concrete stairs, one of those staircases on the outside of abuilding that led down into a cellar. It was a building on the far side of campus that was used for storage—desks, file cabinets, computers—with a workshop in the basement where the janitorial staff made repairs. What had she been doing there, far from any place she would need to be? She’d have had to walk a long winding path through the woods, away from the main campus buildings. We all knew she wouldn’t have done that without a reason.
She’d broken her neck in the fall. It was unclear how long she’d lived while she lay there, how much she had suffered. The incident was suspicious, but there was no physical evidence to link anyone else to the scene. We were all shattered in ways big and small, and a pall was cast over the rest of our year. It was a small college, and Elizabeth was missed. And we were all afraid. Had it been an accident or foul play? No one was ever sure.
I could see it all on Ainsley’s face; she’d taken it hard. And last year, we’d started calling her “Captain Safety.” She was always reminding us to not walk home alone, to call if we were going to be very late or spend the night away from the room. And last year, we’d been good about it. But memories fade, and that fear we all felt grew dull and distant. We all wanted to believe that we were safe, and so we let ourselves feel that way again.
“I thought we weren’t going to let each other walk home alone,” she said. She wasn’t one to be sullen or accusatory. She just sounded disappointed in me.
“I know,” I said. “But . . .”
I didn’t want to tell her that Beck and I had had a fight. I just didn’t want to get into it with her. “I wasn’t feeling well,” I said instead. “And she wanted to stay and study.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She reached out a hand and put it to my forehead. Beck and I were selfish and lazy. Ainsley was the nurturer,the mother among us. We counted on that from her, took her for granted at times. But we loved her for it, too. “You feel warm.”
But it was just that her hands were icy cold. “I don’t know,” I said. “I was just feeling super tired.”
Ainsley nodded slowly and looked back toward the door, as if she expected Beck to come charging through. Beck always entered the room like a gladiator, swinging the door open and tossing her bag to the floor, announcing that she was Exhausted! or Starving! or Pissed off ! about whatever.
“She’ll be home by breakfast at the latest, I’m sure. Get some rest,” I told Ainsley. And she nodded uncertainly, shuffled off to her bedroom.
But the next morning when I left for class, I peeked into Beck’s room and her bed hadn’t been slept in. I felt a rush of guilt and regret, but I quickly quashed it. Beck had picked a fight, and I was only guilty of rising to the bait.
Over our afternoon chess game, I caught Luke staring at me. When I looked up at him, he didn’t avert his eyes.
“You’re getting better,” he said.
I was getting better—because I’d been studying chess on the Internet. The kid was destroying me day after day. And even though I bore it with a smile, it was grating on me—and not a little. He was eleven. But he was confident, crafty, always five moves ahead. He was aggressive, backed me into corners. Even when I came armed with strategies, he seemed to know what I was going to do before I did it, made the most stunning evasive maneuvers. I mean, he wasn’t just beating me. Game after game, I never even had a chance.
I’d been studying chess blogs, playing online. I’d even downloadeda book called Practical Chess Exercises. I still couldn’t beat him, but I’d seen him pause a few times and look up at me. It was pathetic, I know. But the urge to compete with him and win was a fire in my belly. Beck’s voice rang in my ears: Grow up .
“Do you like other games?” Luke asked. The corners of his mouth turned up in a grin that
She’d broken her neck in the fall. It was unclear how long she’d lived while she lay there, how much she had suffered. The incident was suspicious, but there was no physical evidence to link anyone else to the scene. We were all shattered in ways big and small, and a pall was cast over the rest of our year. It was a small college, and Elizabeth was missed. And we were all afraid. Had it been an accident or foul play? No one was ever sure.
I could see it all on Ainsley’s face; she’d taken it hard. And last year, we’d started calling her “Captain Safety.” She was always reminding us to not walk home alone, to call if we were going to be very late or spend the night away from the room. And last year, we’d been good about it. But memories fade, and that fear we all felt grew dull and distant. We all wanted to believe that we were safe, and so we let ourselves feel that way again.
“I thought we weren’t going to let each other walk home alone,” she said. She wasn’t one to be sullen or accusatory. She just sounded disappointed in me.
“I know,” I said. “But . . .”
I didn’t want to tell her that Beck and I had had a fight. I just didn’t want to get into it with her. “I wasn’t feeling well,” I said instead. “And she wanted to stay and study.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She reached out a hand and put it to my forehead. Beck and I were selfish and lazy. Ainsley was the nurturer,the mother among us. We counted on that from her, took her for granted at times. But we loved her for it, too. “You feel warm.”
But it was just that her hands were icy cold. “I don’t know,” I said. “I was just feeling super tired.”
Ainsley nodded slowly and looked back toward the door, as if she expected Beck to come charging through. Beck always entered the room like a gladiator, swinging the door open and tossing her bag to the floor, announcing that she was Exhausted! or Starving! or Pissed off ! about whatever.
“She’ll be home by breakfast at the latest, I’m sure. Get some rest,” I told Ainsley. And she nodded uncertainly, shuffled off to her bedroom.
But the next morning when I left for class, I peeked into Beck’s room and her bed hadn’t been slept in. I felt a rush of guilt and regret, but I quickly quashed it. Beck had picked a fight, and I was only guilty of rising to the bait.
Over our afternoon chess game, I caught Luke staring at me. When I looked up at him, he didn’t avert his eyes.
“You’re getting better,” he said.
I was getting better—because I’d been studying chess on the Internet. The kid was destroying me day after day. And even though I bore it with a smile, it was grating on me—and not a little. He was eleven. But he was confident, crafty, always five moves ahead. He was aggressive, backed me into corners. Even when I came armed with strategies, he seemed to know what I was going to do before I did it, made the most stunning evasive maneuvers. I mean, he wasn’t just beating me. Game after game, I never even had a chance.
I’d been studying chess blogs, playing online. I’d even downloadeda book called Practical Chess Exercises. I still couldn’t beat him, but I’d seen him pause a few times and look up at me. It was pathetic, I know. But the urge to compete with him and win was a fire in my belly. Beck’s voice rang in my ears: Grow up .
“Do you like other games?” Luke asked. The corners of his mouth turned up in a grin that
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