Perpetual Check (4 page)

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.”

“I'll look at it after I eat.”

“You play some unseeded kid named Brian Burke. From Holy Cross. What do you know about him?”

“Everything you just told me.”

“What?”

“I never heard of him.”

“He's in the final sixteen and you never heard of him? I'll tell you what, I guarantee he knows all about
you.”

“So?”

“So you need to prepare yourself, Randy.” Mr. Mansfield picks up his coffee cup and looks into it. He scans the restaurant, then sets the cup down and puts the crust of toast into his mouth, chewing as he talks. “Anyway, after you beat him, you get—hold on.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a napkin. “I wrote it down. Either Lucy Ahada from Dunmore— she's seeded right ahead of you in fourth—or Ethan Rosenfeld from Midvale. You know them?”

“Lucy beat me in a dual match a few weeks ago, but I figured her out. I can probably win. The guy from Midvale won't beat her. Not a chance.”

“What's her game like? This Lucy Ahada?”

“Deliberate. Patient. She loves her knights.”

“Why'd she beat you?”

“Because she's good.”

“Was it close?”

“Very.”

Mr. Mansfield stares at Randy, not blinking, narrowing his eyes and looking cold.

Randy glances away. When he looks back, his dad is still staring.

“What?” Randy asks.

Mr. Mansfield raises a finger and points to his right eye.

“What?” Randy says again, losing patience.

Mr. Mansfield gives a smirky half smile. “That's called intimidation,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It's our best weapon, pal.” He drops his voice and leans forward again. “Especially against a girl. You're
all
business out there, you hear me? Put on the game face and she'll fold up.”

Randy bites down on his lip to keep from laughing. The waitress delivers his food, and Mr. Mansfield asks her for a fresh cup of coffee.

Randy's nearly done with his meal when Zeke finally arrives. He's wearing an unbuttoned long-sleeved white shirt over a fresh T-shirt. Also Randy's sandals and no socks.

“Success?” Randy asks.

Zeke looks away from Randy but says, “Yep.”

“You check the brackets?” Mr. Mansfield asks.

“Not yet,” Zeke says.

“You've got the eighth seed. Some kid from Hazleton. Phan something. Donald. Or Dennis.”

“Derek Pham.”

“Okay, so you know him. See, Randy? He's up on this stuff. He knows who's who.”

“Whom's whom.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Very impressive.’” Randy shoves a large chunk of ham into his mouth, grabs his second piece of toast, and stands. “I'm going to my room to get cleaned up.”

“Be down here
no later
than eight-thirty-five.”

Randy salutes and walks away. When he turns back, Mr. Mansfield and Zeke are trying to stare each other down, working on Zeke's intimidation face.

It's been more than two months since that play-off game, but Zeke can bring back every feeling, every emotion, within seconds. Almost inconceivably, they were outplaying the top-ranked team in the area, dominating the game even though neither side had scored yet.

Zeke had the ball, well past midfield, with an open sideline before him and a couple of teammates running parallel. The angle was just right; he feinted once, then streaked past an Abington defender and sprinted into the clear. In a few more strides, he'd loft that ball toward the front of the goal.

He can still feel his foot meeting the ball, sending a perfect pass toward Greg Foley, a can't-miss opportunity to
score. Zeke felt a surge of adrenaline; he'd placed the ball just right.

Somehow Greg fell down. A dry field, a wide-open space by the goal, but Greg was eating turf. The goalie booted the ball long and hard, and suddenly it was Abington with the numbers, with an onslaught of players near the Sturbridge goal as Zeke and Greg and the other forwards raced frantically back.

Players went down, the ball flew off the field, and a red card went up. The penalty shot rippled the net. Zeke punched at the air and cursed.

By halftime it was 3–0.

He remembers walking off the field, right past his father, who was already complaining to the officials. “You were the best one out there,” Mr. Mansfield said, catching up.

Zeke scowled, but he nodded.
Whatever you say, Dad,
he thought. But even then, he knew it wasn't true.

Randy had come down from the bleachers and was walking cautiously toward his brother. Zeke looked up. “Don't say one frickin’ word,” he said sharply. He jabbed a finger in Randy's direction. “At least I was out there. At least I had the balls to try.”

It's 8:21 when Randy enters his room. He clicks on the TV and finds a fishing show on ESPN. The TVs in the players’ rooms are blocked from tuning in the pay-per-view movies. Randy tried last night anyway.

He takes one each of a black rook, bishop, pawn, knight, and the king and places them in predetermined positions on
his chessboard, then does the same with a white bishop, rook, two pawns, and the king.

He stares at the board for several seconds, then shifts the black rook three spaces forward. He smiles slightly and tips the white king onto its side.

Last night was the first in his life that he ever spent alone, at least until Zeke showed up. He watched a college basketball game on TV, took a hot thirty-six-minute shower, and read the room-service menu and the description of the hotel's amenities.

Randy has his own bedroom at home, but there's never been a night when at least one of his parents wasn't under the same roof. Lately he's started to wonder when the time will come that his parents are always under different roofs.

He enters the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and picks up the small containers of shampoo, conditioner, and skin cream and drops them into his gym bag.

He looks at himself in the mirror above the sink. His short, straight brown hair is parted on one side, and his ears stick out slightly. He turns on the hot-water faucet and dampens his fingers, then runs them through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and having it fall a bit more symmetrically to each side.

He tucks in his T-shirt and grabs a long-sleeved brown corduroy shirt from his bag and puts it on, buttoning it up and nodding at himself in the mirror.

He checks the clock: 8:33. So he looks around the room, picks up the key from the dresser, and heads downstairs.

Pramod Eskederian and Buddy Malone are in the elevator. Malone is wearing a sleeveless black workout shirt, and his
right bicep is encircled by a tattoo that looks like a chain. He's won district swimming championships in the butterfly and backstroke, and he's already been accepted at MIT.

“Hey, little Mansfield,” Buddy says. They've never met in a match. Buddy defeated Zeke in the season opener back in November, when Zeke still had the first chair for Sturbridge.

“Your brother up yet?” asks Pramod, who's wearing a gray V-necked sweater that says HARVARD in small red letters.

“Yeah.”

“He's probably hungover. We got pretty wasted last night.”

“You did, huh?”

“Yeah. He didn't get back to his own room until four.”

Randy shrugs. “Heard you bepokered well.”

“What?”

“I heard you won some poker money.”

“A little,” Pramod says. “Maybe two hundred bucks. I didn't play very long. Met a few ladies and”—he breaks into a big grin—”showed them my best moves.”

The elevator doors open at the lobby. “Good luck, guys,” Randy says.

“As if we need it,” Pramod replies.

Randy stops and glances at the brackets.