Chapter One #2
The reflective shine on the Fortune Teller’s crystal ball. Her wavy gown and chin held high. Her long gray hair. And her sparkling gray eyes, clouded, mysterious, and not particularly focused—suggesting that, while she can see multiple futures, her own vision isn’t clear.
I’m well aware that blind eyes aren’t always so obvious.
“All right,” Bryce says, holding up his tablet and quieting all the side conversations.
“We’re up and running. Tonight it’ll be Sally versus Leslie.
Christopher versus Mischa. Dakota versus Shakir.
Roy versus Lucas.” That seems to be everyone…
except me. Wait, we have an odd number tonight? “And Iris versus Declan.”
Again? I’m not surprised, but I am confused.
While the others stand from where they’ve been sitting, shuffling around to new tables to face off against their opponents, I walk over to Bryce. “Um, I don’t think Declan is here.”
“Oh, he’s sorting some stock for me. You can go grab him.”
“He works here now?”
“A couple hours when I can use the help,” Bryce says, still fidgeting with the tablet.
In the back, there’s a closet-sized storage room where Bryce shoves all incoming restock shipments.
The door is ajar, and I find Declan standing next to a stack of cardboard boxes, with the one on top flapped open, revealing all the dice packets that will be added to the display shelf, but he seems to have been halted mid-task with a somewhat intense phone call.
One that I’m uncomfortable interrupting.
I’ve never seen Declan “The Dice Love Me” Weber look so serious.
Although I do see him almost every single week in that same yellow hoodie with a single stripe across the chest, like some unofficial game-night uniform he always dons.
It’s either that or the matching green one.
I should start flipping a coin to guess what outfit he’ll show up in each week.
Declan glances in my direction, and his hunched shoulders relax as if he’s pretending he was unbothered the whole time. He turns around, voice lowered so that I can’t hear his parting words as he hangs up the phone, before facing me again.
“Game time?” He arches an eyebrow. “You again?”
“You again?” I cross my arms. I can never get a read on this guy.
“Some random generator,” Declan mumbles.
“I was just thinking that.”
He trails behind me back to our table, grabbing his Space Pirate—the cliché dude character of choice—deck from the front counter. “I hope you’re feeling confident, because I can already tell the dice are going to love me tonight.”
“If you say that every night, you can’t possibly be right.”
“The more often I say it, the more times it’ll be right.”
I smirk. “Sure, because that’s how it works…”
The first thing Declan removes from his character box is a slim little softcover notebook, where he’s logged all his match stats, and he flips it open past the other competitors to a page with my name at the top.
I crane my neck to read it, and he’s all too eager to hold it up for me to get a better view.
I scrunch my nose at the shortage of tallies in my column of overall wins compared to his. He’s got a clear lead over me.
This boy loves a spreadsheet. He’s also broken these stats down even further to indicate how many times various gameplay situations have been enacted, such as when a player has gotten to use their character’s full power—a somewhat rare Yahtzee-style move when the designated character number is rolled from all the dice.
Threes for his Space Pirate. Ones for my Fortune Teller.
Declan sets his notebook aside and shuffles his action cards, bending them in the center as he does so, like he’s preparing for a poker match. I’m much more careful, sliding them side to side, not wanting to jeopardize the character art.
With our dice and tokens also displayed before us, we’re finally ready to start our match.
My hearing aids don’t usually pick up much background noise, but here, when there’s multiple games going on at once, I love that I’m clued in to the sounds of clattering dice and cards slicking off the tops of decks.
We each roll a die to see who will play first, and I get the higher number.
Then I start by drawing an action card. Declan makes a mark in his notebook, which makes my teeth clench. “Are you going to do that for every single move?”
He nods, not looking up at me. “Well, a while ago, you made some dig about winning more often than me…which, as we can see”—he gestures to the page in front of him—“the numbers clearly dispute.”
“That total can’t be right,” I protest.
“You should’ve kept your own record. But you claimed you were winning because you actually strategize. Which is why I started keeping track of how often you led with an action or a roll, and whether it was successful. I got to say, you’re getting really predictable.”
“So are you, Yellow.”
“Yellow?” He tilts his head and glances down at the cards on the table, not realizing my comment is on his attire.
“It’s your turn; roll the freaking dice already.”
Which he does, starting off with an initial attack that my action card only partially thwarts. I groan and lower my cardboard health-status dial. Declan makes yet another mark in his notebook.
“Just noting my opening success,” he explains. “In order to calculate the probability and such.”
I roll my own dice, with a less fruitful yield, but one that at least hits him with three points of damage in conjunction with my aforementioned action card. It’s all about future planning.
“I’m decidedly not a fan of probability,” I admit.
My mind drifts to genetic probability, but I do my best to not think about that, even though those odds are never far from my mind. Right now I can’t be distracted against a formidable opponent, one who plays the game as if nothing can touch him.
