In walked the hottest girl I’d ever seen. Not one of those girls who makes you turn your head to the side, as if you needed to get all of her in the picture; but one who really floored you – one of those girls who makes you feel like thanking God for being born male. I was in the usual A & P classroom, which also doubled as the practice hall for the school’s “prestigious” chess club. By “prestigious”, I mean it’s got a couple of trophies to its name, but—like all schools—it’s also the object of ridicule for most of the student body. I was sort of half-daydreaming and half-watching a chess match between a fat kid with glasses and a tall, lanky, mouth-breather when she strode in, so her entrance caught me off-guard. It caught Stokesie off guard, too: up until now, he had had his brain spread all over his calculus homework (who needs that stuff, anyway?). The room was a mess, an embarrassment for sure. Desks that were old in the 50’s, books cluttered in miserable piles, and a perpetual chalk dust made it almost unbearable. The walls, I swear, were painted with vomit.
She had an exotic tan, one of those phantom tans that could have been from a salon or from the Bahia de Matanchen, and only she knew the truth. Her hair was a gilded brown that the sun and the salt had bleached, stuck up in a makeshift bun that was unraveling. She was a senior, a cheerleader type, and I could remember someone telling me she was homecoming queen or something, and that she’d probably be prom queen too. She seemed like the kind of girl who had always wanted to be line leader in grade school, and whined whenever she wasn’t.
She started talking to Mr. Lengel, our coach. Yeah, I was in the club. Not because I wanted to be, but because my counselor said it would be “a good idea” (I didn’t argue with him). She was speaking quietly: I couldn’t hear over Lengel’s blabbering music box. It was one of those old-style phonographs that only played vinyl. The music was Caribbean Six or Tony Martin, or some shit, and he knew we hated it. Intrusive, it was – music and chess do not mix. Lengel nodded, and she smiled a pretty smile, gliding over to the mess of books. On her way over, she looked at me. She looked at me. Her eyes ensnared me. They were luminous, hypnotic, transcendental. Our moment was brief, and our link was quickly severed, as it wasn’t that far of a walk. I didn’t know what it meant, but I wanted to find out. She bent over, arching her back slightly, and her eyes scanned the rubble. I glanced down at the chessboard. The mouth-breather had a task force of pawns, and was slowly advancing.
I was the new kid. My chess “pals” called me "Rook" (I guess because they thought I was new to chess, although I’ve been playing for years). Lengel told me to watch a few matches; that it would help me learn the rules. He said the only truth in the game was that the strongest pieces always win. What did he know? The fat kid was out with his queen too early. He’d regret it. Some people should never play chess.
She was dangerous. She commanded the room, and she knew it. Any path was hers, and anyone caught in her path was her prey. Her eyes moved across the muddle and stopped, and she turned so slow it made my stomach churn. She stood up straight and rose slightly, on her toes. She must have felt in the corner of her eye me and Stokesie watching her, but she didn’t flinch. Not this queen. I don’t know where the courage came from, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off her: I was mesmerized. I felt like a mosquito trying to decide if he should fly into the bug zapper or hover back and admire it. Her arms lifted, she thumbed gracefully over the spines. Her legs were long and slender, and at that moment, I realized that her midnight blue skirt was rolled up higher than usual, and her legs were naked from the mid-thigh down (she was wearing shoes, of course). What gall! No girl would risk getting caught with a rolled up skirt, let alone in Lengel’s class. He was aging, but he didn’t miss much. Had he really missed this? A beauty like that looking so sweet in such a drab uniform (damn the private school system). There had to be an answer.
It was a Thursday afternoon. One of those hot afternoons that no humming electric fan could remedy; a real dry, sweltering heat. It felt like everything was standing still and everyone had been doing the same thing for hours with no intention of changing. Even the clock was dragging; it knew how to aggravate me. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. That music box was going to get it. The two contestants were in silent battle. The fat kid had castled his king, and he was sweating now, but not because of the heat: you don’t castle your king unless you’ve got a reason to. Queenie was rummaging through some boxes shamed with inactivity. Her body moved elegantly, as only women’s bodies do, and I found myself wishing for better tunes. Her smooth skin was glistening, and she was biting her lip. What a crime! She was absolutely perfect. Powerful, graceful - I could tell. She didn’t mess around, and I wanted her. Lengel was writing something.
