Your local game store is small, with a niche collection of the dorkiest tabletop and card games you’ve ever seen. Its backroom is even smaller. There is barely any room for the table in the center, or the four seats surrounding it. And is that the faint smell of mold, or is it just the rancid cottage cheese that the girl at the head of the table is having for a snack?
The girl has blonde hair done in neat braids and freckles spread over her face like a glitter spill in the disappointing DIY project of your childhood. She’s set up dorky folders vertically to block her papers. Is this not a cooperative game? Why are her papers blocked off from the rest of the table? You begin taking your hand out of your pocket with your intrusive urge to knock it down, but generously, you decide not to.
You move a greasy wisp of ginger hair out of your face. “So this is the children’s game you play.”
Freckles jumps in, pointer finger at the ready. “Okaaay, so Dungeons and Dragons is not actually a children’s game. Recently it’s been gaining traction, with the majority of players from all ages.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever. So this children’s game, right? You’re all adults and you’ve been playing this for how long? Ten years?”
Freckles says, “Actually, I started playing last year when I joined college—”
Your friend Amy claps her hands together and pipes up. The giant ribbon in her bleached hair twitches with her nervous movement. “Teddy is filling in for our missing player! He’s wanted to try Dungeons and Dragons for a long time now.”
“I never said that,” you rebuke.
All the people in the small game store backroom—which was to say, an astonishing total of three people, Freckles included—turn to look at you and it’s obvious they have the same thought in mind, Why are you here then? Amy lets out a nervous laugh that catches their attention.
“Can I speak with you all for a moment?”
They do a group huddle. You find out much later in life that what Amy told the three of them was something along the lines of: “Okay, so Teddy is my best friend and he’s just been going through a lot lately. It would mean a lot to me if we could let him play with us.” So they do, because no one can ever say no to Amy, including yourself.
Freckles slides a character sheet across the table to you. “Here’s your character, since you, uh, don’t have one of your own yet.”
You read over the character sheet. Halfling paladin.
“Uhh, do you have another one of these?”
“What’s wrong with that one?”
“This one’s for a girl. I’m not a girl.”
A guy who’s sipping on a Rockstar can shrugs. “That one’s all we got.”
You side-eye Rockstar Ryan with a glare, and he gives you a nonchalant look back. You look away first, losing the first of many competitions to come between the two of you.
The session begins.
Freckles takes on a more formal tone and narrates, “An exiled wizard who wishes to redeem herself to her peers. A traveling sorcerer who is simply looking to chase a thrill. You’ve taken on a dangerous mission, your third companion was eaten by a mimic last week, and worst of all, you’re lost and whatever danger pursues you is getting closer . . .
“. . . Luckily you’re not alone in this cave. You run into a paladin! Would you introduce your character, Ted?”
“Ah, sure. My name is—” You squint at your page. “Betty Bibble. This is fucking stupid. I’m not gonna be Betty Bibble.”
“Betty! The party stumbles upon you,” Freckles narrates. “What do they see?”
“Uh, I dunno. I’m a Halfling so, uh—I’m short. Says here I have dark hair, dark eyes, I guess I’m wearing armor.”
“Well . . . yes, but what else are you wearing? Do you have anything on you that shows something you like?”
You shrug. “Uh, ribbons, maybe? Ribbons are nice or something, I dunno.”
“The party runs into a dark-haired paladin with extra nice ribbons, made of the finest quality in all of Faerun . . .”
Three hours later, you can finally stop being referred to as Miss Bibble.
“So, did you like that?” Amy asks hopefully.
“Not really,” you respond and stand to leave.
Rockstar Ryan speaks up without having been asked his opinion, “Gee, I’m sorry to hear that you didn’t understand the game. Not everyone has the brains to enjoy it. Don’t take it personally.”
“What.”
“You heard me.”
You leave seething, with this injustice noted and your revenge plan already being schemed in your mind.
