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“We don’t have time to play a game,” I tell him, even though the sight of the retro family on the cover makes me want to yank the lid off right now.

“Or, is this the perfect idea for a study break?”

“Where do you come up with these things? Official friendships, three a.m. ramen, and checkers study breaks?”

“I’m a genius.”

“Maybe you are.” I sit up straighter. The idea’s growing on me. I have nowhere to be until Monday and one quiz to finish. Soon this whole dorm room will start to wake up and I’ll slink off to bed to catch a few hours of shut-eye. But right now, me and Nick looking at a cardboard playing surface will be way better than staring at my laptop screen or the tiny writing in my textbook.

“I’ll be black,” I say.

“Good, because I like red.”

“Black goes first, you know,” I tell him.

“Says who?”

“Bradshaw family rules. My grandpa had a saying about it that makes perfect sense: “Smoke comes before fire.”

“Seems very unscientific. What do the actual rules say?” He peels apart a yellow, flimsy sheet of folded paper. “These are in Spanish. I only know French.Merde.”

I’m already setting up the black pieces on my side of the board, one per dark square. “Doesn’t matter if it’s scientific; I’m an English major and smoke coming before fire is very poetic.”

“Poetic… hm. Not sure I like your logic, there, but if you really want to go first, I’ll allow it.”

“You and your allowing. This isn’t a courtroom, you know.”

“Right. This is the arena for the first ever battle of will, grit, strategy, perseverance, and royal tyranny between Bradshaw and Landry.”

“Royal tyranny?”

“Isn’t there something about kings in this game?” He picks up the crinkled instructions again and cocks his head to the side, like he’s puzzled.

I laugh. “You’re bluffing. You know every rule.”

Once he’s lined up his pieces across from mine, I push a checker diagonally forward with my pointer finger.

“You’re in for trouble, Bradshaw,” he tells me. “It’s an advantage to go second, you know.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“You want to hear my reasoning?” He mirrors my move on the board.

“Let me guess. You think I have more chances to make a mistake.”

“I let you screw up, and then go in for the kill.”

“So violent! I have news for you, though. I don’t screw up.”

“Everyone does. It’s human.”

“We’ll see,” I tell him, as I push my checker diagonally again.

I wait for him to make a move. When he doesn’t, I glance up at him. He’s frozen, leaning over the board, looking at his pieces but clearly thinking about something else.

“Your move,” I tell him. “Or are you in some kind of waking sleep state that only nerdy pre-meds know how to master?”

“I’m thinking.”

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