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  CHAPTER NINE

  FRIENDS

  Raleigh Duplessis liked to be called by his first and last initials. Everyone thought he was saying Artie instead of RD and the name stuck. He was a round-faced kid, somewhere between fat and husky with pale skin and a small fountain of dark curly hair. Although Artie was not necessarily popular or part of the in-crowd, you wouldn’t know it by his attitude; wherever he was, he at least acted like that was the best place to be in the whole world. He was the quintessential happy kid, and Naz found it difficult not to be his friend, especially when they had had a bonding of sorts in their close encounter with the gang members on Saturday night. Naz felt he could do a lot worse than having Artie as a friend, especially since his failed attempt with Ham, so he went with it.

  Naz walked over to the three boys playing Uno.

  “What’s up, Naz?” Artie enthusiastically pointed to the unoccupied desk in front of him.

  The three boys had pushed four desks together in the shape of a cross with Artie facing the unoccupied desk and the other two boys facing each other. Artie had been filling the boys in on what had happened Saturday at the festival with the Chess Master, embellishing on the tale a little more each time he told it. A regular deck of playing cards on the empty desk caught Naz’s attention. Then it struck him the boys were actually waiting on him to arrive, and the empty desk was for him. Uh oh, am I making more friends now?

  “Kaseltree, right?” Naz asked looking at one of the boys. It was one of the only names he could remember Fears saying in class often.

  “Yup, Milton Kaseltree, but you can call me Stilt, though … Milt the Stilt. Coach named me that on account of my height after Wilt Chamberlain, but not ’cause I get the girls, though—do you know who Wilt Chamberlain was?”

  Naz opened his mouth to answer, but before anything could come out, the boy continued.

  “I’m six-four—well I was six-four when school started. I might be six-five now—the doctor told my mom I’m gonna be seven feet tall before it’s all over—I’m on the basketball team—I don’t like it much, but my mom says it’s the only way I’ll be able to go to college. I do like hangin’ out with the guys on the team, though.” He smiled at Naz. “Coach also calls me ‘The Project’ because I have two left feet—that’s what he says, but he worked with me all summer—and I didn’t play much last year, but this year he says I might be a starter. I figure if I—”

  “Do you mind?” asked Naz looking at Artie, eyes wide open, stunned by Milton’s verbal barrage, and pointing at the deck of playing cards on the desk. He didn’t dare ask the other boy his name.

  “Go ahead,” said Artie. “We were waiting on you anyway so we could play Spades. You’re my partner.”

  Naz put his math book underneath the desk, picked up the deck of cards, then turned the desk around and sat on it.

  “Oh, no … I can’t play; I don’t know how,” said Naz. “My mother wasn’t havin’ it. She used to say that a deck of cards was the devil’s bible.” Naz couldn’t believe he was actually having a conversation with the three boys. Having Artie as a friend was one thing, but these two other boys were quite a different story. He had managed to keep to himself this first semester at Lincoln and he wanted to keep it that way.

  “That’s rough,” said Milton. “So what games would she let you play?”

  “Hmmm,” said Naz, watching the boys play. He thought back as he played with the deck of cards in one hand. “Scrabble … and Monopoly.”

  “Oh my God,” said Milton. “No pun intended … not Scrabble, a game where spelling out devil gets you nine points and spelling out God gets you only five … how blasphemous.”

  Naz found Milton’s satire and sarcasm amusing and laughed along with the three boys.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” the other boy added. “And Monopoly is such a wholesome Godly pursuit, teaching Judeo-Christian and American values of Republicanism through capitalism and competition, property speculation and debt collection … nada. Can you say the Exclave?”

  The four of them erupted in laughter again as Naz thought this a refreshing take on the dogma of religion and politics he had come to know so well in the past three years.

  “Are you sure you don’t know how to play?” Artie looked at the deck of cards in Naz’s hand.

  The other two boys turned to see Naz cutting the deck of cards repeatedly with one hand without looking.

