“Let the pwnage begin!” Dottie yells from the other room. Henry grabs the two-liters from my arms and nods for me to go into the dining room ahead of him.
The dining room is crammed with a giant dark wood table and matching high-backed chairs covered in a regal, rich burgundy fabric stitched with golden thread. The walls are filled with bizarrely realistic, six-inch ceramic heads, all with frighteningly defined teeth. I scan the collection of fisherman, pirates, Beefeaters, and Middle Eastern stereotypes. Henry watches me and says, “They’re called Bossons. My grandfather collected them and passed the collection on to my dad. He scours eBay every day to find the rare ones. You know, someday this collection will all be mine.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I shudder exaggeratedly.
“You must be so proud,” I say.
“Aren’t you going to introduce the n00b?” someone yells from the table. I am the n00b, and I get introduced (and reintroduced) to the other four guys sitting around the table: Doug Emberly (Dottie’s boyfriend), Kent Holt (the funny guy from my bio class), Philip Shen (lanky with smoky, metal-framed glasses), and Eddie Cotes (whose greasy brown hair looks like it got caught in a blender).
“Welcome, n00b, fear for your life,” drips Eddie in a whiny voice, and I can’t tell if he’s joking until Dottie smacks him on his greasy head and says, “Don’t scare her away yet, Ed.”
“Yeah, Eddie,” pipes in Philip. “Jessie’s gonna help us make costumes for Fudwhalla. You better be nice to her, or she’ll make you wear tights. Right, Jessie?”
Philip is so open and friendly, I don’t want to say that I’m not sure yet if I can—or want to—make the costumes. Dottie sees my unsure look and asserts her Dungeon Master authority. “No more bullshit. We need to make some important decisions. What do you guys want on your pizzas?” The debate over the pizzas takes a half hour, and I try to be as easygoing as possible. (I never met people so passionate about pizza toppings.) Three pizzas are decided upon (half pineapple and ham, half pepperoni; half green pepper, half black olive, all onion; and half garlic and sausage, half plain cheese), and then another fifteen minutes are spent phoning it in, dividing up the money, and calculating the tip.
“What’s the total?” I ask.
“$33.60.”
“Okay,” I figure out, “we each owe $5.60 for the pizza, and that should be another six or seven dollars added for the tip. Let’s make it six, since that’s just another extra dollar each. Everyone put in $6.60. Unless the delivery guy is really fast, then we can each round up to seven dollars for a nice tip.”
You can hear the TV playing in the house next door, everyone is so quiet. They’re all staring at me. “What?” I demand.
“Now you see why I’ll never take a math test without Jessie again,” Henry offers to the table. “I got an A, by the way.” He tips an imaginary hat at me in thanks.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, it’s finally time to start playing Dungeons and Dragons. I pull out the character sheet I made with Dottie in study hall, and Kent Holt, who I’m sitting next to on one side (Henry somehow ended up on my other), pushes a Player’s Handbook my way. “You’ll probably need this. Or you can just ask me if you have questions. I have the book memorized.” I flip through the golden-covered book in front of me and marvel at how someone could (and would) memorize the complicated text.
“So do I,” Philip says, trying to sound impressive.
“Oh yeah? Then what script does the gnome language use?”
“Dwarven, duh.”
Dottie interrupts, “Can you put away your geek dicks for a second so we can start playing?”
Philip grumbles, but Kent mouths to me, “I so know more than he does.”
Dottie starts the adventure like a storyteller sharing a tale. “Your party wanders into a town square, elaborately decorated for what looks to be a celebration or festival.”
“Is there a pub?” Eddie interrupts.
“Of course,” Dottie answers. “A sign for the Leaky Bucket is visible from where you stand.”
“To the Leaky Bucket!” Eddie cries.
“The Leaky Bucket!” repeats everyone else (me not included).
“Very well. You enter the Leaky Bucket.”
“I order an ale,” Eddie interrupts again.
“If you insist on interrupting the DM, you may soon find yourself struck blind by purple lightning.” Eddie zips his lips with his finger.