You’re crouched over the school library computer. You’ve been googling about DnD for two hours now:
how to play Dungeons and Dragons
how to become the best dungeons and dragons player
are half-dragon dragons?
why can’t I play a full dragon in dnd
No matter how you look at it, the way that the game works seems to be: you sit around a table and say that something happens and it happens? You don’t get it.
Maybe you should just quit. You’re just on your way out of the library when you cross a corner and nearly trip over a wheelchair, knocking books off of the lap of a girl you met last week.
You scramble back up into an upright position. “Oh sorry about that—Freckles?”
“What?”
“What?” you repeat.
“It’s Maisie,” she says, deadpan.
“Right. I, um, knew that.” You didn’t. You pick up her books and hand them to her. “A lot of books,” you think aloud.
“I’m reshelving. I work here. Are you looking for something?”
“No, I was just on my—” You think twice. “Actually. I, uh, could use some help with Dungeons and Dragons for our next session.”
She blinks at you, looking more spacey than usual. “To our . . . You mean, you’re coming back?”
Maybe this was a bad idea after all. “I mean, I don’t have to come back. Never mind, I actually have something to do—” You begin to turn.
“Wait wait wait wait—” Maisie holds on to the back of your shirt, and the weight of her wheelchair makes it very hard to get out of her grasp. “What’s the name of your character? Class and race? Backstory? Ideals? Flaws? Deepest desire? What’s a fear that keeps them up at night?”
“What—Hey, I have no fucking clue, okay? There’s so much of it, I honestly don’t know where to start.”
She nods sagely. “There’s a lot to handle. Why haven’t you asked me for help?”
“You’d help?”
“Of course, Ted,” she says, in a matter-of-fact tone. “We’d love to have you. Help me reshelve these books and I can help you brainstorm a character and backstory.”
Back at your table, you make room for her wheels.
“Do you have any ideas to start?” she asks.
“Don’t know. Anything but a girl though.”
“Can I ask why not? You honestly did seem like you were having a bit of fun playing Betty Bibble last time.”
“It wouldn’t suit me.”
“We don’t have to play characters that are similar to ourselves. Amy plays a middle-aged sorcerer dwarf man, and Ryan plays a half-dragon wizardess.”
“Hm,” you consider. “Actually, speaking of Ryan, I was hoping you could tell me some things about that half-dragon character . . .”
Maisie “Freckles” Sanders, with an impressive one year of nerd experience running games as a Dungeon Master, gives you very helpful assistance in building the perfect backstory to destroy Ryan. She also patiently explains the game to you, such as what dice to roll in certain situations and the difference between intelligence and wisdom. With her help, your character-building goes a lot faster than you’d imagine.
When you show up again to the backroom of the game store, you are fully prepared for war. The stapled stack of writing that you cradle in your arms like a newborn baby has been carefully crafted to perfection over the past two weeks.
You drop your handiwork onto the table. All twenty-one pages of character backstory, stapled, make a hefty thud against the wooden surface, right in the middle of Rockstar Ryan’s monologue.
“I’ll never get over the loss of my family who were killed in that explosion—What,” says Rockstar Ryan, dropping the shrill voice and posh accent as he breaks out of immersion, “the hell is that?”
“Well met, companions. Beatrice Bartholomew Bibble Esquire, Fifth of my Line, Blade of Silvanus, has returned. I hope you have not missed my presence much, as I’ve been grieving over my parents, who were tragically killed in an explosion.”
“Is all of that thing backstory? M-more importantly, did you just interrupt my monologue?”
Freckles gives you a small thumbs-up from behind her folders. Amy is beaming from ear to ear.
“Since I was but a young lass, I’ve fallen prey to dark forces that have stripped me of my true form and trapped me in this diminutive stature, a mere shadow of the glory I was.”
“Wait—go back to the parents bit—did you take my—Are you also copying the voice I use for this character?”
“Oh by the way, I’m your secret twin,” you say as you flip him off. “Kiss my arse.”
“What?” Ryan looks towards Freckles for support.
She shrugs. “First rule of improv. Oh, and Beatrice—roll for intimidation.”