  “Positive,” Naz replied, just now looking down at his hand.

  “Well how come you know how to do that?” asked Milton.

  As if in a trance and disconnected from his own hand, Naz watched in amazement with the other boys as he now spun the cards around.

  “Now watch this,” said Naz.

  He held the deck upright steady in one hand and, just like a magician, made one card in the center of the deck rise by itself, using his other hand to coax it up all the way without touching it.

  “How’d you do that?” asked a stunned Artie.

  “Don’t know,” replied Naz, baffled himself.

  “Mr. Andersen,” bellowed Fears, motioning Naz to come to his desk.

  Naz put the deck of cards back on the table and walked away, giving the three boys a look of bewilderment. They in turn looked at each other in disbelief.

  “That’s my best friend,” said Artie matter-of-factly. “Did I tell you we went to the festival together Saturday, played the Chess Master … almost beat ’im, too.”

  “Yes … you did,” said Milton, his lips pursed, shaking his head and looking at the other boy.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CONFRONTATION

  “You comin’ today?” Fears asked Naz.

  “Today?”

  Fears pointed to the bulletin board in back of him with his thumb. Naz looked at the board, confused. It was a big poster with a picture of a basketball in the middle of it, the word tryouts in bold letters underneath the ball, and the word basketball above it. This must be the reason for the festive-like atmosphere in class today, Naz thought, and he had no idea why, but Fears wanted him to come to basketball tryouts today after school. Like all of the other students, Naz didn’t want to upset or disappoint Fears by saying no, so he blurted out the first excuse that came to mind.

  “I might have chess practice … maybe,” said Naz precariously.

  “You sure?” asked Fears.

  “So it’s true,” said the boy sitting on Fears’ desk. “You’re supposed to be some kind of prodigy or somethin’?”

  “Don’t pay Mr. Bender here any mind, Mr. Andersen; he lacks home training … hence the nickname, ‘Animal,’” joked Fears.

  “I prefer Soul,” said the boy. “Well … is it true?”

  Soulomon Bender was one of Fears’ best basketball players. Fears referred to him as a man-child. Like Ham, Soul was already a year older than the other boys. But where Ham was short, barely five feet tall, Soul was one inch shy of six feet tall. He was a bronze specimen with slight facial hair, built like a grown man with muscles everywhere. He had a reputation for coming unglued in close games and didn’t make it through one complete game the previous season; he either fouled out, got kicked out, or was sat down by Fears for disciplinary reasons. He was the unofficial enforcer on the team, and this year he was determined to dunk the basketball for the first time.

  Ham chimed in. “Hardly, he lost to some homeless man playin’ checkers over the weekend.” He laughed.

  It was as close as Naz and Ham had come to talking to each other since that first day of school. Ham knew it was chess, not checkers, and he was trying to diminish what Naz had done over the weekend. Even worse, Ham was trying to goad Naz into a confrontation. Naz decided not to take the bait. He didn’t even acknowledge Ham’s presence. Instead, he chose to answer Soul’s question.

  “Not exactly,” said Naz pleasantly.

  Fear’s cut in as if to ease the tension. “So how ‘bout it, Mr. Andersen. We could use some more height this season.” He looked at Naz from head to toe. “H
ow tall are you … five eight … five nine?”

  “Something like that,” replied Naz, not having any idea how tall he was.

  “Mr. Young and Mr. Bender here are our only returning starters from last year, and we could use the help.”

  Naz was thinking of another excuse when Ham started in again.

  “Coach, I woulda started last year, if I’da got my grades,” said Ham confidently. As a seventh-grader the year before, he was academically ineligible to play on the basketball team.

  “All I wanna know is, if you’re gonna get your grades this year, son. You got a lot of catchin’ up to do.”

  “Don’t worry; I got it, Coach.”

