nine,” Mr. Mansfield says.
“It's downstairs.”
“You need to eat and get psyched up.”
“It's chess, Dad. Not a football game.”
Mr. Mansfield rolls his eyes and looks at Zeke. “Like he'd know,” he says quietly.
Zeke smirks and mumbles, “Lard butt,” which Randy hears from him about thirty times a day.
Screw you both, Randy thinks. He is a little soft, maybe fifteen pounds heavier than he ought to be. But I don't spend every minute worrying about my speed or my moves or my physique like Zeke does; like Dad thinks I should, too.
And Dad calls him Ace. Everybody else calls him Zeke, which, after all, is his name. Randy refers to him as Ass.
“Don't squander this opportunity, Randy,” Mr. Mansfield says. “Show some gumption for once. You can kick these people's tails if you set your mind to it.”
“It's chess, Dad,” Randy says again. “No kicking allowed.”
“Well, you can metaphorically kick their butts, you know.”
“Yeah, or I could systematically outmaneuver them without making believe it's a professional wrestling match.”
Zeke jumps in. “Some of these guys are vicious,” he says pointedly. “Dad's right, they'll intimidate the hell out of you if you don't show some attitude of your own.”
“Half of the guys are girls,” Randy says.
“They'll still whip your lazy ass.”
“Get out of bed, Randy,” Mr. Mansfield says. He points straight down at the floor. “I've already got us a table for breakfast. Be down there in ten minutes. This is important. I shouldn't have to remind you of that.”
“I know what it is,” Randy says. He sits up and looks at his bare feet.
“What are you wearing?” his father asks.
“Now?”
“For the tournament.”
“What difference does it make?”
“You want to look sharp. Awe these people a little. Let them know you mean business.”
“I didn't bring a suit, if that's what you mean.”
“What did you bring?”
“My regular clothes. I don't know; I think I've got a clean T-shirt in my bag.”
“At least tuck it in.” Mr. Mansfield puts his hand on the doorknob. “Ten minutes.” Then he leaves.
Randy stands up and looks at Zeke. “Maybe I should put on war paint.”
“Where are those sandals?” Zeke asks. “I'm gonna go down to the desk to get another key to my room.”
“In my bag.” Randy walks over to the window and picks up his socks. He opens his bag and tosses the sandals, one at a time, toward his brother. Then he picks up the package of M&M's. “Might as well eat some of these before I brush my teeth,” he says. “You want any?”
“Sure.”
“We finished the blue ones.”
“They all taste the same anyway,” Zeke says.
“Not exactly.”
“Yes they do. You think blue dye tastes different than orange?”
“How could it not?”
“It's food coloring,” Zeke says. “It has no taste of its own. It's just sugar over chocolate.”
Randy pours a couple of dozen M&M's onto his bed. “Then let's do a little test.”
“Dad's waiting for us.”
“Yeah. To eat breakfast. That's what we're doing.”
Randy separates the candies into four small piles: red, or ange, green, and brown. The yellow ones go back into the bag. Can't have too many variables, he thinks. He picks up a red one and holds it between his thumb and first finger. He looks it over good, pops it into his mouth, then nods at Zeke.
“Red,” Randy says.
“Amazing.”
“That wasn't a guess. I'm just getting the flavor of each straight in my head.” He picks up a green one, holds it in his mouth for a few seconds with his eyes shut, then chews and swallows. “Now the brown.”
And then the orange.
“Okay,” Randy says. “Now I'll shut my eyes, and you feed them to me at random and I'll identify them by their various and subtle taste differences.”
“Sure you will.”
“Try me.”
Zeke rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Dad's gonna kill us.”
“This'll take five seconds.” Randy sits on the bed with his eyes closed and his mouth open.
“I'm not putting these in your mouth.”
“Then just hand them to me one at a time. You can blindfold me if you want.”
“Just keep your eyes shut.”
Zeke frowns over the piles, then picks up a brown one and hands it to Randy.
