by Tom Birdseye
It was Paulette’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’m glad you came by, Weirdo.”
Patrick looked behind the counter and into the kitchen. “Why? Need some help? Carlos and Billy giving you a hard time again? Or Lupita?”
Paulette laughed. “No. Lupita’s a marshmallow inside. She just acts tough. I can handle Carlos and Billy, too. What I need is for you to go home and get my nursing books for me. I forgot them again. I think I’m losing my memory.”
“Getting old,” Patrick quipped. The words just popped out of his mouth, and for a second he thought maybe he’d gone too far with the teasing.
But Paulette took a playful swipe at him across the table. “I know it’s hot, but will you fetch them for your old forgetful mother? They might be beside my bed, on the nightstand, but I’m not sure. Find them and there will be another glass of lemonade in it for you.”
Patrick finished off what was left of the cool, tart liquid. He stood and bowed—half in jest, half in seriousness—before jogging out the door toward home.
Once home, his cheeks flushed from the long jog in the heat, Patrick went straight to the refrigerator and stuck his head all the way in. He stayed there until his ears began to feel cold, then turned to find Paulette’s books stacked on the kitchen counter. She had rushed right past them and out the door.
Patrick looked closely at the top one in the pile. It was big and thick and had a slick paper jacket. No pictures. Lots of words. He reached out and slowly ran his fingers around the edge of the book, avoiding the large black letters of the title. It was about nursing, he knew that.
Paulette was always talking about her dream of being a registered nurse instead of a waitress. “Helping people feel better instead of lugging burritos.” She would sit at the kitchen table, running her fingers over the books just as he was now, and go on and on about it. Her face would glow. The tiredness would fade away for a moment. “These books,” she’d say, “are going to get us out of here.” Then she’d reach out and give Patrick a big hug.
Patrick opened the top book on the pile. Before he knew it, he was looking at the bright white page covered with words. Halfway down, where a new paragraph started, one in particular caught his eye. What was it? Re … Reg … Regul … then he wasn’t sure. What sound did an A with an R after it make? What was that rule Mrs. Nagle kept telling him? All of those rules she wanted him to remember.…
“Get it right! Don’t be stupid!”
His father’s voice sprung up from the page. In an instant the letters of the word blurred.
Patrick slammed Paulette’s book shut, then shoved the whole stack away. They fell off the counter, crashing to the kitchen floor. He whirled around, wanting to flee, only to find himself facing the photograph of his parents on the refrigerator door. Quickly, he covered his father’s image with his hand. Paulette was left dancing by herself, so happy, so beautiful, smiling out at him.
Patrick turned back around. He picked up Paulette’s textbooks, carefully wiping the dirt from the covers. He wanted her to do well in school, even if he couldn’t. He wanted her to make it, to be better than Charlie Lowe had ever thought she could be.
Patrick grabbed his backpack and zipped the textbooks safely inside. He walked quickly to the garage, got his bike out, and jumped on. He rode fast down the alley in the direction of Lupita’s Mexican Café, weaving around potholes, barely missing garbage cans, and completely ignoring Celina’s friendly wave from over the wall.
When Patrick got back home, he went straight to The Kingdom. He was only halfway through the oleander bushes when he saw that a chess piece had been moved—one of his white knights. It only took a second longer to notice the note beside the chessboard.
Patrick knelt and picked up the small piece of paper. Without looking at the words, he knew that Celina had written it. It had to have been her. Bothering him at school wasn’t enough, huh? Now she had to sneak into his secret place while he was gone, mess with his chess set, and then write him a note all about it?
Patrick wadded up the note and tossed it in the bushes, then reached out to put his white knight back where it belonged. But something about where Celina had moved it stopped him. It was in a position that put the black king in check. And it looked as though the only way out of check would be to sacrifice the black queen. Dad had loved moves like that. “A perfect fork,” he had called them, “sure to do damage either way you go.”
The sound of a screen door slamming shut came from over the wall. Celina! Now she’d probably been spying on him, too!
