You Write What You Know, Right?

In a neighborhood like that you couldn’t help it. Everyone did. Whether or not you wanted to, joining meant survival. But once you were in, there was no way out. Most kids started around 13, younger if they showed promise early. Most either turned a blind eye or went so far as to encourage it. They were a fact of life in their neighborhood of suburban perfection. Behind the neatly trimmed shrubbery and picket fences lurked a subtle force that was dark and powerful. To the untrained eye their existence was unapparent. Most of them were holed up all day in their dark, dank lairs, busy in the purple glow of their computer screens. When they did venture out, you could mark them by the glint of opaque black protruding from their fanny packs. You were no one without that.

They could be found in the late hours of the night, terrorizing chat rooms and exercising their supreme control over the World of Warcraft domain. If an outsider set foot in their territory, they could expect to be beset by a mob wielding physics equations with unfailing accuracy and typing out fiery retorts on their graphing calculators. These were not the nerds of urban lore—one would find few asthma attacks among them. They were sophisticated. They knew well the mastery of Japanese animation and the inner workings of a computer.

For a few years now, Isaac had been their leader. He was tall and lanky, oily skinned and curly haired and when he spoke it was with a lisp that reminded Alex of the rustle of the wind between eucalyptus trees. A speech impediment was necessary for ascension to the higher ranks. Some came by it naturally, while a bold few faked it. Only the strongest reached the highest levels of their gang. It took years of dedication, of nonstop effort, of sweat and tears and blood. Many faltered in their journey, for one misstep or misspelling could cast you into the lowest depths of society.

Alex had always been desperate to enter the fold, but at last he had his chance. He was finally ready. His ever slipping glasses and unkempt hair only served to highlight his high GPA. Straight A’s were a must—for a B+ was worse than Guantanamo. Or dial up. Yet no matter how many years he had been on the speech and debate team, he lacked the stutter that could have taken him so far. His perfect teeth made retainers an impossibility, destroying doubly his chance at one day having a natural lisp.

He flicked his eyes upward, shaking his shaggy hair off his damp forehead. I can do this. His fingers danced across the keypad in a flurry of tapping as he squinted at the pixels of graphing calculator tetris. This was his last test. His glasses slipped down on his long nose as he began to lose it, the squares building higher and higher to the soundtrack of his jagged breathing. He groaned inwardly as the screen went dark and the words GAME OVER flashed across the screen to mock him. He looked up at Isaac and the second it took for the words to tumble out of his mouth seemed to take an eternity.

“Better than most, I guess.” Alex could see nothing but his lips, watching the words slowly form as the relief spilled over his shoulders in a wave.

“Does that…” Alex started.

“Yes.” Isaac cut him short as he often did, his lisp unexpectedly menacing.

“And when will—“

“Tomorrow. You’ll get it tomorrow.” He said with disinterest.

Alex eyed the purple fanny pack slung around Isaac’s thin hips. Isaac tucked his calculator into its limp pouch. “You are nothing without it. Take note: carry it everywhere. These things aren’t just for show.” Alex nodded. “You are done for now. Tonight will be your first true LAN party. Come prepared accordingly. Joe will come for you later. Do not make us regret this.”

The plain white writing on Isaac’s black t-shirt became a blur as he strode past. Alex slumped into a chair. It was a moment he had waited for for so long that now it seemed anticlimactic in its simplicity. After days of rigorous testing, of hours of DDR, World of Warcraft, computer repair, and running up hills with his Calculus books, it was over. He had become one of the elite: the Math club. For years they had waged bitter war against Drama Club. It was all encompassing, separating not only the actors and the mathletes but expanding to divide all. Calculus alone could no longer raise you to the standard of the Math club. In the race to choose a side, only the best would survive. You were either with them, or against them.

And now, Alex was one of them. He slid his tiny Zen mp3 player out of his pocket, nudging the tiny buds to fill his head with the electronic pulsing of Daft Punk. He sighed. It was over. He could hear his mother calling him from downstairs, but he shut the door, the posters of his favorite Anime characters staring at him from the its inside. He stepped over the precarious black clothing mountains to his bed. From his desk shone the bright light of his computer screen. He reached over and pulled the plug from the wall. He lay down, the steady beat from his earphones matching that of his still racing heart. The precisely labeled constellations taped to his white plaster ceiling swam in and out of focus. He considered getting up to continue his physics calculations. He was so near to the end, and the relaxation would do him good. But before he could muster up the energy to lift his torso, he drifted off. “I’m in,” he thought as he lost consciousness.