Elliot Allagash (11 page)

“Right—
that’s
history. Not Douglas’s parade of namby-pamby socialist fairy tales! I refuse to devote even one second of mental effort to figuring out which myth he wants me to invoke! The melting pot? Susan B. Anthony? Sacagawea?
Sacagawea?
She was a servant girl!”

“What?”

“Listen to me.
If Douglas thinks—
”

“Elliot, can you tell me about all this tomorrow? I’m kind of tired.”

He kept on talking. Loud classical music was playing in the background and his voice was slightly slurred.

“It’s so obvious!” he shouted. “Mr. Douglas writes his major exams over the weekend, so there’s no way to steal it from his desk. But if some higher authority demanded to see the exam in advance, Douglas would have no choice but to submit it! I know what you’re thinking: Which authority, right?”

“Elliot…”

“A
fake
one! I have James impersonate the head of a scholastic awards organization. He writes Mr. Douglas a letter on gilded stationary, with a wax seal. ‘Dear Mr. Douglas: We’ve been aware of your exam-writing talents for some time and would like to consider you for the prestigious Gladys Violet Award…’”

“Elliot, listen…”

“James asks him to send in his upcoming history final as a sample of his work. I memorize the answers, get a perfect score—and here’s the kicker! I write my test in purple ink! Get it? Gladys
Violet?
Purple? He’ll know I orchestrated everything! Of course, he’ll have no way to prove anything and even if he
could
he would be far too mortified to confront me. He might even convince himself that it was a coincidence and that he really had been nominated for some kind of teaching award. But deep down, the shame would fester in his heart, growing with every passing year, gnawing at his ego, driving him to the brink of madness—”

“Elliot, listen, it’s late. I need to go to sleep.”

“Absolutely not. We have work to do.”

“I’m really tired.”

“Trust me, you’ll want to witness this! Go downstairs. James will pick you up in five minutes, and you’ll stay the night.”

“I have to wake up early tomorrow. My dad’s making waffles.”

“You don’t like waffles. If you come here, James will make you a pie for breakfast, one of those disgusting ones you like so much, with the layer of sugar on top.”

“I really can’t. But hey, I promise I’ll come over tomorrow, as soon as I can.”

“Good Lord, I don’t actually
care
whether you come or not! Jesus! I just don’t understand why you would choose a food you dislike over a food you like.”

“It’s Sunday and my dad always makes waffles, and we serve them to my mom in bed. It’s kind of like a tradition, because—”

“Great, whatever! I don’t care!”

“Okay, well I’ll see you tomorrow, Elliot. Elliot? You still there?”

• • •

I was rushing out of French class—it was Taco Day in the cafeteria—when Mr. Hendricks tapped me on the shoulder.

“Seymour,” he said, “is it all right if I talk to you for a moment?”

He must have sensed my nervousness, because he quickly added, “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”

I sighed with relief and followed him back into his empty classroom.

“How’s the club going?” he asked.

“The what?”

“The…Anti-Asbestos League?”

“Oh!” I said. “It’s going great.”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s great,” he said. “And how’s the campaign going? I notice you haven’t put up any posters.”

I nodded.

“Elliot’s the campaign manager,” I said. “So that stuff’s pretty much his call.”

Mr. Hendricks nodded.

“Ashley’s sure put up a lot of posters, huh?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “They’re really neat.”

“She’s
super
excited about the campaign. I don’t know if you know this, but I’m going to be the council’s faculty advisor next year.”

“Congratulations.”

“I know!” he said. “It’s exciting, right? Anyway, Ashley has already sent me
five
proposals! For bake sales and dances and charity walks. Isn’t that amazing?”

I nodded slowly, unsure of what he was getting at.

“Anyway,” he said, “the reason I wanted to talk to you is that I actually had a little brainstorm recently, and I wanted to run it by you. This morning, I was walking through the park, and I thought to myself: Hey, wait a minute—we have two exceptional candidates who are passionate about public service…why not have them work together? We wouldn’t have to bother with any
speeches or posters. We could just call this election business off and have co-presidents! What do you think?”

