Check & Mate – Ali Hazelwood.

PRAISEFORALIHAZELWOOD
“Aliterarybreakthrough….TheLoveHypothesisisaself-assureddebut,andwehypothesizeit’sjustthefirstbitofgreatnesswe’llseefromanauthorwhosomehowhastheaudacitytobebothanacademicpowerhouseanddivinelytalentednovelist.”
—EntertainmentWeekly
“Contemporaryromance’sunicorn:theelusivemarriageofdeeplybrainyanddelightfullyescapist….TheLoveHypothesishaswildcommercialappeal,butthequietersecretisthatthereisaspecificaudience,madeupofalloftheOlivesintheworld,whohavedeeply,ardentlywaitedforthisexactbook.”
—ChristinaLauren,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthor
“Withhersophomorenovel,AliHazelwoodprovesthatsheistheperfectwritertoshowthatscienceissexyashell,andthatlovecan‘STEM’fromthemostunlikelyplaces.She’smynewestmust-buyauthor.”
—JodiPicoult,#1NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofWishYouWereHere
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—MarianaZapata,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthor
“Gloriouslynerdyandsexy,withon-pointcommentaryaboutwomeninSTEM.”
—HelenHoang,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthor,onLoveontheBrain
“STEMinists,assemble.Yourworldisabouttoberocked.”
—ElenaArmas,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthor,onLoveontheBrain
“Thistacklesoneofmyfavoritetropes—GrumpymeetsSunshine—inafunandutterlyendearingway….Ilovedthenodstowardsfandomandromancenovels,andIcouldn’tputitdown.Highlyrecommended!”
—JessicaClare,NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthor,onTheLoveHypothesis
“Pureslow-burninggoldwithlotsofchemistry.”
—PopSugar
“Abeautifullywrittenromanticcomedywithaheroineyouwillinstantlyfallinlovewith,TheLoveHypothesisisdestinedtoearnaplaceonyourkeepershelf.”
—ElizabethEverett,authorofALady’sFormulaforLove
“Smart,wittydialogandadiversecastoflikablesecondarycharacters….Arealistic,amusingnovelthatreaderswon’tbeabletoputdown.”
—LibraryJournal(starredreview)
“Hilariousandheartwarming,TheLoveHypothesisisromanticcomedyatitsbest….Aperfectamalgamationofsexandscience,suretoappealtoreadersofChristinaLaurenorAbbyJimenez.”
—ShelfAwareness
“Withwhip-smartandendearingcharacters,snappyprose,andaquirkytakeonafavoritetrope,Hazelwoodconvincinglynavigatesthefraughtshoalsofacademia.”
—PublishersWeeklyAlsobyAliHazelwoodADULTNOVELS
TheLoveHypothesis
LoveontheBrain
Love,Theoretically
ADULTANTHOLOGY
LoathetoLoveYouG.P.Putnam’sSons
AnimprintofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,NewYork
FirstpublishedintheUnitedStatesofAmericabyG.P.Putnam’sSons,animprintofPenguinRandomHouseLLC,2023
Copyright?2023byAliHazelwood
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VisitusonlineatPenguinRandomHouse.com
LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData
Names:Hazelwood,Ali,author.
Title:Check&mate/AliHazelwood.
Othertitles:Checkandmate
Description:NewYork:G.P.Putnam’sSons,2023.|Audience:Ages14yearsandup.|Summary:Wheneighteen-year-oldMallorybegrudginglyagreestoreturntochessinonelastcharitytournament,hersurpriseupsetagainstNolanSawyer,thereigningworldchampandbadboyofthechessworld,setsheronawhirlwindadventureassherediscoversherpassionforthegame.
Identifiers:LCCN2023017578(print)|LCCN2023017579(ebook)|ISBN9780593698440(librarybinding)|ISBN9780593619919(tradepaperback)|
ISBN9780593619926(epub)
Subjects:CYAC:Chess—Fiction.|Interpersonalrelations—Fiction.|Familyproblems—Fiction.|LCGFT:Novels.
Classification:LCCPZ7.1.H39724Ch2023(print)|LCCPZ7.1.H39724(ebook)|DDC[Fic]—dc23
LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2023017578
LCebookrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2023017579
Coverartbylilithsaur
CoverdesignbyVikkiChu
BookdesignbyKristindelRosario,adaptedforebookbyAndrewWheatley
Interiorart:Chessart?JuliPaper/Shutterstock.com
Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Anyreferencestohistoricalevents,realpeople,orrealplacesareusedfictitiously.Othernames,characters,places,andeventsareproductsoftheauthor’simagination,andanyresemblancetoactualeventsorplacesorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.