The adventure continues like this for a good twenty minutes, with everyone eating and drinking at the pub, then having to choose a slice of pie from cherry, peach, or kumquat. Naturally I choose kumquat because the name’s so great, as do Kent and Henry. Philip and Eddie choose cherry, and Doug peach. Dottie, who hides her head behind some strategically opened books standing upright on the table, picks up some dice and starts rolling. I look at Henry, but he just shrugs like he doesn’t know what Dottie’s doing. Then Dottie peeks her head over her blockade with a wicked grin. “Roll for initiative.”
I whisper to my guru, Kent, “What does she mean ‘roll for initiative’?”
“You’re just rolling a twenty to see what order we go in.”
“Order for what?”
“Something big. Whenever the DM says ‘Roll for initiative,’ you know something big is going to happen.” Kent hands me a blue frosted, twenty-sided die (a “twenty”) and tells me to roll.
“Fifteen,” I say. “Is that good?”
Kent tries to explain that it’s not good or bad necessarily, depending on when you want to go and where you want to be in the fight. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I nod so I don’t look like an idiot. (I feel weird that I’m the idiot in this situation, being at a fake pub and all.) He complicates it even further by telling me to add my modifiers, but I figure out that if I just pause for second, he’ll do it for me.
We go around the table and tell Dottie our initiative numbers. I’m embarrassed to say that my heart is beating heavily in my chest with anticipation. Will Imalthia have to fight? Could she get hurt? Could she hurt someone else? My excitement momentum is broken by the doorbell.
“Pizza!” cries Doug, and he stumbles out of his giant chair with the money in hand.
I call after him, “It’s right on time, so you can give the guy all of it!”
“Are you like this in restaurants?’ Henry asks me. “Timing the waiters and docking their tips if they don’t show up fast enough?”
“Depends on how hungry I am.”
Doug drops a stack of pizza boxes on the table. There’s a mad dash for the pizza, but no one needs to worry since we ordered three extra larges. We pour our drinks, and when we’re about settled, Dottie asks, “Are you ready to get hurt?”
“Ask your NPCs!” Philip cackles, and everyone (except me) laughs.
“Non-player characters,” Kent tells me, which still makes no sense.
Henry explains, “NPCs are like the extras on a movie set. The Dungeon Master controls them, and we fight them or talk to them or steal from them, etc.”
“Got it.” I love the way Henry and Kent are helping me learn the game. It feels like they’re protecting me from something. Kind of romantic. Except only from Henry. Not from Kent. At least I hope not.
Any romance I was feeling for all of two seconds has now turned to sheer violence. We’re in a battle with a group of orcs that overheard us talking in the pub and didn’t like us eating all of their kumquat pie. Everyone has their turn (initiative) to tell the DM what they want to do. We have to say which weapon we plan to use (if any), who we want to hit, and how we want to do it. Luckily I don’t have to go first, and I listen to Philip’s and Doug’s turns. When Dottie gets to me, I’m pumped. Finally a fight!
“I take out my sword,” I say, “and I go after orc number two.” After that, I roll the twenty to see if I hit him. According to Dottie, my sixteen is high enough that I do, and then I get to roll. . . . I do, and then I get to roll another die to see how much damage I do to him. Everyone in
the game has a certain number of hit points, which are like life points. When someone does damage to you, you lose hit points. If you lose enough of them, you can die.
We go around the table and take turns until all of the orcs are dead (except for one who runs away like a wuss). Most of us escaped unharmed, except for Eddie (who, Dottie informs me, my character accidentally hit with my sword when I rolled a one, the crappiest roll you can get).
“That was so fun,” I can’t help but announce to the table. “I am definitely playing again next week.”
Everyone looks at me like I’m a freak. “We just got into a bar fight. We don’t even know why we’re in this town yet,” Eddie snorts.
“No need to be a scrote, Eddie,” Dottie comes to my defense. “She’s never played before. She doesn’t know.”
“Yeah, you’re just pissed ’cause she jacked you up.” Philip laughs.
“Whatever. So what’re we doing now?”
While Dottie continues her storytelling, Henry leans over and whispers, “You did great. Nice wielding of the sword.” He bumps my shoulder with his. It was just a quick bump, so it probably didn’t mean anything. Did I want it to?
