Black Chalk

‘What does it matter why I don’t like pizza?’

Jolyon let his head fall back against the bed again and Chad relaxed, his fingers having been clenched to the armrest from the moment that word had been spoken. And then when the topic seemed to have receded, Jolyon spoke again. ‘I’ve seen you eat tomato sauce,’ he said. ‘And cheese. And bread. Which means it’s logically impossible for you not to like pizza.’ He raised himself onto his elbows and stared curiously at Chad.

Chad turned again in the chair, gathered his knees and hugged them in his arms. ‘It’s not about the taste,’ he said. He couldn’t find a good place for his limbs. He dropped his knees, crossed his legs.

‘What is it?’ said Jolyon.

Chad felt a ballooning sensation in his head. The alcohol, the surprising urge to tell. ‘Oh, shoot,’ he said, uncrossing his legs. ‘OK then, you see all this?’ he said, tapping a finger across his brow and down past the bridge of his nose.

‘All what?’

‘Scars!’ said Chad. ‘Craters and pits.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Jolyon lied. He squinted and pretended to see for the first time.

‘I was the first kid in class to get a zit,’ said Chad. ‘Thirteen years old, a big yellow sucker right between the eyes. It’s hard not to notice when everyone at school stares you right between the eyes.’

‘Every teenager gets spots. I had them quite bad for a while.’

‘No, Jolyon –’ Chad’s tone became full of voluminous certainty – ‘you didn’t have what I had or you wouldn’t be you. Trust me, that just wouldn’t be possible. Anyway, within a week I was covered. They grew fat and yellow and when they faded turned red. A sea of red, here and here and here.’ Chad dabbed at his chin, his cheeks, his forehead. ‘And there was always a fresh batch growing on top of the red sea, bright yellow bubbles.’ He paused, his body stiffened. ‘So when I think about it now,’ he said, ‘I guess Pizza Face is a pretty accurate nickname.’

Jolyon sighed and shook his head. ‘Kids are cunts,’ he said.

‘Yes, they are,’ said Chad. He nodded over and over. ‘And it didn’t stop at Pizza Face. There was Pizza Boy, Pizza Pie. Oh, and Chuck E. Cheese, which soon became Chad E. Cheese. And when I came into the room, invariably someone would ask, Who ordered delivery? I couldn’t even stand hearing the word . . . pizza. I don’t even like saying it now. And if a commercial came on TV, I’d start to burn with shame. And there are a lot of you-know-what commercials on American TV.’

Chad laughed, so Jolyon laughed too. ‘How long did it last?’ he asked.

‘I still get the occasional zit,’ said Chad, ‘but throughout high school was the worst, the names never went away until college. I guess over the last two years it cleared up. Perhaps it hasn’t looked so bad for a while.’

‘Didn’t you use anything? I thought they had good stuff for acne nowadays.’

‘Yeah, they do,’ Chad said. ‘Only this wasn’t acne, this was bubonic frickin plague.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I had some liquid stuff from a doctor, made my face stink and turn green. Loads of different pills. I tried a flesh-coloured cream but someone at school said I had make-up on. Or rather he shouted it out in the hall and everyone came running to see. Anyway, none of that crap really worked. Except the fleshy cream made me look better but I didn’t dare use it after the first day.’

‘So you really don’t like pizza at all?’

‘I guess maybe I liked it before I was thirteen. I don’t remember exactly. But in my head I’ve convinced myself now I can’t even stand the smell.’

‘So let’s order one,’ said Jolyon. ‘What better way to exorcise a demon than to tear him apart with your teeth? I promise you’ll like it. And if you don’t, I will personally trek to the kebab van and buy anything you like. With extra chilli sauce.’

VI(iv) They sat around the coffee table and ate from the box. Neither of them said anything until the last slice was gone. When he was done, Chad fell back into his chair and placed his hands upon his belly. ‘That was great. I feel great,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Jolyon.’

VII

VII(i) A new day. I stand at my window looking down along Seventh, as restless as a barn-sour horse. It feels as if I am poring over the pages of an atlas. The sun topples into the room, further urging me to leave this dank hermit’s cave.

In five weeks’ time we play again, our fourteen-year hiatus will be over. Did I really think I could escape? And if I can’t escape, if I have to play, I must be ready. Because if I can’t even face the outside world, what chance do I stand against the Game?