Free Property of the State by Bill Cameron Page A

was proof of that. What he didn’t know was if I would figure out how to exploit his mistake.
    Except I already had.
    I smiled, casual and a little saucy. Then, when I had his attention, I moved a bishop one space. Check . I didn’t have to say it out loud. Everyone saw it. Philip’s king was trapped, no way to move out of check. My reckless play had left us with a chaotic board, and Philip had no way to block. If he’d ignored my idiot knight in the back row he could have cleared the current problem right up with his queen, but she was out of position now.
    â€œMate.” I did have to say that out loud. Duncan needed to hear.
    It didn’t mean anything. By club rule, you could only jump two boards, and then only after winning four out of seven. One loss by any ranked member to me was no more than a fart in the wind.
    Rain whispered against the window. A foot tapped against a table leg. Then Philip shrugged. Losing a meaningless game to me turned out to be a big yawner. He grabbed his Book—in those days, a spiral notebook, not the vinyl behemoth he would soon switch to—in order to log the three games that mattered. I knew he would remember every move, even from my game, but no point in logging that one. Random nitwittery and one unforced error, never to be repeated. But the other three games would give him something to analyze. He’d already forgotten me.
    Duncan hadn’t. “Such… bullshit .”
    He ranged around the cluster of tables into the empty space where Philip had paced during recent combat operations. Behind him, Philip hunched over and scrawled notation, oblivious to the looming menace at his back. Duncan thrust a trembling finger at me and then Philip in turn.
    â€œ You can’t beat him . You’re nobody .”
    Blah blah blah . There was only five minutes left in the period. All I wanted was a little quiet before I had to return to the general population.
    â€œYou don’t know jack shit about chess.”
    No fucking kidding . I reached for A Game of Thrones , thinking if I ignored him he’d wind down.
    Instead, he spun on Philip. “You’re just gonna let this happen? He beat you.”
    Philip looked up from the Book, his face bland, as if he only just noticed the ruckus. “So what?”
    The wrong thing to say. The lunchroom—not big to begin with—seemed to contract as Duncan’s face went red. My ears popped, and the windows seemed to vibrate. Tendons sprang out on his neck. Maybe that would have been it—an entitled asshat pitching a tantrum—until his bulging eyes fixed on the Book. Philip’s talisman, his magic tome, his obsession. Duncan grabbed the notebook and ripped it down the middle, tossed the halves in opposite directions. Then he cocked his arm about a mile over his head as anguish rose in Philip’s upturned face. Sheets of chess notation fluttered around us like leaves.
    Fosters tend to fall into one of two camps: those who fight everyone and those who fight no one. Up ’til that moment, I would have put myself in the second category. I’d been in some pitched battles over the years, but they were always a matter of self-defense—usually against some sociopath who knocked my dick in the dirt for laughs or to take what little I had. Defending the weak and nerdtrodden was never on my To Do list. But Philip was the one who gave me the chance, however limited, for a measure of quiet each day. I owed him…something.
    Not that I took the time to formulate the thought. I was out of my chair before his lips could part.
    I have no recollection of balling a fist, even less of the right cross which, according to subsequent reports, connected with Duncan’s jaw below his cheekbone. My first awareness was Duncan’s hands dropping as my punch snapped his head around. I followed through with my body until our chests collided. He staggered, caught himself against a table. I glared