Perpetual Check (3 page)

“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.”

“Unlike 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.”