how to beat god at chess 1: SOOTHSAYER

It's Wednesday, November 30th, 2016. I know this because yesterday was the 29th. I know this because it's another day in a million installment of days that are exactly the same. I know this because there's a strange energy in the air as soon as I wake up, and another day I wish harder than ever I wasn't alive anymore.

My mother shakes me awake. Alison. A shock of nature with frazzled hair and a grumpily sleep-deprived glaze, she is just as unpleased as I am that I have to be awake at 6:30 in the morning. We live just ten minutes from the school's campus, but she likes to grab breakfast at a diner 45 minutes away from our house. I moan and bitch about it, but I secretly crave this time spent with her. It's the one chance of the day not spent in bitter silence or angry jabs at each other.

Despite the heavy fatigue dripping from every part of her expression, she shakes me awake gently.

"George...George...wake up, lovey."

She still calls me "Lovey", and I don't really know exactly where it comes from, but she only calls me that name when I'm waking up for school. She used to call me by that name all the time when I was little, but I guess I don't fit the description of the word as well now. Oh well. I'm blearily awake now, but I keep still for a few more seconds just to hear her speak softly.

"Sweetie, wake up. It's time to get up."

Her voice carries a little more urgency now. She shakes my shoulder again, lightly. I blink my eyes open. Alison looks at me, smiling.

"Hi."

"Hi."

I sit up in bed. The windows next to us bleed soft, blue light from the lights outside already. The sky is still pitch black, but suburbia never seems to quiet down completely. Alison bends down and turns on the light standing on my bedside table. A lamp fashioned entirely out of different sizes of gears fused together. My favorite thing in the world I own, next to my computer and a little butterfly note pinned to a cork board on my desk. Alison sits by me, looking down and yawning.

"It's 6:30. Do you want to go to Frisch's today?"

Ohh, Big Boy Burgers. A stable selection of mid-tier food smacked right between a Jared Jewelry and Ethan Allen furniture in rotten uptown Louisville. In a regular headspace, there are far more appetizing options. At 6:30 AM on a Wednesday, there's absolutely nothing better. Their breakfast bar has sustained me all throughout my middle school and high school experience thus far. Shout out to their sliced banana and strawberry sauce combo.

I nod. "Yes. Do we have time?"

She nods, looking over across the room at the glaring red numbers on my electric clock rotting on my desk.

"If you get up now. We have to leave in about twenty minutes. Can you shower quickly?"

I nod again, and swing my legs out of bed. The stained, burnt orange carpet warms my feet and helps me prepare for the symphony of negative sensations I endure every day before school: brushing my teeth, showering, putting my stuffy, ill-fitting school uniform on, doing what little hair I have on my head, and packing up the scattered clump of homework I left on my desk the night before. Classical Studies papers, Christian Studies study guides, and pages on pages of math notes overwhelm what tiny desk space I have, burying my computer and creating an avalanche of information that promptly slides off and lands on my foot as soon as I touch it.

Great. Good day ahead. Great day. Awesome!

I grab my clothes and shut myself into the bathroom. Mindlessly, I start melting into my daily thought routine as soon as the toothbrush hits my gums.

...I wonder if Patrick will say hi to me today. I wonder if I'll get any closer with him. No way. Why would anyone want to talk with me? They can smell the poison coming right off me. They know I'm worthless. They all know. I don't know how they know, but I guess everyone does. I wish I could just get that through my head myself. I hate being alive. I wish I could just kill myself. I wish I could just stay alive. I hate everybody, and everybody hates that I'm alive. I'm gonna stay alive just to spite them. Oh, too bad no one wants you to stay alive because they give a shit about you! Nobody gives a shit about me! I wish I could just kill myself...

The toothbrush beeps three times to signal two minutes. I spit, rinse, and quickly step into the shower now that it's nice and hot. I stick my face into the hot stream, take a deep breath, and try to steady myself...right before my face grows ice cold.

Well, the left side, anyway. My entire face is being slammed with boiling hot water, but the left side is completely cold, as if I'd submerged it into an ice bath. In shock, I draw away from the hot stream, touching my face. I rub my cheek, move my eyebrow, scratch at my chin. Everything feels normal...hot, even. My skin feels hot to my fingers, but cold by itself.

What the fuck?

I slowly stick my face under the stream again, this time only my left side. The hot water hits my skin and instantly chills, like I'm showering in the Arctic Ocean. I step back, turning the shower off and wincing from the sharp sting.

