Eleven

“Mom, what?”

Alison’s voice was agitated as she tucked her phone between her ear and her shoulder. A small, green spiral notebook, rife with furious markings, occupied her left armpit as she grappled with an uncooperative ballpoint pen, the stuck zipper on her open backpack, and now her phone, whose insidiously tangled earbud cable had entered the negotiation as well. The driver of a white Fiat had now come to a complete stop, patiently accepting Alison’s temporary occupation of Prospect Street, under the assumption that the frustrated juggling act– perhaps some sort of performance art– would eventually subside and life would return to normal. It would, for him. Alison, however, was vaguely aware that her holistic and interdisciplinary tailspin was still in its early stages. She had two papers due, a circus of spies looking to her for guidance in a game she didn’t fully understand, Casey Harrington was shaping up to have two left peg-legs, and her mother was in real danger of literally dying of capitalism.

It was this last point that, in fact, pushed her over the edge of irritation. She was no stranger to a mid-intersection inventory reconfiguration. Had the Fiat honked, she would have neither blushed nor been moved towards the palms-down fast walking prevalent in like circumstances. But a call from Irene Ashe, whose cable news binging had recently inspired her to block caller ID for some paranoid reason Alison was far too tired to hear, was too rich for today’s palate. While she truly loved and respected her mother, some unholy combination of Facebook, Costco, and 24-hour news had begun to cultivate attitudes and behaviors that caused Alison to experience a visceral, physical reaction that could previously only be set into motion by the incoherent ramblings of dreary, suburbanites with anti-vax email signatures. Irene wasn’t spouting keto or chemtrail nonsense, but something about the time and the tone made every diatribe sound the same these days. And as such, when the phone started buzzing and Alison saw “Unknown Caller” flash onto the display, she very decidedly couldn’t even.

A good old fashioned “Mom, what?” would have indeed been the perfect opening line to set the tone for a short conversation as Alison traversed the Quad in search of a quiet corner for study and the anxious consumption of lukewarm tuna salad. She was, however, firmly taken aback to hear a male voice manifest on the line instead.

“Alison, hello,” crooned Reed Baker, smooth as Fred Astaire, and completely unfazed by the abrupt and erroneous salutation. His cool demeanor was an absolute air raid on Alison’s composure, and she responded accordingly.

“What in Jiminy’s sake do you want? Are you going to trick me into giving you my Netflix password? Are you going to make me buy a timeshare? Or maybe I can just give you my social security number.”

“Actually, this is a social call.”

“Are you an actual moron?” snapped Alison, heat rising in her voice. “Wait. Did you have a traumatic brain injury? That’s actually at the top of my list of reasons that you could possibly want a social call.”

“Well, I–”

“Hold, on, hold on. Hang on a sec. No, I get it. You’re calling to schedule a hot date, aren’t you? A moonlit walk on the veranda whilst we share a snifter of Napoleon’s private cognac reserve. I’m sure it’s aged nicely over the last two hundred years in oak casks sealed in your family’s catacombs with beeswax and cedar bungs.”

“So, what I’d like to–”

“Do you think I’m your quirky little dream girl? That I’ve just been sitting around waiting for your call beside my vintage typewriter collection? Deciding which hand-made polka-dotted dress to wear when you finally decide to give me your varsity pin?”

Reed politely waited a beat, in case there was more.

“No,” he assured her. “I’m not seeking a star-crossed romance. More of a– friendship– I suppose.” He paused for any possible quips this might have elicited. When the line remained silent, he continued. “You may have guessed that engineers can be a little dry, and a little serious. The Elephants this year are exceptionally serious. But the game is supposed to be fun. It occurred to me that the only times I’ve had fun this season involved interacting with you. I have a lot of– professional respect– for you. I like the way you play the game, and I like the way you express yourself. I thought maybe we could– compartmentalize. And talk sometimes.”

“You’re not my friend, Reed. You’re my– my nemesis.”

“Okay, now that’s something I can live with. A nemesis isn’t just an enemy. It’s a special kind of relationship. It involves respect and reverence. You keep a nemesis in your thoughts. You consider their perspectives. You leave your finger on the chess piece while you study their expression, looking for tells. Alison, I would be honored to be your nemesis.”

Alison laughed. Her mouth was full of tuna. Somehow, she’d been magically transported to a little secluded bench in the gardens under Carrie Tower, and was stress-eating her sandwich. Also magically, she had a colossal smile on her face and was experiencing some sort of distant emotion. Joy? she thought. Is this joy? Why? I know, definitively, that I actively hate this man. Do I– enjoy– hating him? What is wrong with me?

