Perpetual Check (8 page)

“Fifth
grade.
“

“I'm in ninth,” Randy says evenly. “And I
am
the fifth seed.”

“Big deal.”

“I didn't say it was.”

She finally breaks into a reluctant smile. “That's right, you didn't… Sorry. I can be a bitch.”

“No problem.”

“I mean, you
do
look very young.”

“I know.”

Malone taps on the window and gestures for Serena to come in.

“Back to the grind,” she says.

“Do it up.”

“I try.”

Randy sits outside for another minute, until his ears get cold. Pramod is slumped on that leather couch in the lobby. “Sit down a second,” he says.

Randy doesn't sit, but he stops next to the couch and looks at Pramod expectantly.

Pramod is staring at his fingernails again. “When you play Jenna, she'll definitely favor her queenside,” he says.

“So?”

“So you need to know that. And you need to control the center.”

“We
always
need to control the center. What do you care how I play her?”

“Because I want to win the tournament,” Pramod says. “If you beat her in the semis, they might as well start putting my name on the trophy right then.”

“I'll be sure to notify the engraver.”

Serena catches Randy's eye as he tries to slip unnoticed into the conference room. Her rematch with Malone is several moves old, but neither player has taken any pieces.

Most eyes in the room are on Zeke's game against Jenna. Both players have the same material left: two pawns, a rook, and the king. It's Jenna's move, and she can take one of Zeke's pawns with a pawn of her own (hers are side by side near the center of the board) or capture his other pawn with her rook (which is just one space forward of its original position in the corner).

Capturing with the rook would be suicidal, because she would immediately lose it to Zeke's rook, which is shielded by the pawn but is in the same rank as Jenna's. But not taking that pawn would be equally fatal, because Zeke needs just one move to promote the pawn in question to a queen. And that would leave Jenna in checkmate. Either way, she's in deep trouble.

Randy quietly takes a seat next to his father. Jenna finds the best alternative and moves her rook to the opposite corner, putting Zeke in check. He can easily get out of it, but a cat-and-mouse game ensues, with Zeke moving his king up the board one space at a time and Jenna keeping him in check with her rook. This is not the perpetual check that Buddy Malone forced, since the position of the pieces changes with every move and he can eventually get out of check.

But the advantage clearly belongs to Zeke. He carefully circles the pawns with his king. If Jenna captures Zeke's lone pawn near the center, his next move would be to promote his remaining pawn to queen, assuring the victory.

Jenna is taking a long time to think, and Randy's already gone over every possible remaining move in his head. Unless Zeke makes a gigantic blunder, the game will be his within three or four moves.

Randy turns to his dad and mouths, “He's got it.”

“How?” Mr. Mansfield mouths back.

“Just watch.” Randy's whispering now. “She can't get out of it.”

Jenna has a deep frown and seems to see the inevitable. Zeke captures both pawns with his king on consecutive moves. Jenna's last-ditch effort brings her rook all the way back, next to her king in the first rank. But two moves later she's in checkmate.

She looks bewildered, and so does Zeke, frankly. With the Malone-Leung match still progressing, there's no possibility of applause from the fifteen or so remaining spectators.

Mr. Mansfield points toward the door, and Randy and Zeke follow him out. No need to look at the brackets; it'll be Mansfield versus Mansfield in the semifinals.

“Yes!” Zeke says, pumping his fist when they're out of immediate earshot. “I took her down.”

Mr. Mansfield holds out both palms and Zeke slaps them, then flips his palms over for his dad.

“She used that Sicilian Dragon bit, huh?” Randy says.

“Huh?” Zeke looks at him like he's crazy. “I don't know. Something like that. I'm starving.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Mansfield says. “You guys need to get refueled.”

“I could see what she was doing after about three moves,” Zeke says, ignoring Randy. “She thought she had this really elaborate opening, but it's the same game I play all the time. I saw it coming a mile away.”

“See?” Mr. Mansfield says to Randy.
“Always
know your opponent.”

“I figured it out in about two seconds,” Zeke says. “As soon as she made her third move, I'm like,
That's the Sicilian thing.
She never had a chance after that.”

“You got in her head,” Mr. Mansfield says.

“I lived there.”

SEVEN
Pushing Carts

The McDonald's on Washington Avenue is one of those urban storefront spots, not freestanding like most of its billion franchises, including the one back in Sturbridge. This one is long and narrow and wedged between a CVS drugstore and a jewelry shop across from the Lackawanna County Courthouse.

Mr. Mansfield gave Zeke a twenty to buy lunch and went over to the Steamtown Mall for something. So Randy and Zeke walked the four blocks to McDonald's, not saying anything till they got there.

Scranton is not a thriving city, and midday on a Saturday it seems particularly empty.

“I'm getting two fish sandwiches,” Randy says as they wait
behind three college-age guys and a woman with no front teeth in a NASCAR jacket.

