The Philosophers' Game

Chapter 7: No "I" in "Team"

Chapter 7: No "I" in "Team"

"What do you mean you didn't nominate Hypatia?" Plato shouted at Diogenes, who, sitting with arms crossed, looked equally as furious as his friend. At the moment, the entire Club was holed up beneath the Shack, with everyone except Plato sitting calmly around the unbalanced table. This was our first meeting since the homecoming dance - two weeks later, to be specific - and so far, it wasn't going well. Aristotle and now Diogenes had just denied having nominated me for homecoming, and Plato wasn't buying any of it. In fact, leaning over Diogenes with his fists clenched, he looked quite menacing.

Socrates was the one who finally stood up and took hold of the collar of Plato's shirt. "Calm down," he hissed at the blond, shoving him across the underground room. For a brief moment their shadows, which were being cast by the flickering flame in the oil lantern, morphed into monsters. "Why would they lie about this? I already told them about the threat you got in the mail a few weeks ago. We're all on the same page."

"Right. We agree that an outsider of the Club attacked you and Hypatia, and that he or she is inadvertently messing with our game," Aristotle added diplomatically, also aiming to appease Plato. "The question is, why does this person have it out for you?"

"And who," I muttered under my breath. That was the answer I was most interested in, at least.

After letting out a few deep breaths and smoothing down his hair and shirt again, Plato took his seat at the lamp-lit table between me and Socrates. Speaking over me, he reasoned curtly, "The only thing the two of us have in common is the popular group, as far as school is concerned. So whoever sent me the note and nominated Hypatia for homecoming queen probably wants to split up the group. He or she may even be a popular."

"Wait," I cut in, sitting up a little straighter on the rickety old bar stool and looking to him in confusion. "I thought the note was written in Socrates's handwriting style. What does it have to do with the popular group?"

"Nothing, really," Diogenes said flatly, answering for Plato. "But everyone knows that these two were best friends up until high school, when we started the game. It's just another possible connection."

I frowned, still uncertain. Realizing that four pairs of eyes were still trained on me, I explained, "You could be looking at this all wrong. Maybe Plato and I weren't the only targets. Maybe Socrates was one, too."

 Plato was scowling again. "Why would someone go after Socrates?"

"Well, why would someone go after you and me?" I shot back. "How can we know for sure?"

For a minute, silence held back the conversation. We all just stared blankly at the lantern, which hissed as if it were about to burn out at any moment. Aristotle, acting as a voice of reason yet again, said, "Well, this meeting is obviously going nowhere. We should call it quits for tonight, unless someone wants to debate something."

Socrates cleared his throat and stood up. "Henry Ford once said, 'Obstacles are those frightful things you see when you take your eyes off your goal.' I would like to remind you that our goal is to spread wisdom and thereby achieve Victory. Why look at an interfering outsider as a threat, as an obstacle, when you could use said outsider as a tool to reach that goal? Making a deal with the devil isn't prohibited, as far as I'm concerned."

He paused and glanced at each of us in turn for dramatic, thought-provoking effect. No one flinched. In a lower, harsher voice, he concluded, "Forget about the things you can't control and just play the goddamn game. Meeting's over." And then the master turned on his heel and swiftly ascended the earthen steps leading to fresh air.