Thepublisherdoesnothaveanycontroloveranddoesnotassumeanyresponsibilityforauthororthird-partywebsitesortheircontent.
pid_prh_6.1_145334045_c0_r0Contents
Cover
PraiseforAliHazelwood
AlsobyAliHazelwood
TitlePage
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
PartOne:Openings
ChapterOne
ChapterTwo
ChapterThree
ChapterFour
ChapterFive
PartTwo:MiddleGame
ChapterSix
ChapterSeven
ChapterEight
ChapterNine
ChapterTen
ChapterEleven
ChapterTwelve
ChapterThirteen
ChapterFourteen
ChapterFifteen
ChapterSixteen
ChapterSeventeen
ChapterEighteen
ChapterNineteen
ChapterTwenty
ChapterTwenty-One
ChapterTwenty-Two
ChapterTwenty-Three
ChapterTwenty-Four
ChapterTwenty-Five
PartThree:EndGame
ChapterTwenty-Six
ChapterTwenty-Seven
ChapterTwenty-Eight
ChapterTwenty-Nine
ChapterThirty
ChapterThirty-One
Epilogue
Author’sNote
Acknowledgments
AbouttheAuthor
_145334045_ToSarahA.andHelen,who’llalwaysbemyfaves.Prologue
“Iamreliablyinformedthatyou’reaGenZsexsymbol.”
Inearlydropmyphone.
Okay:Idodropmyphone,butIsaveitbeforeitsplashesintoabeakerfullofammonia.ThenIglancearoundthechemistryclassroom,wonderingifanyoneelseheard.
Theotherstudentsareeithertextingorputteringaroundwiththeirequipment.Mrs.Agarwalisatherdesk,pretendingtogradepapersbutprobablyreadingBillNyeeroticfanfiction.Ahopefully-not-lethalsmellofethanoicacidwaftsupfrommybench,butmyAirPodsarestillinmyears.
Nooneispayingattentiontomeorthevideoonmyphone,soIpressPlaytoresumeit.
“ItwasonTimemagazinetwoweeksago.Onthecover.Apictureofyourface,andthen‘AGenZsexsymbol.’Howdoesthatfeel?”
IamexpectingtoseeZendaya.HarryStyles.BillieEilish.TheentiretyofBTS,crammedonthecouchofwhateverlate-nightshowtheYouTubeautoplayalgorithmdecidedtofeedmeafterthepHexperimenttutorialended.Butit’sjustsomedude.Aboy,even?Helooksoutofplaceintheredvelvetchair,withhisdarkshirt,darkslacks,darkhair,darkexpression.Intenselyunreadableashesaysinadeep,seriousvoice,“Itfeelswrong.”
“Itdoes?”thehost—JimorJamesorJimmy—asks.
“TheGenZpartiscorrect,”theguestsays.“Notsomuchthesexsymbol.”
Theaudienceeatsitup,clappingandhooting,andthat’swhenIdecidetoreadthecaption.NolanSawyer,itsays.There’sadescriptionexplainingwhoheis,butIdon’tneedit.Imightnotrecognizetheface,butIcan’trememberamomentinmylifewhenIdidn’tknowthename.
MeettheKingkiller:TheNo.1chessplayerintheworld.
“Letmetellyousomething,Nolan:smartisthenewsexy.”
“StillnotsureIqualify.”Histoneissodry,ithasmewonderinghowhispublicisttalkedhimintothisinterview.Buttheaudiencelaughs,andthehostdoes,too.Heleansforward,obviouslycharmedbythisyoungmanwho’sbuiltlikeanathlete,thinkslikeatheoreticalphysicist,andhasthenetworthofaSiliconValleyentrepreneur.Anunusual,handsomeprodigywhowon’tadmittobeingspecial.
IwonderifJim-Jimmy-JameshasheardwhatI’veheard.Thegossip.Thewhisperedstories.Thedarkrumorsaboutthegoldenboyofchess.
“Let’sjustagreethatchessisthenewsexy.Andyou’retheonewhomadeitso—therehasbeenachessrenaissancesinceyoustartedplaying.Someonewasrunningcommentariesofyourgames,andtheywentviralonTikTok—ChessTok,mywriterstellmeit’scalled—andnowmorepeoplethaneverarelearninghowtoplay.Butfirstthingsfirst:youareaGrandmaster,whichisthehighesttitleachessplayercanachieve,andjustwonyoursecondWorldChampionship,against”—thehosthastolookdownathiscard,becausenormalGrandmastersarenotasfamousasSawyer—“AndreasAntonov.Congratulations.”
Sawyernods,once.
“Andyoujustturnedeighteen.When,again?”
“Threedaysago.”
Threedaysago,Iturnedsixteen.
Tenyearsandthreedaysago,Ireceivedmyfirstchessset—plasticpieces,pinkandpurple—andcriedwithjoy.I’duseitalldaylong,carryiteverywherewithme,thensnuggleitinmysleep.
NowIcan’tevenrememberthefeelofapawninmyhand.
“Youstartedplayingveryyoung.Didyourparentsteachyou?”