Patrick jumped up and stomped out of the bushes. He glared over the block wall. There she was, just like he’d thought. She had been spying. He was about to yell at Celina to keep out of his stuff, his yard, his life … his words caught in his throat.
It was the look on Celina’s face that brought Patrick to a halt. She was settling down on the shady back steps of her house, balancing a can of Coke on her knee, scooting over to make room for her dog Pellinore, and gazing at the book in her hand. As she started to read, her face glowed. At first, Patrick thought it was the reflection of light off the white page. But then he realized there was more to it than that. Part of the glow was the light, but part of it was some strange sort of contentment, too. He had seen it on Paulette’s face when she read her nursing books. Now, there it was on Celina’s face, too, and it stopped him.
It looked like it must feel so good to read without making mistakes, without the pressure, without things closing in. Suddenly Patrick wanted that feeling so badly that it make him ache. The ache was so strong, he had to turn away.
Patrick went back into The Kingdom. He looked once again at the chessboard, at the white knight where Celina had put it. The black king was still in check. The black queen would still have to be sacrificed.
He studied the board. It really was the best move, he had to admit. It was the perfect fork. Did Celina know anything about chess, or was she just lucky?
Patrick picked Celina’s note out of the bushes and flattened it out on his leg. He looked at the words, struggling to read what she had written. He recognized a you, an I, and a do. He knew one word near the bottom, too. C-H-E-S-S. Chess. That word was on the box his game had come in.
Looking over the chess pieces again—at the trapped king, the doomed queen, his white knight—a question kept running across Patrick’s mind. Is she really that good? he wondered. Really?
Chapter 6
The Sword in the Stone
The next day after school, Patrick sprinted from the bus to his house. He quickly let himself in, ran through the living room and kitchen, stopping only as long as it took to toss his backpack on the counter, then bolted out the back door. In seconds he was in The Kingdom, scooping up his chess pieces and board. He quickly set them up for a new game on top of the block wall, black pieces on Celina’s side, white on his. White always moves first. Patrick pushed his queen’s pawn forward two. Then he slipped back into the oleander bushes, where he waited in hiding.
It seemed like forever, but Celina finally came out in her backyard and began playing tug-of-war with Pellinore. She laughed as the little dog growled and pulled on an old towel. Yanking it free, Celina ran around and around the big saguaro cactus, Pellinore chasing her, jumping into the air and barking, trying to get the towel back. This went on for several minutes, until Celina stopped and said, “Whew, it’s hot!” She let Pellinore pull the towel from her hand and drag it off to the shade by the back porch. “OK, mi perrito, it’s yours.” As she started to go to join him, she noticed the chessboard.
Patrick ducked farther back into the oleander bushes as Celina walked to the wall. “What’s this?” she said to herself.
Through the thick hedge of dark leaves Patrick could see only parts of Celina’s face, but the smile that crossed her lips was clear. She looked at the move he had made, then all around his backyard. “Hey, you want to come on over and play a game?” she called out.
The sound of Celina’s voice so loud and s
o near made Patrick wish he had hidden farther away, maybe in the house where he could watch out the window. She was so close.
Celina tilted the edge of the chessboard up slightly and peered underneath. She searched the top of the wall, too.
Looking for a note, Patrick thought.
Celina called out again. “You know, come over and play face-to-face and all that, man-to-man … er … man-to-woman.” She laughed. “You know what I mean.”
Celina waited for a moment, then looked in the direction of The Kingdom. She put her hands up on top of the wall and boosted herself partway up, as if she were going to vault on over.
Patrick panicked. She would land practically in his lap if she jumped. What would he say? He’d been just as unfriendly at school today as before, and on the bus, too. He’d hardly even looked at her, except when he thought she wouldn’t notice. How could he explain that despite all that, he still wanted to play chess with her? He thought of breaking out of hiding and running away.
But just as quickly as Celina had pushed up onto the wall, she changed her mind and let herself back down onto her side. She looked at the chessboard again and shrugged. Then she moved her black queen’s pawn forward two squares to meet the white challenger. The game had begun.
