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what's going on. Thinks he can chat up Jenna McNulty. Like she
wasn't laughing at him in her head? Like Pramod wasn't thinking what an annoying little piece of shit Randy is?
    He spits out the toothpaste and cups some water into his mouth.
    Randy's trying to give me advice about how to beat Jenna? Might as well try to give me advice about sports or girlfriends. Like I'd listen. Like he could tell me anything I don't already know.
    Zeke scowls into the mirror, then wipes his face with a towel. He hangs the towel over the shower-curtain rod, then leaves the bathroom. He pulls the bedspread down on his unslept-in bed, pulls off the sandals, and climbs under the sheets. He kicks his legs around, pushes both pillows to one side, and gets out, leaving the sheets and the blankets in a heap.
    He puts the sandals back on—
Randy's stupid sandals
—and lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
    There was a girl back in ninth grade. Luanne. A bunch of them played basketball one night that May, on the outside court off Church Street. Mostly guys. They were hanging around after, drinking Gatorade, and she said, “Let's go over to the park.” Zeke was supposed to be home already, but she talked him into it. They made out for about six minutes on a bench. She moved away that summer, but it counted.
    He sits up quickly and looks at the clock.
Shit. Late.
    He bolts out the door and runs down the stairs, leaving his room key on the dresser again. The other three matches are under way when he enters the conference room, and everyone looks up at him.
    The Regional Director clears his throat and motions Zeke over. “Everything all right?” he whispers.
    “Yeah. Had a stomachache.”
    “Feeling better now?”
    “Yeah. I'm fine.”
    They've reconfigured the tables. All four games are well within sight of the spectators now. Jenna has her side of the board set up and is sitting with her legs crossed.
    Zeke glances at the three games in progress. Buddy Malone has his hands against the table, leaning back and balancing his chair on its two back legs. It appears to be his move, the way he's fixated on the board. His opponent, Serena Leung, has a confident smile, as if she's just made a significant move. She's dressed in black jeans and a black polo shirt, with untied white sneakers and splayed-out feet. Her short hair is gelled, and there's a small silver cross on a chain around her neck. All day long she's been applying ChapStick between moves.
    Pramod seems to be making short work of Silvio Vega, managing to look both bored and amused as he waits for Vega to move.
    Randy and Ahada are deep in concentration, both looking exceptionally young and out of place among the other quarter-finalists.
    The Regional Director looks at his watch and whispers to Zeke, “You can have four more minutes if you need.”
    Zeke nods. “I'll be right back,” he says.
    He heads straight for the bathroom. He really does have a stomachache now. Nerves and breakfast sausage.
    Zeke asked a girl to the junior prom last spring. Waited too long, though. It seemed like a sure thing back in February, when they spent a lot of time joking around and talking about sports in study hall. He figured he could put off asking her until March. By mid-April he finally got up the courage, eventhough they hadn't really said much to each other in weeks. She was sweet about it, but she'd already accepted another offer.
    Zeke finally takes his seat across from Jenna. Pramod's game seems to be nearing completion, but the other two matches look like they could go either way.
    Jenna smiles and offers her hand. “Good luck,” she says.
    “You, too.” Zeke does not smile back. He sets up the black pieces and chews on the side of his lip. He's been waiting to hear from the state colleges at Kutztown and Bloomsburg. Jenna's been offered a full ride to Princeton. The odds of him beating her are minuscule.
    He turns his head toward his father and gets a thumbs-up in return.
    All those