“Don't tell
me,
“ Zeke replies. “You think I'm ordering for you?”

“No. I'm just saying.”

“Fish sucks.”

“You don't have to eat it.”

“I don't plan to.”

Lunch was available at the hotel for all of the quarterfinalists, but few players took up the offer. Jenna McNulty seemed too stunned to eat, and Buddy Malone went straight to his room after losing his rematch. Serena Leung told Zeke she didn't want any possibility of having to eat with Pramod, who she'll meet in the semis. Silvio Vega was already on his way back to Wilkes-Barre.

When Zeke and Randy left, only Pramod and Lucy Ahada were dining at the hotel, sitting uncomfortably with the tournament officials as they munched on salads and turkey sandwiches.

Zeke orders a hamburger and Chicken McNuggets. The girl at the counter asks, “Will that be all?”

Zeke frowns and tilts his head toward Randy. “Whatever he wants, too.”

They take a booth near the entrance, across the aisle from an apparently homeless guy who's staring blankly while nursing a cup of coffee. He has a scruffy white beard and black shoes with no laces in them.

Zeke watches as Randy unwraps one of his sandwiches and takes off the top of the bun. He grabs a couple of napkins and
wipes a large glob of tartar sauce from it. “They always put way too much,” Randy says.

“You could ask them to go light, you know.”

“That never works. You ask for a special order and they mess it up some other way. Extra-cheeselate it or something.”

Zeke pulls a limp pickle slice off his hamburger and sets it on the tray. “Like you could do better.”

“Like I'd want to.”

“You
do
have to get a job this summer, you know. Practice saying this: ‘Hi, may I take your order?’ Who else is gonna hire you?” Zeke has worked as a parking-lot shopping-cart collector the past three summers at Kmart.
Muscle work,
he thinks.
Great training.

“I'll find a job,” Randy says. “What do you care?”

“They made me work as soon as I turned fifteen,” Zeke says. “No way you're sitting on your fat ass for another summer.”

“I
said
I'd get a job.”

“Men
work,”
Zeke says, imitating their father's stern, no-nonsense cadence.

Randy gives a snorty laugh. Then his face becomes expressionless and he squints, slowly raising his hand and pointing toward his eye. “Game face,” he says.

Zeke laughs. “He gave you that shit, too?”

“It's our best weapon.”

Zeke looks down and shakes his head slowly. “There's something to all that, you know.”

“Yeah. Something. But you can't just will yourself to overpower somebody who's smarter than you are.”

“You can cut down the odds a little,” Zeke says. “I just beat
the hell out of the top seed. Part of that was because I intimidated her.”

“Maybe you outsmarted her.”

Zeke blows some air out the side of his mouth in a puffy sound. “I think she choked.”

“It happens.”

“She's probably crying her eyes out. Can't believe she lost to some peasant from Sturbridge.”

“Bet Malone isn't feeling too good either.”

“Anyway,” Zeke says, “you can't overpower everybody. Dad thinks you have to be ruthless about
everything.
He doesn't even see what it costs him.”

“Like what?”

Zeke's eyes get wider. “Respect. I mean, nobody really says anything, but you can tell people think he's an asshole. Like back when he was coaching us when we were little? He'd always rather win than have fun. The other parents saw right through that. Except the few who were even bigger jerks than he is.”

Zeke picks up a McNugget and turns it around, frowning at it. “Nobody cares if a six-year-old wins a T-ball game.”

Randy just nods.

“Then when it matters—like in high school sports or this tournament—it's the same thing as far as he's concerned. Always about adding some notch in the belt.”

Randy looks stunned. “You're actually admitting that?”

Zeke thinks for a second. He's never been open with Randy about their father. He's figured that since he's been the beneficiary of the man's lack of objectivity, why worry about how he treats Randy?

“So what else does it cost him?” Randy asks.

Zeke turns away. The homeless guy is looking at them. “You want these?” Zeke asks him, pointing to the three Mc-Nuggets he hasn't eaten.

“All right,” the guy says.

Zeke wraps them in a napkin and walks over.

“Thank you,” the man says.

“No problem.”

Zeke sits back down and lets out his breath. “Mom's pretty much had it with him,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You think he drives
us
crazy? You listen to him lately? He says she's wearing out the tires because she brakes too much going down hills. And he got diarrhea last week because she didn't wash the lettuce good enough. And
you
only got a B plus in Spanish last semester because she lets you watch too much TV.”

“He blamed that on her?”

“It's such bullshit,” Zeke says. “He constantly tells us we have to take total responsibility for our actions, but he never does. It's always somebody else's fault.”

“You do that, too, you know.”

“Like when?”

“All the time.”

“Everybody does.” Zeke tries not to smile but doesn't completely succeed. “Dad thinks he never gets to be vice president because his boss is a dick. So he keeps whining in the same shit job instead of working at some other bank.”

“When does he tell you these things?”

“He doesn't. But I hear him bitching to Mom all the time.”