And so Patrick and Celina played, never face-to-face, moves made when the other was not around. Patrick found that his new opponent was indeed good. Her move before with the white knight had not been luck. Every attack he launched she fended off, while at the same time countering with an attack of her own. Four days into the game, and they were dead even. Four days into the game, and they had each lost five pieces.
Patrick loved it. It was just like when he and Dad had had such great games, back before … It was nice not to be playing alone. No more imagining an opponent who could match his skill. He had one next door, even if she was kind of loud and had a dog with a dumb name.
But better yet, Patrick thought, he didn’t have to talk to Celina. She kept trying to be friendly at school and on the bus. She’d even started playing soccer on his team at recess, despite the fact that Andy told her she wasn’t good enough. “I can play!” she had piped back, and proved it. And after Patrick had scored from way out, Celina had slapped him on the back and acted as though they were old friends. But she hadn’t come out to the wall when he was there planning his next move, even though he was sure she had watched from the window several times; he’d seen the curtain move. Even more important, though, she hadn’t invaded The Kingdom again. She seemed to understand that it was his private world by the garage, and that he wanted to be alone there. She seemed to understand his need not to share that special place … until the next Friday, when the wind had picked up out of the west, and the oleander bushes swished and swayed. Without one word of warning, Celina climbed over the wall and ducked right into The Kingdom. “Hi,” she said, and held out a piece of notepaper with writing all over it.
Patrick looked up from his half-completed drawing of a dragon, his mouth hanging open in surprise. He didn’t even look at the note. He just kept staring at her.
So Celina told him what the note said. “You can’t castle after you’ve moved your king forward to get out of check. Even if you move him back to his same place, you can’t castle anymore. It’s against the rules.” Then she laughed. “I figured you just forgot, so I wrote you this note. You got my other one, didn’t you? You know, when I told you all about exploring and discovering this neat place of yours. I just couldn’t resist coming in. And then I saw the chess game, and … Well, Mom and Dad don’t have much time for chess right now, since they both just started new jobs. That was all in that other note. But anyway, the wind kept blowing this note away—it’s really wild today, isn’t it?—so I just decided to come on over and—”
Celina stopped in midsentence when she saw Patrick’s drawing. “Wow! That’s a great dragon!”
Patrick glanced down at his work, then back at Celina, who moved closer, crouching for a better look. Not even Paulette had been in The Kingdom before. And yet, here was Celina blundering in uninvited for the second time.
Both anger and fear swept over Patrick. He could taste them on his tongue. He thought of fighting off this invasion, maybe even punching Celina. He thought of making a run for it, too. She was so close! He could even smell her. What was that? Banana? Yes! She must have eaten a banana for an after-school snack. Patrick picked up his drawing and held it to his chest. He didn’t like bananas.
Celina leaned over and snatched the drawing out of Patrick’s hands. Patrick sat in shock and watched as the banana-breath invader admired his art, turning her head this way and that. “I never can get dragons to come out right,” she said. “You’re good!”
Patrick’s face turned red with embarrassment. He wasn’t used to compliments, especially compliments from a girl. Yeah, run for it; get away. That was what he should do. If he could just get by …
“You know what?” Celina said, smiling. “This picture looks a lot like I’ve imagined the Questing Beast!”
Patrick stopped. “The what?”
Celina looked directly into his eyes. “The Questing Beast. You know, from The Sword in the Stone. I told you I was reading that book in my first note, remember? The Questing Beast is that thing King Pellinore chases around all the time.”
King Pellinore? So that’s where she had gotten the name for that dumb new dog of her’s. She’d named it after some king.
Celina began to dig in her pants’ pockets. “I keep trying to draw the Questing Beast the way it’s described in the book, but I just can’t get it right. Look, I’ll show you. I’ve got some of my drawings right …” She yanked a wad of folded notebook paper out of her back pocket and held it up, grinning triumphantly. “Right here!” She quickly smoothed the pages out on the table. “See?”
