The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,4
less trouble than the English F-word. Our homeroom teacher in sixth grade actually asked us once if “feefon” was the latest slang word for cool or groovy. (We told her it was.) Chang’s cousin also taught us the word rasshøl, which we also use all the time, though not so much around parents and teachers since its meaning is a bit . . . clearer.
“Are we going to play chess now or what?” Chang asks, grabbing two more apple slices, two oranges, and two kiwis. Chang insists on even numbers, even when he’s snacking.
“Yeah, let’s get this battle going,” Moose chimes in, scooting his chair back. “Ma promised to make Tater Tots casserole tonight and I don’t want to be late for the love tots.”
As usual, we set up the chessboard in the dining room so all the gaming devices in the rest of the house won’t distract us. This afternoon it’s my turn to play against Chang, while Moose keeps track of our moves in a notebook.
The three of us are on the chess team at school, which has been an ongoing embarrassment. (The chess team, not us.) We have a reputation throughout the region for being the “team most likely to humiliate itself” at every tournament we enter. But I’ve been elected team captain this year and I intend to turn things around. Not because I actually care about our reputation, but because I need proof of “leadership” for my college applications.
Supposedly, the best universities expect you not only to take part in extracurricular activities (ugh), but also to prove your leadership abilities by “spearheading an exciting initiative” (eye roll). The way I see it, college admissions boards must be made up of former student council try-hards and spirit committee rah-rahs. But I’ve spent my whole life watching my parents work their butts off for other people, and I am determined not to follow in their footsteps. No fine arts degree for me, no liberal arts education. My goal is to get into the best business school I can, so I can be one of those “other people”—namely, the Boss.
Chess Club was the only extracurricular activity I could stomach. I got Moose and Chang to sign up with me this year and then convince our fellow teammates to vote me in as captain. My sole campaign promise was to provide pizza at every practice, which just goes to show that votes can always be bought for the right price. (Cue Jill Bauer shaking her head again here.)
I’m hoping to improve our team’s performance this year, so I can write my college application essays about my “initiative” to make us not suck so bad. Hence, the extra chess practices at my house with Moose and Chang. As it turns out, they’re actually pretty killer at the game, maybe due to all the spatial skills they’ve developed creating custom MEEP worlds. I’m not bad either, although I’m more easily distracted than they are, especially while waiting for my opponent to make his move. By the time it’s my turn again, I’ve forgotten where I am because I’ve been thinking about a hundred other things.
“Checkmate,” says Chang, interrupting my thoughts.
Case in point.
After Chang and Moose shuffle off to their own west-side Baby Janes, I go down to the basement to my dad’s studio. Our basement is nothing special—just a big concrete room with exposed beams across the top to hold the rest of the house up—but I love it down here. The walls are lined with homemade bookshelves that are packed full with books, of course, but also loads of art supplies. It smells like oil paint and turpentine, even though Dad hardly ever works on his own art anymore.
A neglected easel sits in one corner with a half-finished painting of a phoenix, my birthday present from two years ago that he keeps promising to work on. Every now and then I cover it with a tarp, not because I don’t like it (I do; it’s pretty sweet), but because I think it makes Dad feel guilty to look at it every day. He always ends up uncovering it though. He says it reminds him of what’s important.
He’s a little sentimental that way. Both my parents are. When they were newlyweds back in the day and still believed in their “dreams”—Mom aspired to be a novelist, Dad a fine artist—they packed their belongings into a little U-Haul truck, grabbed their fresh-off-the-press diplomas from the Art Institute of Chicago, and drove two