A few weekly sessions in, you begin to get a hang of the game system. Rockstar Ryan doesn’t like you but can’t do anything about it, since Freckles and Amy are both ecstatic to see you play the game with such fervent enthusiasm. Although, you and you alone know that you’re only really here to savor the look on Ryan’s face when you prove him wrong so fantastically by playing your character well. Ah, sweet vengeance.
Amy finds you alone one day after a session.
“You know, I’m really glad to see you’ve been having fun, Teddy. To be honest, it’s been nice spending more time with you again. How long has it been since we’ve hung out like this?”
Not since childhood, you recall. Amy was the neighbor’s kid, so you grew up close with her. It hadn’t been until high school that you became more distant.
“It is nice to hang out with you again,” you admit, a bit shy.
When you tried to shut her out, Amy was as stubborn as a sunny day. She’d ask you to hang out over and over again, and when you said no, she’d be back with a new offer the next week, refusing to let you decay all by your lonesome like the potted hydrangea on the kitchen windowsill that no one had remembered to water for months.
“I feel bad,” Amy looks over as you continue to confess, “that you stuck with me all this time. I’d been bad to you back then, about keeping in touch even though you kept trying to reach out towards me. I’m—I appreciate that you never stopped trying.”
You feel ashamed. She looks constipated. Her lips pinch together but before they can shut all the way, a weighty breath escapes her and she spills. “I should tell you the truth,” Amy announces. “You know how your mom is good friends with my moms. Well, she comes over for tea and baking every Sunday, and we talk about you, like how you’ve been doing, and she—um—your mom told me you were seeing a psychologist and that was like half a year ago.”
“Oh. Oh . . . wow. She did that.”
“I asked. I was worried, and so was your mom, about you. I mean, she asked me to check up on you. So that’s kind of, a little bit of the reason why I invited you to this group. I was worried I’d pressured you into this. Did I?”
You have never been mad at Amy—you thought that was impossible—but the drumming in your head is proving you wrong. “I mean, I don’t know, maybe you did. I didn’t even want to play this stupid game with this stupid group and go along with all your stupid make-believe in the first place.”
Amy’s shoulders droop. “Teddy, you don’t mean that.”
“I don’t mean what? That you’re all fucking stupid? If you weren’t, you wouldn’t pretend you want me around.”
“What? We like having you around, Teddy. I like being around you.”
“Sure, you do, but not because you like me. That’s bullshit. You can’t like me because not even I like me. What you like is being around someone who’s worse than you, so you can play fucking Mother Mary. You like when I stand next to you because it makes you look perfect!”
There’s a silence that lingers like the foundations of decay between the two of you. You can’t read the look on her face, but it’s starting to look an awful lot like disgust. It’s unbearable.
“Do you need some space?” she asks quietly.
You throw your hands up. “You want to leave. Don’t let me stop you.”
You watch Amy walk away as though she were floating, the pleats of her skirt dancing behind her. When she reaches the stoplight, she looks back at you, gives you a sad little wave. There’s an ache where your heart is, and there it is, a reminder of why you distanced yourself from her:
You could never be like her.
You’ve stopped going to the sessions, much less spoken to Amy. On a particularly humid night, your craving for an ice cold energy drink brings you to your local 7-Eleven. Your iPod is blasting the newest album of the up-and-coming band My Chemical Romance on repeat, so you don’t notice anyone around you when you reach for your energy drink of choice. Your hand ends up underneath a rough and calloused hand, belonging to none other than Ryan. And really, you should have expected this—You were going for a Rockstar can.
“If it isn’t our paladin who hasn’t shown up to our campaign for the past three sessions—” his acidic words hit you like taurine— “Do you know how much trouble you’ve been causing us?”
You study the linoleum tiles by your feet. “Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” Your voice is hoarse and catches in your throat like a frog. How many days has it been since you’ve last spoken to a person? “I’m just here for the drink so I’ll be going—”
“Huh?” His tone changes to something much softer. “No, hey, I’m just joking. Ted, are you okay?”
