“Yeah, what if it’s a draw?”
“If it’s a draw against a someone with similar ranking, pretty much no change. If you win against someone at least three hundred points below you, you’ll get nothing. A loss against someone three hundred points above you yields you no change in rating either, though.”
“I got it,” I said, staring at the coffee table. I brought my eyes up to him. “What is your rating?”
“I’m sitting around twenty-four hundred,” he said, trying to fight a smile.
I smiled for him. “Is that good? What are all the ratings?”
“Anything two thousand and up is considered an expert. Twenty-two hundred is a Chess Master. Twenty-four hundred is a Senior Master and the minimum you have to own to compete in the National Tournament.”
“Does it go higher?” I asked him.
“Yeah, a twenty-five-hundred rating is a Grandmaster. The current world champion sits at 2836.”
“That’s freaking amazing.”
“It really is, especially since you can beat me without even trying, Lily.” He smiled so wide and shook his head before taking another swig. “Freaking amazing.”
While he flipped through channels, I took out a pen and paper since it was all I was allowed to use in terms of communication with the girls. I wrote them a letter telling them how much I loved them, how I hoped they were doing as well as they possibly could be doing, and how I was fixing up the house. I even included pictures so they could see our progress. I wanted to give them hope. I wanted to show them I loved and cared for them. I wanted to let them know I was fighting for them.
When I was done, I sealed the envelope, placed a stamp, and walked toward the door to my bag near the window. I put the letter in my purse and just as I turned I saw Trace pacing outside my house.
“What the hell,” I whispered.
“What?” Salinger asked.
“It’s Trace. He’s outside in the rain. He looks crazy.”
Salinger stood. “Stay in here,” he said, opening the front door.
I followed him but stayed in the doorway.
“Who the hell are you?” Trace asked Salinger.
“What are you doing here?” Salinger asked, ignoring him. His hair grew drenched and stuck to his neck.
“I want to talk to Lily,” he answered.
“That’s not a good idea,” Salinger told him.
“Lily!” Trace yelled over Salinger’s shoulder. “Come talk to me.”
“What the hell was that note all about?” I yelled down my new porch.
The sound of rain punched against the thin tin of the roof.
“Come on! Come out here!”
“She’s not coming down here, dude,” Salinger said.
“I don’t understand why you went to the cops, Lily!” Trace yelled up at me.
I crossed my arms and leaned into the jamb of the door, my foot propping open the screen door.
“Trace,” Salinger said, “you took some pretty fucked-up pictures of her when she was obviously passed out. That’s really fucking creepy, man.”
Trace’s hands went to his head. “I didn’t know what I was doing!” he screamed at us. “I don’t even remember doing that.”
He made like he was going to come up the porch, but Salinger swung his hand out and pressed it gently against Trace’s chest. “No, stay where you are.”
Trace backed off. “You gotta believe me, Lily!” he yelled up at me.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Salinger beat me to it.
“Why are you stressing about this?” Salinger asked him.
“Dude, they’re trying to charge me with sexual assault.”
“You did!” I yelled at him in disbelief.
“I didn’t know I’d done it. I swear!” he answered me.
“You’re lying,” Salinger told him.
“Fuck you, dude, you have nothing to do with this!” Trace bit back at him.
“Any time a dude takes advantage of a girl, I make that my business. What did you expect when you came over here, huh? Even if she wanted to drop the charges, she couldn’t. The state picks them up even she doesn’t want to prosecute. They can’t have creeps like you running about town, can they?”
Trace looked like he wanted to murder Salinger. He sucked in air as if he tried to control himself, fisting his hands.
“Don’t, dude,” Salinger said. “I’ll drop-kick you before you even reach me. Just go home. Leave her alone. Take your misdemeanor and chalk it up as a life lesson. Maybe, you know, not take advantage of girls you drug? You know, maybe not drug them either, you prick?”
“She willingly took that blunt!” Trace tossed more my direction than Salinger’s.
Salinger bit out a caustic laugh. “You think we’re stupid? You fucking knew it was laced and kept your mouth shut. You drugged her! Think about how fucking gross that is! And we know you called CPS, asshole!” Salinger seemed to be losing his cool, so I scaled down the steps quietly. “You drugged her and accosted her and then have the fucking audacity to try and discredit her by calling CPS after she just lost her mom? You really are low, you know that? Scum of the fucking earth right here!” he yelled to no one, pointing at Trace. “If you were smart,” he spoke softly, eerily. “If you had even a brain cell left in your pathetic head, you would get out of here while you still had the chance before I show you exactly what I think of you.”
“Go ahead,” Trace said, puffing up his chest and bouncing on his feet. “Let’s go. I want you to hit me.”
Salinger pulled forward toward Trace. Trace’s eyes blew wide, not expecting Salinger to react that fast, I guessed. I luckily caught Salinger’s shoulder and brought him back toward me. We toppled down on the new steps, the edges of the wood still sharp and square, though. They scraped my back and stung pretty bad, but I kept my mouth shut. He fell between my legs and I wrapped both arms around his neck and chest.
“Stop,” I whispered in his ear. I could feel Salinger’s chest rise and fall with each deep, hurried breath. “This is what he wants. He’ll try to use this.” I raised my head. “Trace! I’m calling the cops,” I said, holding up my phone. “Should we add stalking? Threats?”
“Stupid bitch,” he bit out, making Salinger jump forward only for me to try to reel him back, which proved a struggle for me.
Trace took the hint then, knew I wouldn’t be able to hold Salinger back for much longer, and started hauling ass down the block.
“What a coward,” Salinger said, still struggling with me. He managed to stand.
“Stop,” I said, my heart pounding. I looped around him and placed both my hands on his shoulders, pushing him back. “Get inside.”
We loped up the steps, back into the house, and I went straight for our ’50s refrigerator, searching for an ice pack for what I suspected was a fast bruising back.
“You must be so tired of my shit,” I whispered into the quiet.
Salinger had closed the front door and was leaning on it, watching out the window. “What does that mean?” he asked, still staring into the yard.
I tied the bottom of my shirt right below my ribs and hissed when I placed the ice pack against my lower back. Salinger’s face turned my way.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I lied.
He stomped around the filling rain buckets to reach me. He led me back into the kitchen light and examined my back.
“Jesus, what is this from?”
“Why are you friends with me?” I asked him.
“Is this from falling back onto the steps?” he asked, examining me closer.
He went to the bathroom and rummaged through its little closet. He came back with a handful of bandages and a towel.
“Come here,” he said, quiet.
He leaned me over the countertop and tucked the towel he’d brought into the back waist of my shorts then ran the faucet and brought a dry rag under the running water. He wrung out the water and carefully pressed it against my back.
“It’s bleeding,” he said. “Not bad, but still.”