“You’ve got to take a deep breath.” Declan exhales for show. “And go along for the ride. Make the best of wherever the dice take you.”
“I’m not the one who should be rethinking their strategy.”
He laughs. “The numbers disagree.”
Yet his Space Pirate has an unsuccessful roll, an attack that my Fortune Teller can easily defend against without any damage. Then, on my turn, I leverage another action card to enhance the strength of future rolls, once again playing the long game.
I’m eager for this to be one of those nights where Declan puts too much faith in some perceived rolling advantage and fails miserably, but the dice really do seem to favor him, and tonight is no exception.
For the next hour, we continue back and forth, launching attacks, mounting defenses, playing special character tricks and other effects, and—I’ll reluctantly admit—having a good time.
Declan’s easy to be around, even if he frustrates me with every little tally he adds to that obnoxious notebook.
It’s only a matter of time until one of our characters’ health statuses drops to zero, concluding tonight’s battle. It’s strange to see health conceptualized as simply as that, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t giddy watching Declan’s number continue to fall.
My next roll is a decent attack, so maybe, just maybe, I’ve got a chance of winning this thing.
He senses that too. “The dice must be feeling sympathetic to you,” he admits, reducing the cardboard tracker by another three points, putting him at a dangerously low number that he might not manage to recover from. “At least I’m still hanging on.”
“Your love of numbers feels at odds with how much you’re willing to trust the dice.”
“I’m happy being a contradiction. Keeps you on your toes.”
“Not for long.” I slap down my latest action card, which gives me the opportunity to double my next attack and put him out of his misery. If…my next roll allows the ability.
I toss my blue-and-gray dice onto the table and fixate on each disappointing bounce. Nope, nope, nope.
Declan clings to his momentary success, throwing his six red-and-gold dice out with a flourish, his eyes widening as each turns over to reveal a perfect set of matching threes.
He sits there, silent.
I jump up from my chair, shaking my head furiously, and my ponytail slaps me in the face. “Did you sell your soul to these dice or what?”
Declan is still staring at the table with utter amazement.
On the first throw. With no card-manipulation effects or anything.
He achieved a Hail Mary roll that activates his Space Pirate’s most powerful attack, dealing me undefendable damage that wins him what, ten seconds ago, was an unwinnable game.
I didn’t notice that two tables have already cleared and gone home for the night, but the others still here get up to look at what’s happened. Roy claps Declan on the back, congratulating him on his luck.
Declan casually nudges his attack token in my direction. Calculating the damage, I lower my health status to negative three before tossing the cardboard tracker back onto the table and slumping into my seat. “I want a rematch.”
He doesn’t start packing up his game yet, leaving the victorious threes between us. “I’m sure that’ll happen soon enough.”
“Well, there’s just this summer, because then I’m off to Indianapolis, where I finally get to find someone else to play against.”
He looks up from adding more stats to his notebook and squints at me. “You’re going to college in Indy?”
I lean back, tilting up my chin defensively. “Yeah?”
I applied to a couple different schools, including here in Nebraska, but ended up choosing to cross the Midwest, especially after getting a solid scholarship. I’m not going quite as far from Omaha as Amelia did, but I wanted to stray away from home too.
Declan runs a hand through his dark hair. “…Go Dawgs?”
My face drops. “Stop.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he makes a dramatic showing of adding another tally to his overall-wins column. “Oh, man, Butler doesn’t know what’s coming.”
We’re going to the same college this fall? We don’t even go to the same high school right now. It’s not that big of a university. Seriously, what are the odds?
Freaking probability.
I push my palms down on the table to stand, quickly packing my game components back into the box and sending a text to my parents asking if one of them can come pick me up.
“Guess I’ll be stuck playing with you and your ridiculous dice. Hopefully, their board game club has a bigger pool of people so we don’t have to play each other as often.”
Declan smiles. “Do you want a fresh page, or should I just continue our current stats, seeing as I’m already in the overall lead?”
I bite my lip. “I don’t care about your notebook,” I lie.
On my way out the door, Bryce calls out from behind the counter. “Hey, don’t forget we’ve got a couple upcoming playthroughs on the calendar to test all your guys’ contest entries before the expo. How’s your game coming along?”
“I’ve got everything all outlined,” I say. “But I’ll have to wait until after finals next week to put the actual cards and design together. How professional does it need to look to stand a chance?”
“Don’t worry, the judges really do favor concept over polish. There was some dude last year who spent thousands of dollars dressing up his terrible Settlers of Catan–knockoff concept, and then it didn’t place at all. Just be as creative as you can be and not, like, messy, and you’ll be good.”
I didn’t realize Declan had walked up beside me. “Did you ever show me what you’ve been working on?” he asks.
“No, but I’ll tell you one thing.” I give a pointed smile. “It doesn’t include dice.”