I step out and look at myself in the mirror. Everything looks normal. My hands feel tingly, but I ignore it. It's probably just stress or something...who knows. God knows I'm stressed out enough with everything going on right now.

Alison knocks on the door, now having fully tipped over into impatience. "George!"



I stand at the front of the main building on campus. I have just slammed the door in Alison's face, after spending the morning in another fight. My face is red as I hold back a flood of tears. I don't remember what we were fighting about that day, but no matter the topic, it always got ugliest right as we pulled in the school's driveway. The coffee in my hands burns my skin in the bitter cold, and I bite my lip to stop a tear falling before I traipse through the heavy front doors.

A long, black-and-white checkered hallway leads me straight to Cooke Hall's sprawling dining room, central to the entire building (and maybe even their whole campus). It's always too cold in here for anyone to think straight, so I take my time walking forward. Splitting off the main hall, there's several offices and hallways lined with pictures of class years going back to the founding of the school, all the way back in 2005. Now 11 years later, the backdrops in all the photos have evolved from a handful of kids standing in a private garden, to a large swathe of poorly dressed kids in thick black vests all standing in front of Cooke Hall. With its ugly white columns and strangely Colonial design, it seemed to be cobbled together by a Roman architect and a strange Christian fanatic that could barely understand each other.

I step into the main cafeteria, which doubles as our space for daily morning meetings lead by our principal, Dr. Wheatley. The checkered tile swamps the room, tempered only by giant wood tables taken up by a good number of students already. No one looks at me as I walk in. Of course they don't. Not a single one has looked at me in two years.

I sit down, grateful to have a table by myself instead of having to lodge in between ex-friends and their stupid girlfriends at some random table. I pull out my phone, turning up the music in my earbuds until my ears are bleeding and I can't hear the hubbub of the cafeteria anymore. I click forward a few songs until I settle on one I recently discovered and enjoy: Demons by Imagine Dragons. (It was 2016, and I was extremely, extremely 14.)

I'm so engrossed in the song, I can't hear one of my teachers walk quietly up behind me. He taps me on the shoulder, and I nearly whirl back and take a swing. I turn around and instantly see the beard in front of my face.

"Mr. Dwyer."

Fuck. It's Dr. Brooks. One of the meanest men alive--and my teacher for three classes-- he looks down at me with a slight grin.

"How are you this morning?"

"Fine. You?"

"I am very, very well. The sun is beautiful, and it truly is a beautiful day. Did you see the snow?"

Did I see the seven inches of snow piled up that Alison had to drive through (and complained about the entire drive to school)? No.

"Yes, it's a lot. It was impressive."

"Yes. Are you ready for the test today?"

No.

"Yes, I'm ready."

"Why don't you talk to..." - he waves vaguely around him, gesturing to the other students clustered around the different tables -
"...some of your classmates? Instead of sitting alone?"

This was a common question, enough that I have a pre-recorded answer that wasn't "THEY HATE ME" or "I'M SO LONELY " or "I'M AT RISK".

"Oh, I wanted to study for a couple tests I have later. I didn't get to do much last night."

As it always did, this answer stimulates a laugh out of the man.

"Okay, I'll expect to see that later."

Idiot. I knew he would chew me out for any little mistake I made later. CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP.

Dr. Dickie. Standing on his chair in front of the room, he claps his hands and looks out at the 200-odd students, who instantly clam up and turn their attention to him.

"Salvete, discipuli."

"Salve, magister."

"Good morning. I hope you all had a good evening, and are staying warm today. Mrs. Lowe tells me that it's about 25º today, so we're going to make sure that we can keep the buildings as warm as possible today. So, try not to open the windows, because then you fall out and die."

Dr. Dickie is one of those incredibly strict teachers that people can't help but love. With a low buzz and a thick, Navy SEAL type build, he's an incredibly imposing man. But his dry sense of humor and advocacy for kids in shit situations definitely puts him in the top for teachers at this private shithole from hell.

"Ninth graders, talk with your teachers about the deadlines coming up for the PSAT. Mrs. Mangione can help you with that. Tenth graders, the SAT and ACT are coming, too. Don't be the guy who says he didn't know about deadlines and then fails to even get on the roster. We will not help you, and you will die. Juniors..."

I kind of tune out. His announcements can drone on for ages.