I am completely immersed in the game, in my character, Imalthia, when my cell phone goes off. It’s Barrett, calling to say he’s coming to pick me up now so he can go to bed because he has work tomorrow. I look at my cell phone and see it’s 11:45. “I can’t believe it’s this late,” I say.
“Yeah. I guess we should leave off here. Everyone’s getting picked up at midnight, anyway,” Henry says as he starts cleaning up half-empty cups and pizza boxes.
“Not me,” Eddie sings.
“That’s because you live next door, Eddie,” Dottie deadpans.
I help stack books, return dice to their proper pouches, and carry the used plates and napkins into the kitchen. Dottie and Henry follow with the rest of the garbage. My cell phone rings, and I know that Barrett is outside waiting for me. “That’s my brother,” I tell the room. “I better go. Thanks so much for inviting me.” I look at Dottie and then at Henry.
“No prob, girlfriend.” Dottie sticks her hand out in a gesture to receive a five, and I smack her hand. “All right. So I’ll see you in study hall, and we can discuss the possibility of costumes?”
My phone starts buzzing again, and I hurriedly leave the kitchen to shut it off. I call back to the kitchen, “See you guys at school! Thanks again,” and to Philip, Eddie, and Kent, “See you guys. That was fun,” and they mumble their good-byes as I step into the silent night air.
Barrett must have dropped Chloe off before he came to get me because the front seat is empty. I slide in and buckle my seat belt. “Thanks for driving.”
“No worries, mate,” Barrett says. “Did you have a good time doing . . . whatever you were doing?” He eyes me suspiciously.
I think for a moment about the dice rolling, name calling, pizza eating, and the complete and total out-there-ness of the night. “Yeah,” I finally declare, “I really did.”
chapter 29
I SPEND SATURDAY WITH MOM, going over pattern-making, just in case. I still haven’t decided whether I want to make the costumes for Fudwhalla, partly because I’m afraid I’m not a good enough seamstress, but mostly because of the fact that if I make those guys clothes, I am definitely in. And I don’t mean “in” in the way that “in” is supposed to mean, which is what scares me. This is definitely NOT the in-crowd or the A-List, but it might be a crowd I want to be in. Not sure.
Mom teaches me to make a more elaborate style of skirt, complete with pleats, longer, and lined. It takes us all day to chalk the patterns onto the fabric (a dramatic purple velvet), cut them out, and sew. When it’s finished, the skirt looks semi-professional, although the dark, brooding fabric may help hide flaws. (Note to self if I sew the medieval costumes: Use dark fabrics.)
My dad pops into my room while we sew. “So—sew?—So how did it go last night? Slay any dragons? A beholder, perhaps? Come across any nymphs?” Dad gives me a cheesy, knowing smile.
“Noooo,” I elongate the word to keep him in suspense. Plus, I don’t quite know what he’s talking about (except for the dragon, duh). “Just some orcs. And I kind of chopped a member of our party.” It almost feels like I’m bragging. Am I?
“Nice!” Dad drifts off into the fairyland in his head. “You’re not looking for a middle-aged dwarven cleric, are you? I’ve got some great healing powers. . . .”
“Dad, it was just my first time with these guys. I think it’s a bit premature for me to be inviting guests. Especially one of your advanced age.”
“Ouch,” Mom laughs. “I don’t think I like the idea of you playing Dungeons and Dragons with a bunch of teenagers. Isn’t that a bit icky?”
“Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll just have to find a group of adventurers my own age.” He playfully huffs out of the room.
“I really hope he’s not serious,” Mom says through clenched teeth where she holds two pins. She takes the pins carefully out of her mouth and stabs them into the pincushion tomato. “Better go start dinner. Chinese or Thai?”
Chinese food is always faster and the order is never wrong, but the Thai restaurant’s food is better. “Thai,” I say. “Cashew with tofu, please.
“Before you go, Mom, can I show you something?” She nods, and I pull open one of our ancient encyclopedias to a page I marked for costume ideas. “Do you think this would be hard to make?” The picture shows a man in tight pants and a flouncy shirt covered with some sort of vesty thing, and a woman in a corseted top worn over more flouncy sleeves and a very full, long skirt.