“Mygrandfather,”Sawyersays.Thehostlookstakenaback,likehedidn’tthinkSawyerwouldgothere,butrecoversquickly.
“Whendidyourealizethatyouweregoodenoughtobeapro?”
“AmIgoodenough?”
Moreaudiencelaughter.Irollmyeyes.“Didyouknowyouwantedtobeaprochessplayerfromthestart?”
“Yes.IknewallalongthattherewasnothingthatIlikedasmuchaswinningachessmatch.”
Thehost’seyebrowlifts.“Nothing?”
Sawyerdoesn’thesitate.“Nothing.”
“And—”
“Mallory?”Ahandsettlesonmyshoulder.Ijumpandtearoutonepod.“Didyouneedanyhelp?”
“Nope!”IsmileatMrs.Agarwal,slidingthephoneintomybackpocket.“Justfinishedtheinstructionvideo.”
“Oh,perfect.Makesureyouputonglovesbeforeyouaddtheacidicsolution.”
“Iwill.”
Therestoftheclassisalmostdonewiththeexperiment.Ifurrowmybrow,hurrytocatchup,andafewminuteslater,whenIcan’tfindmyfunnelandspillmybakingsoda,IstopthinkingaboutSawyer,oraboutthewayhisvoicesoundedwhenhesaidthatheneverwantedanythingasmuchaschess.AndIdon’tthinkofhimagainforalittleovertwoyears.Thatis,untilthedayweplayforthefirsttime.
AndIwipethefloorwithhim.PARTONEOpenings
ChapterOne
Twoyearslater
Eastonissmart,becausesheluresmeoutwiththepromiseoffreeboba.Butshe’salsodumb,becauseshedoesn’twaittillI’msippingmychocolatecreamcheesefoambubbleteabeforesaying,“Ineedafavor.”
“Nope.”Igrinather.Plucktwostrawsfromthebin.Offerherone,whichsheignores.
“Mal.Youhaven’tevenheardwhat—”
“No.”
“It’saboutchess.”
“Well,inthatcase…”Ismilemythankstothegirlholdingoutmyorder.Wewentouttwice,maybethreetimeslastsummer,andIhavevague,pleasantmemoriesofher.RaspberryChapSticklips;BonIverpurringinherHyundaiElantra;asofthand,coolundermytanktop.Sadly,noneofsaidmemoriesincludehername.ButshewroteMelanieacrossmyboba,sothat’sokay.
Weshareabrief,secretsmile,andIturntoEaston.“Inthatcase,doubleno.”
“I’mshortaplayer.Forateamtournament.”
“Idon’tplayanymore.”Icheckmyphone.It’s12:09—twenty-onemoreminutesbeforeIneedtobebackatthegarage.Bob,myboss,isnotexactlyakind,forgivinghumanbeing.SometimesIdoubthe’sevenhuman.“Let’sdrinkthisoutside,beforeIspendtheafternoonunderaChevySilverado.”
“Comeon,Mal.”Sheglowersatme.“It’schess.Youstillplay.”
WhenmysisterDarcy’ssixth-gradeteacherannouncedthatshewasgoingtosendtheclassguineapigtoa“farmupstate,”Darcy,unabletoascertainwhetherthefarmreallyexisted,decidedtokidnaphim.Thepiggie,nottheteacher.I’vebeencohabitatingwithGoliaththeAbductedforthepastyear—ayearspentdenyinghimscrapsofourdinnerseversincethevetwecannotaffordbeggedusonhiskneestoputhimonadiet.Unfortunately,Goliathhastheuncannyabilitytostaremeintosubmissioneverysingletime.
JustlikeEastondoes.Theirexpressionsexudethesamepure,unyieldingstubbornness.
“Nuh-uh.”Isuckonmytea.Divine.“I’veforgottentherules.Whatdoesthelittlehorsiedo,again?”
“Veryfunny.”
“No,really,whichoneischess?ThequeenconquersCatanwithoutpassingGo—”
“I’mnotaskingyoutodowhatyouusedtodo.”
“WhatdidIusetodo?”
“Youknowwhenyouwerethirteenandyou’dbeatenalltheotherkidsatthePatersonChessClub,thentheteenagers,thentheadults?AndtheybroughtinpeoplefromNewYorkforyoutohumiliate?Idon’tneedthat.”
Iwasactuallytwelvewhenthathappened.Irememberitwell,becauseDadstoodnexttome,handwarmonmybonyshoulder,proclaimingproudly,Ihaven’twonagameagainstMallorysincesheturnedelevenayearago.Extraordinary,isn’tshe?ButIdon’tpointitout,andinsteadplopdowninapatchofgrass,nexttoaflowerbedfullofzinniasbarelyhangingontolife.AugustinNewJerseyisnoone’sfavoriteplace.
