We funneled independently through the horde of mouth-breathers, school bell releasing us from monotonous lessons we’d mastered before the classes even began. Like a well-tuned machine we threaded expediently and stepped lightly, dodging shoulder throwing jocks and snickering goths and jazz handing theater kids. Our destination awaited us, a physical and mental safe haven: Mr. Pruitt’s classroom. Chess club.

We arrived within seconds of each other, chemistry posters on the wall welcoming us and promising a mental workout. After the day we’d all had, like every other day in public school, it was a relief. Immediately we got to work setting up the game. Kevin tossed three vinyl chessboards on the tables, unrolling them and checking for wrinkles. Ian laid out the clocks. David dropped bags of white and black pieces on each board. Thomas wrote each person’s name on the sign-in sheet. Alan figured out the pairings. We all did our part. We all made our space.

We played. We competed. This was not the mindless head smashing of Reggie White and Deion Sanders, or the repetitive pacing of Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen. This. Was. Chess. The was Garry Kasparov and Bobby Fisher. New strategies unfolded each move, tactics evolved each game as we learned from each other. In the halls quarterbacks and team captains ridiculed us, exerted their social power to tear us down, let us know we didn’t belong. But here is where we had power. Here is where we were kings.

We didn’t see her enter, we felt it. Something shifted in our space, tipped the balance. Perhaps it was her perfume tickling out subconscious. Perhaps it was the sound of Mr. Pruitt’s voice changing from challenging (which we appreciated in our matches) to welcoming (which we didn’t require anymore). Something though made us all look to the other side of the room. Our pulses quickened and our skin grew clammy. Our breaths deepened and came out in bursts. It was not possible. It was inconceivable. It was Holly Jewell.

We watched in horror and fascination as Mr. Pruitt so casually spoke to her, gesturing to the unused chess equipment still in the bins. The fact that he could speak in coherent sentences was amazing, though he was an adult so he’d probably learned some tricks over the years. More flabbergasting though was her actual interest in what he was saying. Holly Jewell was interested in chess? The same Holly Jewel who organized the National Honor Society dance and took her soccer team to State? The same Holly Jewel who got the whole Glee club to go skinny dipping? The same Holly Jewel who plays three sports and still has time to run for student body president? This was more than we could take. We forced ourselves to turn back to our games. Like Cthulhu, looking upon this anomaly would likely unravel our minds.

“Boys!” Mr. Pruitt called. “Which one of you isn’t playing right now? Could you come over and show Holly how to play?”

We looked at each other. We looked at Mr. Pruitt and Holly. We looked back at each other. No one moved. We couldn’t. All our lives we’d been told we weren’t compatible with the Hollys of the world, that nerds and hotties didn’t mix. Countless movies and TV shows reinforced that, not to mention our own observations in school. And Mr. Pruitt wanted us going against that? Defying the natural order? Not possible. No way would we—

Kevin stepped forward. It was only a step, but it was movement. Our eyes widened. He looked back at us, the rest of us, fear and trepidation in conflict with desire. Desire to listen to the teacher, desire to stand near Holly, desire to talk to her. Maybe even with her. He took another measured step. Then another. Was he sacrificing himself? Surely he wouldn’t. He’d leave the group vulnerable. His path led him straight to Mr. Pruitt, across the small table from Holly. We watched as she smiled and held out her hand. We watched as Kevin shook it.

Our collective sucking in of breath startled the three across the room, but only for a moment. Then they returned to the pieces in front of them, Kevin pointing and explaining each. He started with the pawn, illustrating its straightforward movement. This was madness. We shared glances with each other, knowing we should return to our games but knowing at the same time we couldn’t. The merging of worlds across the room was untenable. Kevin would return to us. He had to. He’d crack under the pressure and everything would be back to the way it was supposed to be, to the perfect status quo we’d created for our survival in this nerd-hating social hierarchy.

Then Ian was moving. He’d started directly opposite Holly but crossed to stand next to Kevin. He couldn’t get too close. If we were panicking before, we were losing it now. How could Ian have left us? Maybe he wanted to help Kevin. Maybe it was fellowship that pulled him across the room, grew the new congregation. Soon both were demonstrating, showing how a pawn could take a piece diagonally the same a bishop. She held up the queen. A question. Yes, the same as a queen.

We who remained fumbled with coherency. Coherency in thought, coherency in reality. We’d started as five. Five bonded over the pressures of high school. Five united in our pursuit of mental stimuli. Chess club addressed both. But now we were three. Agitation and unease pinballed between us; thoughts moved every which direction in our minds. This was not right. Three was not us. It was an us, but not the right us.

David cleared his throat and moved straight across the room, no pauses, no second guessing. Soon he stood next to the others. Mr. Pruitt beamed down at them, pleased at how they were helping Holly and her introduction to the game. We however, we were not pleased. We remaining two stared, disbelief and abandonment our current company. Perhaps simply by observing, by willing reality to return to the way it should be, quantum theory would take pity on us and revert to a proper universal balance.

It did not.

Instead we watched as they moved on to explaining the rook, its unbounded orthogonal movement capable of protecting lanes and groups of pieces. Without the rook it was much harder to maintain an adequate defense. More pieces would be lost.

Without warning Thomas left. He took a few steps forward, then shuffled casually to the side, closer to Holly. He looked back at the one person remaining. Thomas gave a half-hearted grin, side-stepped again to be in line with her then walked the rest of the way. No shitting way was this happening. He stood next to her and picked up the knight, the last real offensive piece to explain, able to jump over pieces, ignoring lines of defense to reach its goal.

We… I… watched as my friends all left. This was so very wrong. She was one of the others, one of the non-us that perpetually looked down upon us. Even if she’d never said anything directly, by not being one of us she was inherently one of them. I ground my teeth, fists clenched. If a perfect smile and a welcoming presence is all it takes to destroy this group, maybe we weren’t as strong of a we as we’d thought. They might be happy now, but it won’t last. She doesn’t know what we’ve been through. She’ll never know the social pressure we do. This is a fad.

Almost on cue, maybe something was said that’d I’d missed, they turned to me. My friends, Holly, and Mr. Pruitt. Holly smiled and waved for me to join them. They were nearly through the pieces, I saw. Only one left. The king. I hesitated. I wouldn’t fall victim to her wiles like my friends. I wouldn’t be so easily taken. Maybe I could last by myself. I knew how to move in school, how to avoid being toppled. It may be harder alone, but I could do it. Yes, Holly now had the advantage, had removed most of the pieces from this side. One by one they’d fallen: pawn then bishop, rook then knight. I knew how this would end. The king can’t stand alone. In matches if it ever got to that point I’d congratulate my opponent, knock over the king, then start again. A new set-up, a new game. I looked at my expectant friends, the intruder of our sanctuary. She waved again, beckoned, the entire room within her range of influence. Well played, I thought, stumbling a little over my backpack where I’d dropped it, and I walked toward them. To a new game, to a new we.

Checkmate.

– Eric Taveren

Author’s Note: “Checkmate” started out as a POV exercise for one of my MFA classes. It may or may not (definitely may) be based on my experiences in high school. I tried to date it, because having been involved in high schools these last two years, the kids are way different than we were. Much more accepting of each other. Specifically regarding the prose, I really liked the idea of having a collective, and then one by one removing members of the collective until there was just one. Is it still a collective? Does the mindset matter more than the body count? Is the need for a collective so great it’ll overcome the individual? I feel like those ideas and questions apply to almost all people, and this is just one way that concept can manifest.