  “I’m not worried, Mr. Martinez. I think we’re gonna be fine with or without you.” Then Fears turned to Naz again. “Look at it this way, Mr. Andersen, you’ll have time for chess club. It runs the whole school year. Basketball season only lasts three months.”

  Naz decided to cut to the chase. “Mr. Fears—”

  “Coach,” said Fears.

  “Coach, I wouldn’t be able to help your team; I don’t know how to play basketball.”

  That didn’t seem to deter Fears. “You’d be surprised, Mr. Andersen.”

  “He’s right, Coach,” said Ham.

  “Here you go again,” said Soul to Ham.

  “He can’t play,” continued Ham. “I hung out with him all summer, and he never even touched the ball … not once.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Naz could see Harvis shaking his head as he continued to write away in his composition book.

  Then to pour salt in the wound, Ham added, “Plus, he ain’t got no heart, Coach.”

  Self-preservation took over. Naz needed to defend himself or lose credibility in the eyes of Fears and the other boys. He fired back immediately. “He’s right, Coach, I don’t have no heart. After school I’m goin’ to see Oz the Great and Powerful about that. Would you like me to pick up a brain for the Scarecrow here as well?” Naz shot Ham the most piercing stare he could muster.

  Soul cursed, pointed at Ham, and laughed. Fears play-coughed loudly and Harvis stopped writing and nodded. It was the most animated Naz had ever seen Harvis.

  “You got courage in here while coach is around, Sam-I-Don’t-Remember-Who-I-Am, let’s see what happens when we get outside,” Ham shot back angrily.

  “My guys, my guys … nothin’s gonna happen in here … or outside,” assured Fears with a laugh. “We’re a team … family. If you’re gonna dish it out, you better be able to take it, Mr. Martinez.” Fears looked at Ham. “And you watch your mouth, son,” he boomed as an afterthought to Soul.

  “Sorry, Coach,” said Soul.

  “Mr. Andersen, why don’t you regale us with your version of what happened over the weekend,” said Fears.

  Before Naz could say a word, he was called to the office on the intercom. The sound of his name blasting through the classroom made him cringe and get hot all over. There were a few stares and whispers about his name, but not like the first days of school. Naz hated his given name. He thought it called too much attention to himself, something he also wasn’t fond of, so like Ham, Artie, and Soul, he had given himself the nickname, Naz. As he was leaving the classroom, Fears told him he would see him after school, and Naz gave a half-nod and shrug.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PAULING

  In the hallway, Naz felt he had been saved by the bell. What did Fears mean by, “you’d be surprised?” Actually, I wouldn’t be … but how would Fears know that? Naz had only discovered he could play chess two years ago when his mother had taken him to the festival and he had wandered over to the chess tables. He played his first game ever against the Chess Master, a game he never got a chance to finish as she had pulled him away. He tried again Saturday and came up short, but just short in his opinion and experienced his first loss ever in a game he couldn’t remember learning how to play.

  And what now? He had never been called to the office before, in any school—the benefits of flying below the radar, staying invisible. But with his performance Saturday against the Chess Master, he was coming into view.

  As soon as he walked into the office, the secretary directed Naz behind the counter into the principal’s office. The principal? I didn’t do anything to end up in the principal’s office. This is bad. Inside, a man sat with his back to Naz in a plush leather chair looking out of the window. The nameplate on the desk read:

  Principal A. Pauling

  Next to the nameplate was a familiar hat.

  “Close the door … Naz. That is what they call you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Naz said cautiously as he closed the door. Somehow, Naz could see the face of the man before he ever spun around in his chair. But when the man did turn around, the sight was no less unsettling. Naz stood in stunned silence. It was the mysterious man with the hat Naz could’ve sworn was following him, the man from that morning on the first day of school, the man who had watched him play chess from afar at the festival Saturday.

  “I’ve been hearing good things about you, young man,” said Pauling. “I heard you put on quite a show at the festival Saturday.”