“Rememberhalfwaythroughmyexhibitionmatches?WhenIwasabouttopassoutandyoutoldeveryonetostepback—”
“—andIhandedyoumyjuice.”Shesitsnexttome.Iglanceatherperfecteyelinerwing,thenatmyoil-stainedcoveralls,andit’snice,howsomethingsneverchange.PerfectionistEastonPe?a,alwayswithaplan,andhermessysidekickMalloryGreenleaf.We’vebeeninthesameclasssincefirstgradebutdidn’treallyinteractuntilshejoinedthePatersonChessClubatten.Shewas,inaway,alreadyfullyformed.Alreadytheamazing,stubbornpersonsheistoday.
Youreallyenjoyplayingthiscrap?sheaskedmewhenwegotpairedforamatch.
Youdon’t?Iaskedback,appalled.
Ofcoursenot.Ijustneedawiderangeofextracurriculars.Collegescholarshipsdon’twinthemselves.Icheckmatedherinfourandhaveadoredhereversince.
Funny,thatEastonnevercaredforchesslikeIdidbutstuckwithitmuchlonger.Whatanoddlovetrianglethethreeofusmake.
“Youowemeforthejuicebox,then—cometothetournament,”sheorders.“Ineedateamoffour.Everyone’seitheronvacationorcan’ttellthedifferencebetweenchessandcheckers.Youdon’tevenhavetowin—andit’sforcharity.”
“Whatcharity?”
“Doesitmatter?”
“Ofcourse.Isitforaright-wingthinktank?ThenextWoodyAllenmovie?Amade-updisease,likehysteriaorglutensensitivity?”
“Glutensensitivityisnotmade-up.”
“Really?”
“Yes.Andthetournamentisfor—”Shetapsfuriouslyonherphone.“Ican’tfindit,butcanwecutthisshort?Webothknowyou’regoingtosayyes.”
Iscowl.“Weknownosuchthing.”
“Maybeyoudon’t.”
“Ihaveaspine,Easton.”
“Sure.”Shechewsonhertapiocaballs,aggressive,daring,suddenlymoregrizzlybearthanguineapig.
Sheremembersninthgrade,whenshetalkedmeintobeingherVPassheranforclasspresident.(Welost.Overwhelmingly.)Andtenthgrade,whenMissyCollinswasspreadinggossipandsherecruitedmetohackherTwitter.Eleventhgrade,too,whenIstarredasMrs.BennettinthePrideandPrejudicemusicalshewroteanddirected—despitemybetterjudgmentandmyhalf-an-octavevocalrange.Iprobablywouldhaveagreedtosomethingmoronicduringsenioryear,too,ifthingsathomehadn’tbeen…well,fromafinancialstandpoint,lessthangood.AndIhadn’tspenteverysparesecondworkingatthegarage
“Weallknowyou’reunabletosayno,”Eastonpointsout.“Sojustsayyes.”
Icheckmyphone—twelvemoreminutesinmybreak.Today’shotassoup,I’mdonescarfingdownboba,andIeyehercupwithinterest.Honeydewmelon:mysecond-favoriteflavor.“I’mbusy.”
“Busyhow?”
“Date.”
“Who?Carnivorousplantsguy?OrtheParisHiltonlookalike?”
“Neither.ButI’llfindsomeone.”
“Comeon.It’sawaytospendtimetogetherbeforecollege.”
Isitup,knockingmyelbowagainsthers.“Whenareyouleaving?”
“Inlessthantwoweeks.”
“What?Wejustgraduated,like—”
“Likethreemonthsago?IhavetobeinColoradobymid-Augustfororientation.”
“Oh.”It’slikewakingupfromanearlyafternoonnapandfindingoutthatit’salreadydark.“Oh,”Irepeat,alittleshocked.Iknewthiswascoming,butsomewherebetweenmysister’sboutofmono,mymom’sweekatthehospital,myothersister’sboutofmono,andalltheextrashiftsIpickedup,Imusthavelosttrackoftime.Thisisterrifying:I’venevernotlivedinthesamecityasEaston.I’venevernotseenheronceaweektoplayDragonAge,ortalkaboutDragonAge,orwatchDragonAgeplaythroughs.
Maybeweneednewhobbies.
Itryforasmile.“Iguesstimeflieswhenyou’rehavingfun.”
“Areyou,Mal?Havingfun?”Hereyesnarrowonme,andIlaugh.
“Don’tlaugh.You’realwaysworking.Whenyouaren’t,you’rechauffeuringyoursistersaroundortakingyourmomtodoctor’sappointments,and—”Sherunsahandthroughherdarkcurlsandleavesthemmussed—agoodindicatorofherexasperation.Sevenoutoften,I’destimate.“Youwerenumberoneinourclass.You’reamathwhizandcanmemorizeanything.Youhadthreescholarshipoffers—onetocometoBoulder,withme.Butyou’vedecidednottogo,andnowyouseemstuckhere,withnoendinsightand…youknowwhat?It’syourchoice,andIrespectyouforit,butatleastyoucouldletyourselfdoonefunthing.Onethingthatyouenjoy.”