“Yep.” You pick up the drink. But Ryan snatches the can from your hand.
The next thing you know, Ryan’s paid for both your drinks and convinced you into drinking it with him on a bench outside.
“When you stopped coming to the sessions, we thought something happened to you, you know?” he says. “Amy told us you just needed some time and you’d come back. But after a while you didn’t, and we started worrying. So, what happened?”
You swirl the can in your hand like it’s a wine glass. “I don’t like the game anymore.”
“Now, that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. You bought all the DnD handbooks that the game store had on their shelves. You even bought dice for Betty, and I know that stuff’s not cheap. You’ve gotten more into playing her than anyone I’ve ever seen get into it in just their first month of playing.”
You look Ryan dead in the eyes. “I only did all that to get back at you for saying I’d suck at DnD.”
Ryan bumps his elbow into your side. “Sure . . . Sure, you did. What’s the real thing that’s been bothering you?”
You take a swig of your energy drink. “Playing a character who’s so different from me keeps reminding me that I really don’t like myself.”
“Then just become more like your character in ways you like,” Ryan replies.
“Easier said than done,” you scoff. “Does playing a woman ever make you, like, feel weird about being a man?”
“Who said I’m a man?”
You’re completely caught off guard. You remember what Freckles said, We don’t have to play characters that are similar to ourselves. “But you’re not a woman.”
“Nope.”
Your brows furrow. “Then what do I call you?”
Ryan shrugs and grins, shoving his fists into the pockets of his basketball shorts. “Whatever you want.”
For the first time, you pay attention to their face, and notice he has dimples.
—Then the dimples disappear, and he becomes the Ryan you’re more accustomed to once again, the one without the nice smile. “Shoot! I totally forgot to get the ice cream that my sister asked me to buy for her.” He fumbles around in his pocket and takes out a ballpoint pen. “Before I go—hm, do you have something I could write on, or—?”
You’ve already tossed out the receipt for the drinks, but how are you supposed to expect someone would want to give you their number? You offer him the back of your hand, feeling as awkward as a virginal bachelorette from one of those period dramas Amy liked to watch. The nib tickles you as he writes, while his other hand holds your arm steady, and you’re just trying not to think about how it’s the first time someone has given you their number without the help of your mom.
“You can call me, in case you suddenly think of more things to say about the ‘feeling weird’ thing later. I wrote Maisie’s number there too. Anyway, come back, yeah? There’s still a chair saved for you.”
“Sure,” you manage to say. He’s still holding your hand. You pull away, feeling your cheeks grow warm. “Um, I’ll be there next week,” you say, meaning it.
Then, out of your mouth comes something that even you didn’t expect. “It’s been nice playing Betty with you all.”
Making up with Amy is easier than expected. You give a heartfelt apology, she forgives you for saying all those shitty things, and it’s almost like you two never fought at all. Walking back into the game room like nothing happened is awkward, but you suck your teeth and walk in anyway. Freckles crosses her arms defiantly when she sees you reappear after three weeks of absence, but lets you stay after a bribe of cottage cheese.
The campaign resumes.
“Have you decided who’s gonna get the magical glove when we find it?” asks Krone the dwarf sorcerer. (Amy speaks in a lower register.) “They say it grants any wish . . . with the exception of granting more wishes, anyway.”
Betty says, “I shall be using the glove to rid me of my loathsome curse and restore myself back to my true form. I long for a body that is my own.”
Melathia pleads, “Beatrice, I pray that you would let me have this artifact, so that I could reverse the terrible explosion that had me exiled from my community.”
“The explosion that killed our parents, you mean. You wish to revive them.”
“It’s the same gosh darn explosion. My wish would—how do you say—kill two rocs with one boulder.”
“Can I call dibs?” asks Krone.
“Stay out of it!” Betty and Melathia say in unison. Krone retreats.
“I regret to say that I’d still prefer to have the glove to lift my curse with, sister,” says Betty.
“Cold-hearted sister, you would abandon our parents?”
