Highly Illogical Behavior(23)

“Mine was Gator,” she said.

“Wait . . . Gator Praytor?”

“Yep,” she said, lowering her head in fake shame. “He was a zoologist. I’m not even kidding.”

“What was his real name though?”

“Dick,” she said.

“Well, see, that’s just a man who made good choices.”

“Okay, okay. Are you ready to be annihilated at chess?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “Who goes first?”

“Oh, Sol. You’re not off to a great start.”

“Shit,” he said. “White first. I remember.”

“You know, you’ve got quite the mouth for someone who’s never been to high school.”

“Don’t let my folks fool you. When no one’s around, they talk like sailors.”

“My mom made me wash my mouth out with soap last year,” she said. “I called my stepdad a son-of-a-bitch. Funny thing is, she was only mad about the cursing.”

“I don’t do it much around them,” he said.

“That’s just your form of rebellion. If they were criminals, you’d probably grow up to be a cop. The world is a mysterious place.”

“Or maybe you just bring out my bad side,” he said, moving his first pawn two spaces.

“I doubt that,” she said, moving one of her knights.

She didn’t care who won the game, really. She was trying something she’d read about online that morning. Game therapy. It was supposed to relax and distract a patient enough to help them open up more about personal or painful things. Now that Solomon had shown so much progress so quickly, she wanted to see how far she could push him without him realizing he was being pushed.

Lisa won the first game, trapping Solomon’s king with a pawn and a rook. Then, without a word, she watched as he reset all the pieces on the game board and carefully turned it around so the white pieces were facing her.

“I’m better with black,” he said.

Halfway through the game, it looked like Solomon might actually win. He was so focused on the board that he hadn’t looked up in fifteen minutes. Maybe it was working, she thought. Maybe now was as good a time as ever for her to play therapist.

“So, aside from losing this game, what’s your biggest fear?”

“Being buried alive,” he answered with little pause.

“That’s reasonable.”

“Yours?”

“Tornados. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never even been close to one.”

“They’re giant wind vortexes that destroy whole towns,” he said. “Respect.”

“And, I don’t know . . . I guess being stuck in Upland forever, too.”

“And that is where we differ,” he said, moving a pawn. “Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere,” she said. “Somewhere bigger. A big city. The suburbs bore the hell out of me.”

“But they’re full of old people and little kids and crazy guys like me,” he said. “What’s not to love?”

“Do you do that a lot?” she asked. “Call yourself crazy?”

“Only when it’s funny or gets me out of chores.”

“So, your biggest fear is being buried alive. Okay. What about something that could actually happen to you?”

“Like being asked repeatedly what my biggest fears are when I’m trying to beat you at chess?”

“Sorry,” she said. “The mystery will have to stay a mystery I guess.”

He looked up from the board and right into her eyes, like he was asking her what she thought she was doing without saying anything. She answered by looking down and capturing one of his bishops with her queen.

When the game was over, Lisa followed him back to his bedroom, where he dug through some boxes in his closet before finally pulling out a small stack of comic books.

“Here,” he said. “Give these to Clark. I’ve read them a hundred times.”

“For real?” she said, flipping through the one on top. “Thanks.”

“No worries. My one stipulation is that he can’t hide them. They must be displayed proudly in his home for all to see. It’s the only way.”

“I’ll relay the message,” she said. “Who knows, maybe you two can meet someday.”

“Maybe,” he said. “If you think he’d want to.”

“You kidding? It’s all he talks about. I think he’s jealous.”

“Jealous of the crazy gay kid. That doesn’t sound right.”

“Hey, Sol,” she said, her tone getting serious for a second. “Those are two things about you out of a million. Don’t box yourself in.”

“Too late for that,” he said, looking all around the room with an unconvincing smirk. “Much too late.”





THIRTEEN


    SOLOMON REED


Solomon’s grandma always brought a gift. Always. She’d come over every other week or so and, without a word, hand Solomon a nicely wrapped box or a gift bag overflowing with tissue paper. Then she’d look on with big, excited eyes while he unwrapped it, always snapping a photo with her phone. He liked to imagine a big wall in her house that was covered with hundreds of these nearly identical pictures of him holding video games or DVDs and being forced to smile.