Istareatherflushedcheeksforone,two,threeseconds,andalmostopenmymouthtotellherthatscholarshipspayforyoutogotocollege,butnotforthehouse’smortgage,oryoursister’srollerderbycamp,oryourothersister’skidnappedpet’svitamin-C-reinforcedpellets,orwhateverittakestomelttheguiltthatstickstothebottomofyourstomach.Almost.AtthelastminuteIjustlookaway,and“away”happenstobetowardmyphone.
It’s12:24.Shit.“Igottago.”
“What?Mal,areyoumad?Ididn’tmeanto—”
“Nope.”Iflashheragrin.“Butmybreakisover.”
“Youjustgothere.”
“Yeah.Bob’snotafanofhumaneschedulesandwork-lifebalance.Anychanceyou’renotplanningonfinishingthatbubbletea?”
Sherollshereyeshardenoughtopullamuscle,butholdsouthercuptome.Ifist-pumpasIwalkaway.
“Letmeknowaboutthetournament,”Eastonyellsafterme.
“Ialreadyhave.”
Agroan.Andthenaserious,pointed“Mallory,”whichhasmeturningarounddespitethethreatofBob’ssmellybreathyellingthatI’mlate.“Listen,Idon’twanttoforceyoutodoanything.Butchessusedtobeyourentirelife.Andnowyoudon’tevenwanttoplayitforagoodcause.”
“Likeglutensensitivity?”
Sherollshereyesagain,andIjogbacktoworklaughing.Ibarelymakeitontime.I’mgatheringmytoolsbeforedisappearingundertheSilveradowhenmyphonebuzzes.It’sascreenshotofaflier.Itsays:ClubsOlympicteamtournament.NYCarea.InaffiliationwithDoctorsWithoutBorders.
Ismile.
MALLORY:okaythatisagoodcharity
BRETEASTONELLIS:Toldyouso.Also:
ShesendsmealinktotheWebMDpageonglutensensitivity,whichapparentlydoesexist.
MALLORY:okay,soitISarealthing
BRETEASTONELLIS:Toldyouso.
MALLORY:youknowthat’syourcatchphraseright
BRETEASTONELLIS:Thatwouldbe“Iwasright.”Soyou’lldothetournament?
Isnortandalmosttypeno.Ialmostremindherwhy,exactly,Ineverplaychessanymore.
ButthenIpicturehergonetocollegeformonths—andmehere,alone,tryingtohaveaconversationaboutthelatestDragonAgeplaythroughwithsomedatewhojustwantstomakeout.IthinkabouthercominghomeforThanksgiving:maybeshewillhaveanundercut,becomeavegan,getintocowprint.Maybeshe’llbeanewperson.We’llmeetupatourregularplaces,watchourregularshow,gossipaboutourregularpeople,butitwon’tbethesame,becauseshe’llhavemetnewfriends,seennewthings,madenewmemories.
Fearstabsintomychest.Fearthatshe’llchange,andbloom,andwon’teverbethesame.ButIwillbe.HereinPaterson,stagnating.Wewon’tsayit,butwe’llknowit.
SoItype:
MALLORY:k.lasthurrah
BRETEASTONELLIS:See?Iwasright.
MALLORY:
MALLORY:you’llpaymebackbydrivingmysisterstocampnextweeksoicanpickupmoreshifts
BRETEASTONELLIS:Mal,no.
BRETEASTONELLIS:Mal,please.Anythingelse.
BRETEASTONELLIS:Mal,they’reTERRIFYING.
MALLORY:
“Hey,Greenleaf!Idon’tpayyoutobrowseInstagramorbuyavocadosandwiches.Gettowork.”
Irollmyeyes.Internally.“Wronggeneration,Bob.”
“Whatever.Get.To.Work.”
Islidemyphoneintomycoveralls,sigh,anddojustthat.
“Mal,Sabrinajustpinchedmyarmandcalledmeadickbreath!”
“Mal,Darcyjustyawnedinmyfacewithhergross,smellydickbreath!”
Isigh,continuingtopreparemysisters’oatmeals.Cinnamon,skimmilk,nosugaror“I’llstabyou,Mal.Everheardofsomethingcalledhealth?”(Sabrina);peanutbutter,store-brandNutella,banana,and“CouldyouaddabitmoreNutella,please?I’mtryingtogrowafootbeforeeighthgrade!”(Darcy).
“Mallory,Darcyjustfartedonme!”
“No—Sabrinaisadouchewadwhoputherselfinassrange!”
IabsentmindedlylickdiscountNutellaoffthespoon,fantasizingaboutpouringnailpolishremoverintheoatmeal.Justadollop.Maybetwo.