“Hum” was the best she could muster, however, for the moment. Reed waited until he was sure that was all.

“I realize it’s a lot,” he said. “I just– I don’t know why we can’t appreciate the other side. I’ve been made aware of the bloody shoe and the William Shatner decoy play. I need you to know that that’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened in this game.”

Alison let go of a small fragment of the massive chip on her shoulder at that, and threw in a good belly laugh for good measure. It felt somehow cathartic to be appreciated by her rival. Maybe it was okay to share some of the excitement of the game with the other factions. It was only a game, after all, though Alison would be hard pressed to find an asset who would admit it.

“Okay, but like, did you see the room? When I hit Flores with that gut punch, he popped like a pinata. I got sprayed so thoroughly with purple Pedialyte I could have got a permanent job at Nickelodeon.”

Reed liked the image. “Yeah, the whole thing was a very dark episode of Double Dare. How did you get so bloodied in the first place?”

“Caught my ankle on the SAE fencing when I popped over.”

“The pikes!”

“The pikes,” Alison confirmed. “But if I hadn’t been sliced open, I wouldn’t have had a suitable snack to appease the mighty Spork.”

“Jesus, Alison. I forgot about that dog! You really insist on doing everything the hard way.”

Alison considered. “As opposed to what? Walking into your trap through the front door?”

Reed laughed again as the energy of the call became more friendly. “I just wish I could have seen your face when you tore Jesse’s pin off of his tracksuit.”

“Oh, I can help you with that, Reed,” said Alison in a caustic-but-cheery tone. “It was my annoyed face. The one I make when I’m doing business with you. It’s the face I show you more than any other. Statistically, it’s my default face, as far as you’re concerned.”

“Okay,” retorted Reed. “Then it also had a little smirk hiding in the wings.”

Alison gasped facetiously. “Reed Baker. Are you implying that I enjoy despising you?” He was. She did.

“Not my words. But if you did, I’d be a suitable candidate for nemesis.”

Alison let out an exasperated sigh, to her own chagrin. He was right. What she needed right now was a nemesis. And Reed, despite his diabolical tactics and his stupid, freckled, cute, stupid face, was it. God knows Casey Harrington wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. That little nerf couldn’t find a quip if it were on the Post-It with all his passwords. “Fine, you can be my nemesis. But give me your word that you won’t use this line to sabotage, double-cross, or betray me in any way.”

“You have my word, Alison.”

“A lot of good that’s worth,” she countered, wrapping up the business at hand before sharply changing tone. “Okay, bye mom. Feel better. I love you!”

And she hung up the phone.

What Reed Baker did not understand, for he had not the tools, was that Paige Hall had in that moment rounded the corner, spotted Alison, and plopped down in the seat across from her. Alison’s composure was severely compromised by this turn of events, and the ratio of tuna consumed versus tuna on her lap was becoming an indicator. She tried to play it cool.

“What’s up, my little drama llama?”

“More like trauma llama these days,” said Paige. “This semester is literally killing me.”

“Right?”

“I’m feeling burnout, Alison. I’m memorizing lines in all my free time. Period Styles is a stupid waste of a class. I have a paper due on pumpkin pants.”

“Okay, woah now. Stop right there,” said Alison, a look of feigned concern on her face. “Do you want to go to Oleander’s right now and study pumpkin pants over pumpkin lattes?”

“That is exactly correct.”

Alison was feeling some relief that Paige hadn’t overheard her conversation with Reed, but the whole moment was rewritten by the sudden piggy-back ride she was giving her small-framed friend. She had sort of slithered up there when Alison wasn’t looking.

“Onward, drama llama! Oh, how’s mama?” said Paige, clicking her heels where the spurs would be.

“Oh, fine.”

***

“And you’re certain you can’t tell us your source for this intel?” Teddy Dalton offered, a stark beam of light from the garden windows catching the corners of his face as he leaned in.

Andrews Commons was an open meeting place, a high-ceilinged lounge great for studying and catching up. Unlike much of the drab, red brick pomp-and-circumstance of Brown’s central building cluster, the outskirts tended to be more modern. The massive glass orange-slice windows dropped a splash of morning light on the midcentury leaf chairs and bright red couches that spread endlessly across the hall. Little shops and coffee stands dotted the perimeter. A lot of foot traffic moved in and out of the commons, and there was always a dull din of conversation. Alison had arrived early to gather her thoughts. She had been a little indecisive on today’s playlist, flipping back and forth between Ben Harper and Neko Case, and, uncharacteristically departing from tracks before their completion. She had just decided on House Fire by Someone Still Loves You, Boris Yeltsin, when Teddy popped into the frame.