“Hmmm.” Mom takes the book onto her lap and studies the picture. “The guy’s outfit’s easy. We could find a shirt like that, I’m sure, use a woman’s if we have to. Buy some tights, and just sew a top to fit over the shirt. The woman’s is harder, but now you know how to make a full skirt. We’d have to fudge the corset—I haven’t really worked with underwire. Maybe we can try something with shoelaces?” She seriously considers our options, which is a little too committed for me.
“I was just wondering if it was possible. It’s nothing.” I think for a second that if I agree to make the costumes, I only have two weeks and now would be a great time to get started, but, “It’s just something I’m thinking about.”
“Well, let me know. I always love a good trip to the fabric shop.” She kisses me on the head and says, “I’m very proud of you, honey. Your skirt is beautiful. They all are. A chip off the old mom.” She beams, and leaves to “make” dinner.
Sunday morning, Barrett wakes me with a knock on my door. “Jess? You awake?” He pushes open my door with a composition notebook in his hands, and I dig the crust out of the corner of my eyes. Barrett drops onto my bed and bumps me upright. “Van’s coming by today to pick up his drum kit.”
“And I care why?” I ask, genuinely disgusted. I’m proud of myself for finally having that as my natural reaction to his name.
“I thought you might want one last jam session before they’re gone?” I look at my clock. It’s 8:15 A.M. I look back at Barrett and give a “What’s the deal?” shrug. “Dickhead came to the movie theater yesterday with some unsuspecting chick on his arm. I’ve been putting off telling him about, you know, but I couldn’t stand seeing him with another girl he might be diseasing. There was a line behind him, but he was picking his butt trying to decide between the five-dollar medium Coke or the $5.15 large, you know, being a cocky bastard. His girl, who looked way too young to be with him, was staring like a lovesick puppy at his smug face. I lost it.”
“Did you hit him?” I ask excitedly. I picture Barrett leaping over the counter, punching the crap out of Van’s too-gorgeous face.
“No. I didn’t want to get fired. Not because of that chode. He took his sweet time, and I took the opportunity to introduce myself to the girl. Her name was Maddie, and she goes to Westgate High, and blah, blah—she went on and on with her bubbly crap. I finally interrupted and said,
‘So, Maddie, did you know your boyfriend here has gonorrhea?’ The kid looks confused, but Van, he’s pissed and says, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ And I say, real calm, so my manager doesn’t suspect anything’s up, ‘Why don’t you ask Bizza how her trip to the clinic went yesterday? And then have a visit yourself, after, of course, you call every other poor girl you’ve screwed over.’ Van says, ‘Bullshit. Bizza’s just saying that ’cause I dumped her skinny ass and she’s all boo-hoo about it.’ I say, ‘Sure, Van. Bizza’s pretending to have gonorrhea to win you back. Such a turn-on, don’t you agree, Maddie?’ And Maddie just shakes her head in a disgusted no. Then Van tries to grab Maddie’s arm, but she shakes him off and says something I don’t hear. He’s all huffy and walks off, so I yell after him, ‘If you don’t tell them, I will!’ And he yells, ‘Piss off,’ and that he’ll come get his drums today. So, yeah . . .” Barrett looks dreamily off into the distance with a satisfied smile.
“Do you think he’s actually going to get himself checked out? And call those girls?” I can’t imagine that if a guy is such a jerk that he won’t even talk to a girl after she goes up to his bedroom, he’s actually going to call a bunch of girls about giving them an STD.
“He’ll go to a doctor for sure. He may be a selfish bastard, but his love for his johnson knows no bounds. Do I think he’s going to call the girls? Probably not. But check this out.” Barrett holds up the notebook. “Van’s lyric book. He left it in the basement.”
“What, did he write a song about every girl he screwed or something?” At this point I wouldn’t put it past him.
“That shit-for-brains couldn’t write a song to save his life. But he was quite thorough about other things.” Barrett flips to a page toward the back of the book. Neatly numbered, starting with one and continuing all the way onto the next page, is a list of girls’ names. “He kept track of every girl he ever hooked up with. I asked him once if he was having some sort of competition or something, but he said he did it so he didn’t accidentally hook up with the same girl twice. He thought that would be wasteful.”