Therewouldbesomecons,suchastheuntimelydemiseofthetwopeopleIlovemostintheworld.Butthepros?Unbeatable.Nomoremiddle-of-the-night,likely-rabidbitesonthetoesfromGoliath.NomoreviciousverbalabuseforwashingSabrina’spinkbra,formisplacingSabrina’spinkbra,forallegedlystealingSabrina’spinkbra,fornotkeepingabreastofthewhereaboutsofSabrina’spinkbra.NomoreTimothéeChalametpostersstaringcreepilyatmefromthewalls.
Justme,sharpeningmyshivinthepeacefulsilenceofaNewJerseyprisoncell.
“Mallory,Darcyisbeingatotalpoopstain—”
Idropthespoonandstalktothebathroom.Ittakesaboutthreesteps—theGreenleafestateissmallandnotquitesolvent.
“Ifyoutwodon’tshutup,”Isaywithmymosthard-ass8:00a.m.voice,“I’mgoingtotakeyoutothefarmersmarketandtradeyouforcottoncandygrapes.”
Somethingweirdhappenedlastyear:almostovernight,mytwosweetlittledumplings,whousedtobethebestoffriends,becamerivalswamphags.Sabrinaturnedfourteen,andbeganactingasthoughshewastoocooltobegeneticallyrelatedtous;Darcyturnedtwelve,and…well.Darcystayedthesame.Alwaysreading,alwaysprecocious,alwaystooobservantforherowngood.Which,Ibelieve,isthereasonSabrinausedherallowancetobuyanewlockandkickheroutoftheroomtheyshared.(ItookDarcyin—henceTimothéeChalamet’sMona-Lisa-effecteyesandtheforthcomingrabies.)
“OhmyGod.”Darcyrollshereyes.“Relax,Mallory.”
“Yes,Mallory.Unclenchyourbutthole.”
Oh,yeah:theonlytimetheseingratesmanagetogetalong?Whenthey’regangingupagainstme.Momsaysit’spuberty.Ileantowarddemonicpossession,butwhoknows?WhatIdoknowforsureisthatimploring,tearingup,oreventryingtoreasonwiththemarenoteffectivetechniques.Anydisplayofweaknessisseized,exploited,andalwaysendswithmebeingblackmailedintobuyingthemridiculousthings,likeEdSheeranbodypillowsorgraduationhatsforguineapigs.Mymottoisrulethroughfear.Nevernegotiatewiththosehormonal,anarchic,bloodthirstysharks.
God,IlovethemsomuchIcouldcry.
“Mom’sasleep,”Ihiss.“Iswear,ifyou’renotquietI’mgoingtowritedickbreathanddouchewadonyourforeheadsinpermanentmarkerandsendyououtintotheworldlikethat.”
“Mightwanttorethinkthat,”Darcypointsout,wagginghertoothbrushatme,“orwe’llsicChildProtectiveServicesonyou.”
Sabrinanods.“Possiblyeventhepolice.”
“Cansheaffordthelegalfees?”
“Noway.Goodluckwithyouroverworked,underpaid,court-appointeddefenseattorney,Mal.”
Ileanagainstthedoorframe.“Nowyoutwoagreeonsomething.”
“WealwaysagreedthatDarcy’sadickbreath.”
“Iamnot—youareaho-bag.”
“IfyouwakeMomup,”Ithreaten,“I’mgoingtoflushyoubothdownthetoilet—”
“I’mawake!Noneedtoclogtheplumbing,sweetheart.”Iturnaround.Momamblesdownthehallway,shakyonherfeet,andthebottomofmystomachtwists.Morningshavebeentoughforthepastmonth.Fortheentiresummer,really.IglancebackatDarcyandSabrina,whoatleasthavethedecencytolookcontrite.“NowthatI’mupwiththechickens,canIhavehugsfrommyfavoriteRussiandolls?”
MomlikestojokethatmysistersandI,withourwhite-blondhair,darkblueeyes,androsyovalfaces,areslightlysmallerversionsofeachother.MaybeDarcygotallthefreckles,andSabrinahasfullyembracedtheVSCOaesthetic,andI…Ifthereweren’tsomanyfive-dollarbohochicoutfitsatGoodwill,Iwouldn’tlooklikeanAlexisRosecosplayer.Butthere’snodoubtthatthethreeGreenleafgirlsweremadewithacookiecutter—andnotMom’s,givenheronce-dark,now-grayinghairandtannedskin.IfshemindsthatwetakesomuchafterDad,she’snevermentionedit.
“Whyareyouguysup?”sheasksagainstDarcy’sforeheadbeforemovingontoSabrina.“Doyouhavepractice?”
Sabrinastiffens.“Idon’tstartuntilnextweek.Actually,I’mnevergoingtostartifsomeonedoesn’tsignmeupfortheJuniorRollerDerbyAssociation,whichisduenextFriday—”
“I’llpaytheduesbyFriday,”Ireassureher.