Drawings. They pulled Patrick in. He loved drawings—any kind, anybody’s, anywhere. And here were pages of them, full of rough sketches of some kind of a creature Patrick had never seen or heard of before. Interesting! The head of a snake—kind of—the body of a lizard—maybe—except the back half looked more like … a lion?
“They just don’t work, do they?” Celina said, looking back and forth between her drawings and Patrick’s face. “You’re so good. I bet you could draw a great Questing Beast.”
Questing Beast. Patrick rolled the name around in his brain. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Yeah, he liked that name. Questing Beast. So he said it. “Questing Beast.”
Celina broke into a big grin. “Yeah! T. H. White is my favorite author right now. I love The Sword in the Stone. Mom let me read her original version of Don Quixote—you know, that story about the knight tilting at windmills. She said it’s better to read it in Spanish; it lost a lot when they translated it into English. I liked it so much, she gave me a whole stack of books about knights and castles and everything, all that medieval stuff. And that’s how I found The Sword in the Stone. It’s an old book—1939 or something—and real English. You know, lots of words from England. But it’s great, and funny, especially Merlyn. I like it so much I carry it with me all the time. See?”
With that, Celina pulled a paperback book from her pants’ pocket and thrust it in Patrick’s face. He recoiled, waiting for Celina to demand he read to her. His body went hollow as he waited for things to close in.
But Celina pulled the book back and quickly thumbed through it. “I love this part where Wart meets King Pellinore. Uh, where is it … yeah, page twenty-two … right here! Want to hear some? Just listen to this. It’s such great reading.”
The last thing in the world Patrick wanted in The Kingdom, his private place, was this banana-breathed invader reading a book.
But not waiting for an answer, Celina had already begun: “There was a clearing in the forest, a wide sward of moonlit grass, and the white rays shone full upon the tree trunks on the opposite side.”
She spoke the words as if she were singing them, her voice full of f
eeling, caressing each sound as it crossed her lips. “These trees were beeches, whose trunks are always most beautiful in a pearly light, and among the beeches there was the smallest movement and a silvery clink.”
Celina looked up at Patrick, smiled in obvious delight, then almost dove face first back into the book. “Before the clink there were just the beeches,” she read, “but immediately afterwards there was a Knight in full armour, standing still, and silent and unearthly, among the majestic trunks.”
She paused, just long enough for the image of the knight in the moonlit forest to sink into Patrick’s reluctant brain, then continued: “He was mounted on an enormous white horse that stood as rapt as its master, and he carried in his right hand, with its butt resting on the stirrup, a high, smooth jousting lance, which stood up among the tree stumps, higher and higher, until it was outlined against the velvet sky. All was moonlit, all silver, too beautiful to describe.”
Celina paused again. “Pretty cool, huh? Don’t you just love good fantasy?”
Patrick didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t wanted to listen to this weird girl read a dumb story. But he hadn’t been able to stop. Within only a few words, he had been pulled into that moonlit forest clearing as surely as if a big arm had reached out and grabbed him. He had heard the sudden “silvery clink.” He had felt the presence of the knight sitting on the beautiful white horse, lance held high against a “velvet sky.” Listening to Celina read was like walking into a dream—a dream that he had had many times before, yet never so full of rich detail.
“Read a little more,” Patrick heard himself say.
Celina grinned, nodded, and did just that … for over an hour. First, she read the entire scene in which Wart—“the star of the story”—hears of the Questing Beast.
“Wart?” Patrick said. “What kind of a name is that? He must be pretty ugly, like a wart.”
Celina simply said, “I don’t think so.” Then she went back to the beginning, “So you get everything straight.” She read without stopping from page one to the end of the first chapter. Her voice rose and fell with the story, dancing over words that seemed impossible—Summulae Logicales, chivalry, baize—changing to strange accents, sometimes talking through her nose, as she switched to a different character. And even when she stopped to explain what this or that meant, or how it all fit together—“Kay is not really Wart’s brother; Sir Ector is not really Wart’s dad; that’s important to remember; he’s like an orphan, sorta”—she never lost the rhythm of the words she held in her hands. Patrick sat spellbound, lost in the magic of the book’s world.