“Brown,” Randy says almost immediately.
“You looked.”
“I swear I didn't.”
The next one is orange, but Randy says red.
“Wrong,” Zeke says with a sneer.
“What was it?”
“Orange.”
“They're nearly identical. Very close. I knew it wasn't green or brown.”
“Sure you did.”
Zeke tries to trip him up by handing him another orange one. But Randy gets it right.
He misses the next one, guessing red when it's actually green. Then the phone rings.
“Two out of four,” Zeke says.
“Two and a half,” Randy says. “That's pretty good.”
The phone rings again, and Randy picks it up.
“Where the hell are you guys?” Mr. Mansfield asks.
“We're just leaving. Zeke was screwing around.”
Randy starts scooping up the M&M's and putting them back in the bag. “Are we supposed to check out now?” he asks.
“They said we can keep the rooms until we're eliminated. So we can come back up if there's time between the rounds.”
“One more.” Randy spreads his arms and mouth wide and closes his eyes.
Zeke picks up another brown one and Randy gets it right.
“Okay, so maybe the brown ones have a distinct taste,” Zeke says. “All chocolate. But you didn't convince me on the other ones.”
“I think I did pretty good.”
“Well, you're an idiot.”
Randy pulls on an oversized Allman Brothers T-shirt and his sneakers. They walk toward the elevator, and Randy pushes the arrow to go down.
But Zeke starts walking again, heading for the stairs at the end of the hall. “Tell Dad I'll be there in two minutes,” he says. “He's probably camped out by the elevator to give us more advice.”
Randy nods.
“And don't you say one frickin’ word about me getting locked out last night,” Zeke says, walking backward now. “You are dead meat if he hears about that. You got it?”
“Just shut up.”
“He'd blame Mom.”
“How could he blame her?”
“He always blames her when we screw up.”
When the elevator opens, Jenna McNulty is standing inside. She looks as if she's going to a job interview—dark linen suit, modest makeup, carrying a briefcase. The briefcase has a small decal that says Scranton Prep.
“Morning,” Randy says as he steps in.
“Hi,” she says cheerfully. “Sleep well?”
“I don't remember.” Randy gives a sly smile. “My stupid brother had me up all night.”
“Just as well. I was so nervous I barely slept a wink.”
“You're the top seed. You should be completely counter-nervoused.”
“Yeah, but there's a lot of pressure.”
“You'll do great.”
“You, too.”
They reach the ground floor, and Jenna walks briskly toward the conference room where the tournament will be, her heels clicking on the lobby floor. Randy strolls toward the coffee shop to meet his father. He notices Zeke waiting in a short line by the front desk.
Mr. Mansfield is drumming his fingers on the table as Randy walks in. The boys’ mother is working on this Saturday morning (she's a cashier at Wal-Mart; Mr. Mansfield is a loan officer at the Sturbridge National Bank), but she'll drive over this afternoon with Dina if Randy makes the semifinals.
“Where's Ace?” Mr. Mansfield asks.
“Ace is looking for his toothbrush.”
Mr. Mansfield checks his watch. “You better order. I already ate.”
“Shouldn't I wait for Zeke?”
“Zeke can take care of himself. You order.” The plate in front of Mr. Mansfield has a gooey yellow residue from eggs and the crust from a slice of rye toast. He's drinking coffee. He waves his hand at a waitress.
“Hi,” Randy says as she comes over. “I'll have two fried eggs hard, not runny at all, some ham and … You have fruit?”
“Cantaloupe.”
“That and orange juice.”
“Would you like toast or home fries?”
“White toast. Yeah, fries, too.”
Mr. Mansfield puts a fist decisively on the table. “Do you have a strategy for this morning?”
Randy shrugs. “I don't even know who I play yet.”
“Whom.”
“Say what?”
“You don't know whom you play.”
Randy just rolls his eyes.
“See, that's why you needed to snap to it this morning. They've got the brackets posted outside the conference room.”