“Our parents are long dead, sister. And I know they’d be more content in the afterlife to know their child will live happy rather than miserable, as I am.”
“You selfish scoundrel! You would live only thinking of yourself without considering there are more immediate concerns that need attending to.”
“Do not speak about my issues as if it is less important than yours! Melathia speaks of bringing souls from the Land of the Dead to the Land of the Living, Krone speaks of pursuing the thrills that life has to offer, but none of you truly understand how it is to live the way I live—a prisoner in this flesh I reside in! I have spent a lifetime too long trapped in this cumbersome body that is not my own. My reflection in the looking glass makes my skin crawl. Some days I tolerate myself, and other days I feel as though I’ve ingested the deadly poison of a purple worm. You all talk of things that are dead and gone while denying me the right to truly live. I walk, knowing the world sees the thing I see in the looking glass, not what I feel I am, and I shudder. I live as I am dead!”
Melathia goes quiet. Then, Ryan says, “Wow.”
You break out of your immersion to find Freckles, Ryan, and Amy staring at you, with looks of pride at your first serious monologue of the campaign.
After the session, Amy asks you, “Where did all of that come from?”
“I have no idea,” you say, Teddy once again.
“You finally defeated the evil dragon and gotten the magical glove,” Freckles narrates. “Now comes the question you’ve been debating . . . Who gets the wish?”
Breaking out of character, you look at Rockstar Ryan. “Is this the part where we fight to the death for the artifact?”
“You can have it,” Ryan says with a shrug of their shoulders.
You look at him as if he’s been replaced by a changeling.
“I’m serious. Take the artifact. Your speech convinced me—” he switches into character with a dramatic flourish of his hand— “and I do not mind if my sister who I have fought side by side with through trials thick and thin gets to have this wish . . . And besides, Amy, Maisie, and I discussed it out of character and we all agreed that you’ve earned it.”
“You’ve been great to play with. We’re all proud of you for getting this far,” Freckles adds.
“Well, go on! Make the wish!” Amy says.
With a feeling akin to the childlike excitement of a young girl waiting to blow out her birthday candles, you make the wish to lift the curse.
Freckles clears her throat and narrates, “A soft light envelopes your body like a warm hug. Effortless as clay, your features mold into the version of yourself that you envision in your mind’s eye and understand yourself to be in your heart. Beatrice Bartholomew Bibble Esquire, you appear to the world as you, in your true form.”
Amy sets off the party poppers she’s been hiding under the table and cheers along with the others at the table. Your companions congratulate you. You struggle to maintain eye contact and your face feels hot, but it’s not a wholly unpleasant sensation, just a new one.
“And with that, Beatrice’s personal quest is finished,” concludes Freckles. “Are you going to continue playing her next week?”
You haven’t decided yet.
When you are back in your room, your chest still floats with the laughter and satisfaction of the night. You don’t remember ever being surrounded by a group of friends who cheered for you. The completion of Beatrice’s transformation felt like it has extended to you and given you strength, in a way. As you go to hang your coat up, you catch your reflection in the mirror perched on the wall.
You look happier than you were yesterday, but the face that peers back at you through the looking glass feels different than all the times before. The most disappointing thing is you look exactly the same. It was Beatrice that transformed, you hadn’t. At 19, you are still the same confused little kid who made clumsy incisions into your shirt to try and repurpose it into a skirt. You didn’t like how you looked in it, so you angrily tossed your DIY project out before anyone could find it.
The sudden level of introspection that has crept up on you makes you shudder. What were you supposed to do about all of this? There’s a reminder on your calendar for therapy next Monday. You can talk to your psychologist then, but you want someone you can talk to about this jumble of feelings now.A gaggle of weirdos come to mind, and you take a steadying breath before you dial their numbers, thinking about what you’re going to say to Amy, Maisie, and Ryan. To your surprise, you realize you trust them. They’ve welcomed you into their game room despite all the gloom and doom you brought into your initial meeting. And in turn, you think—no, you know— you’re ready to let them in.
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