“That sounds pretty good,” I said. “I’ll talk to Elliot and see what he thinks.”

Mr. Hendricks craned his neck to see if anyone was standing in the doorway. Then he leaned in close and continued in a low voice.

“Listen, Seymour,” he said. “I’m only telling you this because I think you’re mature enough to keep it between us. But Ashley’s been having a pretty rough year.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how you and Elliot have the Anti-Asbestos League? And Lance has the basketball team? She doesn’t really have anything like that. If she doesn’t get to do this, I think she’ll be pretty upset. I haven’t run this co-presidents idea by her yet, but I think if
you
suggested it to her, she’d be very excited. I think
everybody
would.”

I nodded. My parents would still be proud of me if I was co-president and I’d still get to be in the yearbook. Besides, I didn’t really know how to be president anyway. It would be way easier to do it with Ashley than by myself—and probably more fun. We could organize another gingerbread house contest; if we named ourselves judges, we’d have free rein over the supplies.

“So you’ll think about it?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Oh, that’s great news!”

“Although…I really need to talk to Elliot first.”

Mr. Hendricks sighed.

“Of course.”

• • •

Elliot finished his martini and wheeled his glass down the dumbwaiter for a refill.

“Do you know what ‘co-president’ is in a two-way race?” he asked me.

“What?”

“Dead last.”

He fired a breaking shot and paced around the billiards table a few times, stopping only to snatch his new drink.

“I think it might be a good idea,” I said. “I mean, I’d still get to be president. But I wouldn’t have to hurt Ashley’s feelings, or risk losing.”

Elliot banged his tiny fist against the table. The impact was barely audible against the green felt.

“If I’m managing your campaign,” he said, “it’s
not
a risk!”

He handed me his drink as he hunched over for his next shot. His glass was practically overflowing, and I instinctively sipped at it to avoid a spill. The taste was shocking—like a cloud of misfired bug spray—and it set off a lengthy coughing fit.

“Don’t you realize what’s going on here?” Elliot said. “Mr. Hendricks is
scared
of you. He’s afraid you’re going to defeat Ashley! You’re
winning
, Seymour, and we haven’t even done anything yet!”

He lined up a long shot.

“Mr. Hendricks thinks you’re some kind of rube. I can’t wait to see his face when you’re president of the entire grade!”

I remembered how disappointed Ashley had looked at the last election, holding back tears and comforting Han Wo, the foreign exchange student who was her only ally. But then I imagined the principal announcing my name, on stage, in front of everyone. I pictured myself posing alone for the yearbook picture, wearing the new suit my parents had bought me now that I was too thin for the old one.

“I guess it would be pretty cool,” I said.

I took a second sip of Elliot’s drink. It was as horrible as the first sip, but I managed not to cough this time.

“What was Mr. Hendricks wearing when he pulled you aside?” Elliot asked. “Let me guess: that plaid number, with the wooden buttons.”

“Yeah,” I said. “How’d you know?”

“Well, the man only has two jackets,” he said. “And he wore the brown one yesterday. So…”

“Basic reasoning.”

“Exactly!”

Elliot knocked in his shot and reached for some chalk. I started to hand him his drink back, but he waved it off.

“Keep it,” he said. “I’ll get another.”

“So should we get started on that speech?” I asked.

“Stop by tomorrow,” he said. “I have some things to take care of first.”

• • •

“Seymour, what a pleasant surprise. Elliot’s gone for a drive with James. No need to leave, though—he’ll be back within the hour.
Why don’t you sit down over there, by my bear? I have an amusing and lengthy story that you must hear at once. No interruptions.

“Do you see this idiotic figurine? It’s my proudest possession: Harvard Chess Champion, 1954. I’ve never been a very good chess player, you see, but I was
always
a talented cheater. This trophy proves it.

“I’ll never forget the day I first laid eyes upon the Chess Ladder in the Harvard dining hall. It was a beautiful thing: a slab of solid mahogany, studded with golden name plaques. By challenging and defeating your superiors, you could gradually climb your way up the board. It was a yearlong free-for-all, and whoever held the top spot by graduation would be crowned the champion of his class.