“Respectfully,” Alison replied, “I will be unable to answer that quandary until three minutes and nineteen seconds have elapsed with my head on this table.”

Palms up, he bally-hoed her the space she needed, gesturing apologetically as he tucked himself out of the way. Alison did as she promised, hitting play on her phone and dipping into a deeply personal space. Broom was a comfort album for her, and, while she most appreciated its opus track in its natural habitat, she was willing to expedite in an emergency. The soft arpeggios floated sweetly over the lo-fi drums, diffusing a wave of calm outward from Alison’s slow, deliberate breath. When the verse moved into the riffy pre-chorus, she made a decisive fist. There must have been a mile between those two moments.

I coughed your name
I smoked all day
And I slept myself sleepy
I was sleeping it away

Don’t let it burn
Don’t get confused
Don’t let it get to you

When Alison emerged from her stasis, she found herself sharing the table with Dalton, McElroy, Ward, and Hall. She started in.

“No, the source can’t be revealed. Neither the intel nor the source can be trusted. And, I gave real intelligence in exchange.”

The group exchanged glances, but no sound of disapproval was emitted. Alison was calling the shots. If she had a strong feeling about something, they were usually happy to trust it. Surprisingly, nobody asked what she gave up in exchange for the lead. She took a moment to appreciate that fact, because she really didn’t want to say. Alison waited a beat for questions and continued.

“We’re going after the Rock.”

Alison had been sure that four individuals speaking in unison was a feat reserved for sitcoms and cartoons, and found herself slightly taken aback by the volley that followed– albeit not entirely surprised by the content. They all simply said “No.”

“Okay, but hear me out: yes,” she responded, a sly smile pushing through.

Rockefeller Library was home to the Chariot Raja, and was by far the trickiest hit to pull off in Chaturanga for a number of reasons. It was open and populated at all hours of the day and night. One of the quintessential locations on campus, it was a hot spot for tours, study, meetups, and hangouts. It was the home of many of Brown’s rare books and relics, including a museum’s worth of priceless fine art. This meant not only Chaturanga security, but real, actual security. This year, the Department of Psychology was borrowing a collection of dadaist pieces which were proudly displayed in the Altman Gallery. Their Raja shared a pedestal with Duchamp’s Fountain. Taking it would be an actual heist, and could put an asset in actual prison.

After the pregnant silence, Dalton spoke first. “Nobody actually goes after the Chariot Raja. We pick off their assets until they fizzle or sell out another faction.”

“That’s us,” chimed Paige. “We’re the faction they’re selling out. If we fail, we’re topsoil, and if we succeed, we’ve got a target on our backs.”

“Exactly,” returned Alison.

“Exactly what?” Andy McElroy fired back. “We want to draw fire?”

The no’s were more spread out than the last round, but they all came through. Teddy Dalton spoke first.

“We can’t win a numbers war. We don’t have the numbers. No faction has ever won outside of a Raja strategy.”

“Yet,” said Alison in a hopeful tone. “Elephant has three Rajas. We need to shake things up. Spread the pieces around the board a little.”

“What do you have in mind?” replied Brian Ward. The table took another beat because, not only was he actually speaking, but it looked like Alison was somehow winning him over.

“Glad you asked, Brian. When we have the Raja–”

“If we can get it at all,” Dalton interrupted. Alison was unfazed.

“When we have the Raja, we don’t come home.”

Dalton was getting heated. “The rules state that we have to display the acquired objective at our operations base.”

Alison smiled. “Well, we don’t come straight home. We take the long way. And take a little pit stop at Watson.”

After a pause to process the sheer shock of what she was saying, the energy changed. Ward was the first to laugh.

When the air cleared, Paige spoke. “Okay, let me make sure I smell what the Rock is cooking. You’re proposing that we somehow successfully steal the Chariot Raja, and then give it to the Cavalry.”

“Yes.”

“And then– what? Just sit back and watch the bloodbath between the other three factions?”

Alison folded her fingers together, resting her chin on their soft nest. “Yes.”

And there was only one thing to say to that.

“Spicy.”