Stokesie was back to work. He lost interest, I guess. The clock was still sneering at me, and the combatants were taking turns muttering to themselves, fighting for the middle squares. I couldn’t hear what they were muttering, but I imagined it was something like, ‘Can I move my...no, because then he’ll...wait, what about...no, that won’t work either...’ I didn’t know why they were muttering. I don’t mutter.
My queen stood up suddenly, in her hand a faded yearbook that looked like it had been fighting for years to stay together, but was ready to give up at any moment. Maybe she was on the yearbook staff. She pushed away a fallen lock of hair from her face, and examined her find with a sly concentration. She turned slowly, heading for the door, when her eyes found me once again. Now, this was a welcome coincidence. She smiled, like she knew everything (and she probably did). I smiled back, awkwardly, my own lips parted revealing a set of perfectly straight choppers, thanks to two years in braces – a part of my life I was more than happy to leave behind. It was strategic. It was en passant. It was magical. And that’s when everyone’s luck began to run out. The radio was walking a fine line. Stokesie was about to throw calculus out the window. That yearbook was hanging on by sheer fibers. The clock was running out of time. The fat kid had lost his queen. Lengel spoke up—
“By the way, roll your skirt down.”
Queenie blushed. I knew Lengel didn’t miss much. He never even stopped writing. It was instantaneous.
“Young ladies should have some decency”, he continued.
I knew he had just been sitting there waiting for the right time to make a comment like that, when it would do the most damage. He was the kind of man who prided himself as having an eye for detail, as if detail really mattered. That kind of thing would get you in trouble in the game. But I guess you could afford to think about so much detail sitting on a pedestal so high, you could see the whole board. He felt kingly there, correcting this and that from his perch, and no one could reach him. It was the highlight of his week, next to sharing a funnel cake with his wife at the mall.
“I am decent”, Queenie exclaimed quickly, remembering her place (something that does matter). She looked taller, now. Stronger. You could almost see the crown she bore.
“You know the policy”, the King fired back, still writing and writing and writing. That’s policy for you. Policy is what the kingpins want. What the others want is juvenile delinquency. Did I read that somewhere? She was embarrassed, and I was ashamed.
I tell you, I’ve never done anything like what I did next. I got up from my desk: it was slow-motion, like in the movies. Stepping past the sixty-four squares, I took one last look. The fat kid was a wreck: Mouth-breather had him on the run with his white knights. Check, check, check: he felt the pressure. It wouldn’t be long now. I scooped up my backpack and shouldered a strap. The clock was aghast. Stokesie didn’t notice. Lengel looked at me now. He was running too.
“I quit”, I said quickly. Queenie looked at me.
“What did you say?” Lengel’s throne was getting heavy, and he didn’t understand why.
“I said I quit.”
“I thought you did.” It’s a wonder he heard me at all, over that stupid old music box.
“You didn’t have to embarrass her.”
“You know the rules, son.” Yeah, I know the rules. Rules are for clocks.
‘Fiddle-de-doo’ was all I had to say, and Queenie was laughing.
“I don’t think you know what you’re saying.” Lengel was getting nervous now. We had him backed into a corner, for sure. I recalled hearing somewhere that he was claustrophobic.
“I know you don’t,” I said. “But I do.”
Lengel sighed and slumped in his chair. Checkmate. The fat kid and the mouth-breather shook hands. Checkmate. Stokesie smiled, and ceased his adding and subtracting and factoring and rounding. Checkmate. The clock was speechless. Tick, tick, tick.
I felt a wave of warmth wash over me, but I figured it was probably just the humidity. Feeling like a winner, I smiled a smile that only a victor can claim, and I got a kiss on the cheek for it. My queen and I turned slowly, carrying that old yearbook together, and we marched together out the door into the dull, locker-lined hallway, ready to start a revolution.
END
