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Authors: Francine Pascal
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didn’t help that just a few days before he’d appeared
uninvited
in her romantic fantasy and
kissed
her, for God’s sake. “Do you want to play?” he asked, just like that.
He wanted to play her! What! Didn’t he know that it was illegal in a cosmic sense for a guy who looked like him even to get near a board? The gods of social stratification would zap him but good.
Fine. If he insisted on turning the world upside down, what could she do? She’d play him. She’d point out to him which pieces moved which way as though she’d only recently learned herself, and then she’d hustle
as much money out of him as possible. She could probably get two or three fast games out of him before the rain began to fall.
“Hello?” He scrunched down a little in his chair to try to gain eye contact.
“What?” she blurted out irritably.
“Do you want to play?”
She was so flustered, she couldn’t pluck one arrow from her quiver of hustling tricks. “Fine.”
“Don’t feel like you have to.”
Oh, wasn’t he just honorable.
“No, it’s fine. I only just started playing myself.” God, she sounded wooden. Her acting really needed some work.
“Okay. You start, right?”
“No, I mean, I think. Well, we usually—” Dammit. She took a black pawn and a white one and mixed them up behind her back. She enclosed each in a fist and stuck them out toward him. “You pick.”
He pointed to her left hand, and she produced a white pawn.
“You go first,” she said.
He looked tentative. “It’s kind of a custom to play for money here, isn’t it?”
Custom?
Yes, it is, 0 Great Doctor of Losers.
“Usually,” was what she said.
“How much?”
“I dunno. Twenty?”
He blew out his breath. “Wow. Okay.”
“Okay.”
What was it about him that bothered her so? That he was the kind of guy who’d never look twice at a girl like her? Okay, well, there was that.
She couldn’t find major fault with his wardrobe. It wasn’t like he was wearing a Rolex or anything.
She didn’t hate him just because he looked like … that. Even she wasn’t quite that shallow or rabidly judgmental.
What was it, then?
He was so … confident. That was the big problem. Here, in her place, where he had no right to be, he was so goddamned sure of himself. He probably had no sense of humor, least of all about himself.
She couldn’t wait to kick his ass.
The Fire Hose Test
SAM MOON WASN’T SURE WHAT TO make of this girl. He’d sat down at her board because she was new, and that always represented an opportunity.
Well, okay. That wasn’t the only reason. Another reason
was that in spite of her somewhat disastrous personal hygiene, she was pretty. A pretty girl at a chessboard wasn’t your everyday sight. He hadn’t even realized just how pretty until he was within a couple of feet and had a chance to really look.
Some friends of his from high school used to rate a girl’s attractiveness by what was known as the fire hose test. If the girl’s looks were all about makeup and hair and clothes, she’d look like crap if you shot a fire hose directly in her face from point-blank range. A genuinely pretty girl would still look good. Now, this girl here looked as though a hose actually had blasted her, so there was no leap of imagination necessary to know that she passed the test. Passed it with an A, he decided as she bit her lip and tapped impatiently on the queen’s pawn.
“Okay, here goes,” he said, thumping to E4.
She predictably took E5.
Pretty as she was, though, she was annoying. She obviously thought she knew what she was doing—under her truly flimsy pretense that she didn’t. Maybe she’d won some high school tournament or something. Whoop-de-do. She had no business taking over a table here.
And why was she glaring at him like that? What had he done to piss her off?
H e ‘ d give her hope for a few
minutes and then shut her down. He could really use the twenty bucks.
He flinched a little as a clap
uninvited
in her romantic fantasy and
kissed
her, for God’s sake. “Do you want to play?” he asked, just like that.
He wanted to play her! What! Didn’t he know that it was illegal in a cosmic sense for a guy who looked like him even to get near a board? The gods of social stratification would zap him but good.
Fine. If he insisted on turning the world upside down, what could she do? She’d play him. She’d point out to him which pieces moved which way as though she’d only recently learned herself, and then she’d hustle
as much money out of him as possible. She could probably get two or three fast games out of him before the rain began to fall.
“Hello?” He scrunched down a little in his chair to try to gain eye contact.
“What?” she blurted out irritably.
“Do you want to play?”
She was so flustered, she couldn’t pluck one arrow from her quiver of hustling tricks. “Fine.”
“Don’t feel like you have to.”
Oh, wasn’t he just honorable.
“No, it’s fine. I only just started playing myself.” God, she sounded wooden. Her acting really needed some work.
“Okay. You start, right?”
“No, I mean, I think. Well, we usually—” Dammit. She took a black pawn and a white one and mixed them up behind her back. She enclosed each in a fist and stuck them out toward him. “You pick.”
He pointed to her left hand, and she produced a white pawn.
“You go first,” she said.
He looked tentative. “It’s kind of a custom to play for money here, isn’t it?”
Custom?
Yes, it is, 0 Great Doctor of Losers.
“Usually,” was what she said.
“How much?”
“I dunno. Twenty?”
He blew out his breath. “Wow. Okay.”
“Okay.”
What was it about him that bothered her so? That he was the kind of guy who’d never look twice at a girl like her? Okay, well, there was that.
She couldn’t find major fault with his wardrobe. It wasn’t like he was wearing a Rolex or anything.
She didn’t hate him just because he looked like … that. Even she wasn’t quite that shallow or rabidly judgmental.
What was it, then?
He was so … confident. That was the big problem. Here, in her place, where he had no right to be, he was so goddamned sure of himself. He probably had no sense of humor, least of all about himself.
She couldn’t wait to kick his ass.
The Fire Hose Test
SAM MOON WASN’T SURE WHAT TO make of this girl. He’d sat down at her board because she was new, and that always represented an opportunity.
Well, okay. That wasn’t the only reason. Another reason
was that in spite of her somewhat disastrous personal hygiene, she was pretty. A pretty girl at a chessboard wasn’t your everyday sight. He hadn’t even realized just how pretty until he was within a couple of feet and had a chance to really look.
Some friends of his from high school used to rate a girl’s attractiveness by what was known as the fire hose test. If the girl’s looks were all about makeup and hair and clothes, she’d look like crap if you shot a fire hose directly in her face from point-blank range. A genuinely pretty girl would still look good. Now, this girl here looked as though a hose actually had blasted her, so there was no leap of imagination necessary to know that she passed the test. Passed it with an A, he decided as she bit her lip and tapped impatiently on the queen’s pawn.
“Okay, here goes,” he said, thumping to E4.
She predictably took E5.
Pretty as she was, though, she was annoying. She obviously thought she knew what she was doing—under her truly flimsy pretense that she didn’t. Maybe she’d won some high school tournament or something. Whoop-de-do. She had no business taking over a table here.
And why was she glaring at him like that? What had he done to piss her off?
H e ‘ d give her hope for a few
minutes and then shut her down. He could really use the twenty bucks.
He flinched a little as a clap
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