“When I scanned the names on the ladder, I realized that I didn’t recognize a single one of them. None of them had gone to Exeter or Andover or joined any of the social clubs I frequented. Some of the names were actually
foreign
sounding. It was a total meritocracy, and for the first time in my life, I felt excluded.

“I had never played chess before, and I had no interest in the game. But as soon as I saw that board, I resolved to dominate it.

“My first step was to enlist a chess expert to help me cheat. I found one at MIT, a nervous young man named Fishman who had topped his own school’s chess ladder for years. He had student loans to pay, so it was easy to acquire his services.

“For the first five matches, we used a simple sign-language scheme. When my opponent and I sat down, Fishman and his
roommate set up their own game at a nearby table. When my opponent made a move, I communicated it to Fishman with a series of signals designed to mimic mental exertion—sighs, head scratches, curses, etc. Fishman, in turn, would signal the correct move back to me using the same code. The signals we used ensured that Fishman would look engrossed in his own game, when in fact he was engrossed in mine. Our system was occasionally conspicuous. During one match, my opponent moved his rook across the entire length of the board, and I had to say the word ‘cocksucker’ eight consecutive times, loudly: ‘Cocksucker, cocksucker, cocksucker, cocksucker, cocksucker, cocksucker, cocksucker, cocksucker.’

“My opponent was taken aback, but all chess players have their eccentricities, and he didn’t comment on it. I always stayed composed during the matches, but the strain on poor Fishman was intense. I was paying him an incredible amount of money per victory—I’d say the equivalent of a Rhodes scholarship—and by the end of each contest he was drenched in sweat.

“As I made my way up the Chess Ladder, it became increasingly difficult to cheat. Upper-tier matches took place within the confines of the Harvard Chess Club—so that only members could observe the games in person—and Fishman wasn’t a member. I was able to sneak him into the bathroom, but I could only make so many trips to the toilet before people started to get suspicious. We experimented with concealed two-way radios—at the time a new technology. But that required me to give a kind of running commentary into my lapel.

“‘Ah,’ I’d say, leaning toward my bug-sized microphone. ‘I see you’ve taken my rook with your bishop. Not the rook on the left, which was near the queen, but that other rook.’

“Chess players are not naturally confrontational. But by the time I entered the number five spot, my opponents were growing bolder.

“‘We know you’re cheating,’ they’d say. Or, ‘You’re obviously cheating.’ Or, ‘Please, Terry, why won’t you stop cheating?’

“But they couldn’t prove anything, and the matches continued. By the final week of classes, I had only one man to unseat to become champion. He was one of those adorable communists from Russia, a scrawny, bearded creature with wild, beady eyes. I don’t remember his name.

“There were several obstacles in my path. By this point, the chess community was watching me so closely that none of my old strategies proved usable. The communist would only accept my challenge if I submitted to a variety of humiliating terms, designed to thwart my schemes. We were to play in an empty tent, which the communist would provide, and no audience would be admitted. I was to be strip-searched prior to the match for crib notes and electronic devices. And if I left the tent during the match, for any reason, I would forfeit automatically.

“I was still fairly confident that I would find a way. I met with Fishman in our usual spot, on a bench halfway down the Charles River. I paid him for the previous match and told him about the next one. The meeting was proceeding well enough until I casually mentioned the name of my final opponent.

“‘You’re playing
who?’
he asked, his stammer even more pronounced than usual.

“I repeated the name.

“Fishman stared blankly at the water. His cheap oxford shirt, I noticed, was already mottled with a couple damp splotches.

“‘You mean…you’ve never heard of him?’ he asked.

“‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘He’s a chess player.’

“Fishman began to tell me about the man’s ‘career’ in low, reverent tones. You see, even though the communist considered himself a revolutionary, he had apparently devoted most of his life to mastering this child’s game. Consequently, he was very skilled at it.

“‘I’ve studied his matches,’ Fishman said. ‘When he won the world tournament in Zurich, the International Chess League named a variation after him. He was only fifteen.’

“He stared off into the distance.

“‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you.’

“‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘Who do you recommend I hire in your place?’