Shegivesmeaskeptical,distrustfullook.LikeI’vebrokenherheartonetoomanytimeswithmypaltryauto-mechanic’ssalary.“Whycan’tyoupayrightnow?”
“BecauseIenjoytoyingwithyou,likeaspiderwithherprey.”AndbecauseI’llneedtopickupextrashiftsatthegaragetoaffordthem.
Hereyesnarrow.“Youdon’thavethemoney,doyou?”
Myheartskipsabeat.“OfcourseIdo.”
“BecauseI’mbasicallyanadult.AndMcKenziehasbeenworkingatthatfroyoplace,soIcouldaskherto—”
“You’renotanadult.”TheideaofSabrinaworryingaboutmoneyisphysicallypainful.“Infact,rumorhasitthatyou’readouchewad.”
“Sincewe’rerequestingandobtainingthings,”Darcyinterjects,mouthfulloftoothpaste,“Goliathisstilllonelyanddepressedandinneedofagirlfriend.”
“Mmm.”IbrieflycontemplatethenumberofturdstwoGoliathscouldproduce.Yikes.“Anyway,Eastonkindlyofferedtodriveyouguystocampnextweek.AndI’mnotgoingtoaskyoutobegood,ornormal,orevendecentforher,becauseIenjoytoyingwithher,too.You’rewelcome.”
Istepoutofthebathroomandclosethedoorbehindme,butnotbeforenoticingthewide-eyedlookmysistersexchange.TheirloveforEastonishistoriedandintense.
“Youlookcutetoday,”Momtellsmeinthekitchen.
“Thanks.”Ishowhermyteeth.“Iflossed.”
“Fancy.Didyoualsoshower?”
“Whoa,calmdown.I’mnotafashioninfluencer.”
Shechuckles.“You’renotwearingyourjumpsuit.”
“They’recalledcoveralls—butthankyouforthemake-believe.”IlookdownatthewhiteT-shirtItuckedintoabrightyellowembroideredskirt.“I’mnotgoingtothegarage.”
“Date?It’sbeenawhile.”
“Nodate.IpromisedEastonI’ll…”Istopmyself.
Mom’sfantastic.Thekindest,mostpatientpersonIknow.Sheprobablywouldn’tminditifItoldherthatI’mgoingtoachesstournament.Butshe’susingacanethismorning.Herjointslookswollenandinflamed.AndIhaven’tusedthec-wordinthreeyears.Whybreakmystreak?
“She’sleavingforBoulderinacoupleofweeks,sowe’rehangingoutinNewYork.”
Herexpressiondarkens.“Ijustwishyou’dreconsidercontinuingwithyourschooling—”
“Mom,”Iwhine,toneashurtasIcanmakeit.
Afterseveraltrialsandmanyerrors,IfinallydiscoveredthebestwaytogetMomoffmyback:toimplythatIwanttogotocollegesolittlethateverytimeshebringsupthetopic,I’mtragicallywoundedbyherlackofrespectformylifechoices.Itmightnotbethetruth,andI’mnotafanoflyingtoher,butit’sforherowngood.Idon’twantanyoneinmyfamilytothinkthattheyowemeanything,ortofeelguiltyaboutmydecisions.Theyshouldn’tfeelguilty,becausenoneofthisistheirfault.
It’sexclusivelymine.
“Right.Yes,sorry.Well,it’sexcitingthatyou’rehangingoutwithEaston.”
“Isit?”
“Ofcourse.You’rebeingyouthful.Doingeighteen-year-oldstuff.”Shegivesmeawistfullook.“I’mjusthappyyoutookadayoff—YALOandallthat.”
“That’sYOLO,Mom.”
“Yousure?”
IlaughasIpickupmypurseandkissheronthecheek.“I’llbebacktonight.You’reokayalonewiththeingrates?Ileftthreemealoptionsinthefridge.Also,Sabrinawasatotalpainlastweek,soifMcKenzieoranotherfriendinvitesher,don’tlethergototheirplace.”
Momsighs.“Youknowyou’remychild,too,right?Andyoushouldn’tbestuckco-parentingwithme?”
“Hey.”Imock-frown.“AmInotdoingagoodjob?ShouldIcrushmoreprescription-strengthBenadrylintotheharpies’breakfasts?”
IwantMomtochuckleagain,butshejustshakesherhead.“Idon’tlikeitthatI’msurprisedthatyou’retakingadayforyourself.OrthatSabrinalooksatyouwhensheneedsmoney.Thisdoesn’t—”
“Mom.Mom.”IsmileasearnestlyasIcan.“Ipromiseyou,it’sfine.”
It’sprobablynot.Fine,Imean.
There’ssomethingsupremelyun-fineaboutthefactthatmyfamilyhastheWikipediaentryonrheumatoidarthritismemorized.Thatwecantellwhetherit’llbeabaddaybythelinesaroundMom’smouth.ThatlastyearIhadtoexplaintoDarcythatchronicmeansforever.Incurable.Itwon’tevergoaway.