  Heard? You were there. Does he not realize that I saw him? Until the festival, Naz thought the man snooping around that first day of school was from social services, trying to make a case against Miss Tracey for something or other, which meant he and Meri would be moving again soon. At the festival he thought his eyes might have been playing tricks on him. Now he didn’t know what to think.

  “Yes, sir,” Naz answered.

  “This … is my first year here as principal at Lincoln, and I have the highest expectations for all my students. What you did this past weekend is just the sort of thing I expect … greatness. Chess … it’s a civilized, intellectual pursuit … warfare on the grid without the need for primitive weapons like guns or … knives. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked with a suspicious tone.

  Naz nodded, not sure what to say or what exactly he was agreeing to.

  “Many people don’t know this, but I was something of a master myself … in my younger years …” Pauling continued, staring off into space as if reminiscing. “Before I decided the pursuit of directing and molding young minds was—shall we say—a nobler profession. One of my teachers assures me that we are certain to win the state chess championship this year … with your help of course.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pauling’s words became an audible blur to Naz, as he was no longer listening. Maybe I should tell him I saw him all those times … ask him what he was doing there—but then he would likely deny it, which would make him an outright liar and matters would be worse. If he doesn’t know I saw him, he’ll think he’s gotten away with it and continue doing whatever it is he’s doing, which will give me an opportunity to find out what’s going on, if anything at all. It comes down to less information for him and more for me. Naz continued looking Pauling directly in his eyes, giving him the impression he was actually listening to him go on about what he expected of Naz at Lincoln.

  Pauling stood up. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you, young man.” He reached across his desk to shake Naz’s hand.

  You already have been. Naz quickly stepped up to Pauling’s desk and shook his hand firmly.

  “Do you have any other unique talents … or abilities?” Pauling asked shadily.

  “No, sir … not really.”

  “Well, keep up the good work.”

  “Yes, sir, I will … and thank you.” Thank you?

  Naz was always taught to say thank you, but this time it really didn’t feel right or make sense. He was also taught to shake another man’s hand firmly and that you could tell something about a man by his handshake. He didn’t know about that, but as he left Pauling’s office, he made mental note of how cold, clammy, and weak Pauling’s handshake was, and it added to the distrust Naz already felt for him. He wasn’t real, not in the sense of not existing, but he was a fake, a phony. His thin blonde
hair that barely covered his head didn’t even seem real, and his skin, Naz remembered as being pale, now seemed darker than it should be—reddish.

  On the way back to class, Naz was in deep thought. This is getting a little strange. First, Fears saying I’d be surprised about knowing how to play basketball, and now the stalker-principal asking me did I have any other talents or abilities. What next? Fears was harmless enough, but the paranoid part of him believed Pauling was hiding something. The office secretary’s blaring voice on the intercom startled Naz back to reality.

  Chess club was canceled. Great. There goes my excuse for not going to basketball tryouts. Now what? Moments later, dismissal bell rang and the hallways flooded with students.

  Naz decided not to go back to Fears’ room. On to the Market Merchants. He had left his math book, but he decided he would get it the next day. He figured by then he could come up with another excuse for missing tryouts.

  As Naz made his way to one of the exits, he noticed something different about dismissal. Usually there was a steady flow of students moving in both directions. Today, most of the students were heading in the same direction. He wondered why, but it didn’t matter. He was never one to follow the crowd anyway, so he continued in the direction he was going—against the flow of bustling students. That’s when he caught a glimpse.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DÉJÀ VU

  It’s her, his mind yelled as his heart fluttered. Just out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of her going in the direction of the rest of the students. He had only seen her once before, on that first day of school in the empty hallway. He had been excused from Fears’ class to change the dressing on the neck wound he had received in the knife fight earlier that day. She had appeared from nowhere at the water fountain and when she saw him, she took him by the hand and led him to the girls’ bathroom, where she made him her lookout while she went inside to pee. Then she disappeared as quickly as she had appeared—that dark, bushy ponytail, those nerdy glasses from the side, unmistakably her.