Momhasamaster’sdegreeinbiologyandisamedicalwriter—adamngoodone.Shehaswrittenhealtheducationmaterials,FDAdocuments,fancygrantproposalsthathavewonherclientsmillionsofdollars.Butshe’safreelancer.WhenDadwasaround,andwhenshewasabletoworkregularly,itwasn’tmuchofanissue.Unfortunately,that’snotanoptionanymore.Somedaysthepainissobadthatshecanbarelygetoutofbed,letalonetakeoverprojects,andherimpossiblyconvolutedSocialSecuritydisabilityapplicationhasnowbeendeniedfourtimes.ButatleastI’mhere.AtleastIcanmakethingseasierforher.
Somaybe,justmaybe,itwillbe.Fine,Imean.
“Rest,okay?”Icupherface.Thereareaboutsevengraycirclesunderhereyes.“Gobacktobed.Thecreatureswillentertainthemselves.”
WhenIletmyselfout.IcanhearSabrinaandDarcykvetchingabouttheiroatmealsinthekitchen.Imakeamentalnotetostockuponnailpolishremover,andwhenIspotEaston’scarroundingthecorner,Iwaveatherandjoguptothestreet.
Andthat,Iguess,isthebeginningoftherestofmylife.ChapterTwo
“It’saSwiss-systemtournament.Kindof.Notreally,though.”
Eastongathersourteamaroundher,likeshe’sTonyStarkbriefingtheAvengers,butinsteadofquippyone-linersshehandsoutPatersonChessClubpins.TheremustbethreehundredpeopleonthesecondflooroftheFultonStallMarket,andIamtheonlyonewhodidn’tgetthebusinesscasualmemo.
Oops.
“Eachoneofusisgoingtoplayfourmatches,”shecontinues.“Becauseit’sforcharity,andbecausethetournamentisopentoamateurs,insteadofusingFIDEratings,playersaregoingtobematchedaccordingtoself-reportedability.”
FIDE,theWorldChessFederation(Whyisn’ttheacronymWCF?Notsure,butIsuspecttheFrenchlanguageisinvolved)hasacomplicatedsystemtodetermineplayers’skilllevelsandrankthemaccordingly.IknewallaboutitwhenIwasseven,chessobsessed,andwantedtogrowuptobeamermaidGrandmaster.Bynow,though,I’veforgottenmostbureaucraticstuff,probablytomakeroomformoreusefulinformation—likethebestwaytocrimpawireterminal,ortheplotofthefirstthreeseasonsofHowtoGetAwaywithMurder.AllIrememberisthattogetaratingoneneedstosignupforFIDE-sponsoredtournaments.Which,ofcourse,Ihaven’tdoneinages—becauseIhaven’tplayedinages.
Fouryears,fivemonths,andtwoweeks,andno,Iwillnotstooptocountingthedays.
“Sowehavetoself-reportourlevelofskill?”Zachasks.He’saMontclairfreshmanwhojoinedthePatersonChessClubafterIleftandhassomeambitionsofgoingpro.I’vemethimonceatOscar’splaceandI’mnotafan,forreasonsthatincludehispenchantforderailingconversationswithunrelatedmentionsofhisFIDErating(2,546),hisabilitytocarryouthour-longmonologuesonhisFIDErating(2,546),andhislackofunderstandingthatI’mnotinterestedingoingoutwithhim,nomatterhisFIDErating(2,546).
Buthe’sstillbetterthanourfourthmember,Josh,whoseclaimtofameisrepeatedlyimplyingthatEastonwouldbealittlelessgayifonlyshemadeoutwithhimatleastonce.
“SinceI’mtheteamleader,Iwentaheadanddeclaredyourskilllevels,”Eastontellsus.“Iput—”
“Whyareyoutheleader?”Zachasks.“Idon’trememberhavinganelection.”
“ThenI’mtheteamdictator,”shehisses.Ifixmypintomyteetohideasmile.“IputMalloryinthehighestbracket.”
Idropmyarms.“Easton.I’vebarelyplayedin—”
“Zach’sinthehighest,too.Thirdhighestformyself,”shecontinues,ignoringme.ThenshelooksatJoshandpausesforeffect.“Thelowestforyou.”
Joshburstsintohiswholesome,goldenboylaughter.“Jokingaside,whatbracketdidyou…”Eastonkeepsstaring,seriousasdeathandtaxes,andhelowershiseyestothefloor.
“DoesthePCChaveyourbrowserhistory?”IaskEastononceit’sjustthetwoofus,headingtowardthehall.
“Why?”
“There’snowayyou’rehereofyourownfreewill,notwiththosetwo.Soeithertheyfoundoutaboutthetentacleporn,or—”
“There’snotentacleporn.”Shegivesmeascathinglook.“Themanageroftheclubaskedmetoputtogetherateam.Icouldn’tsayno,sincehewrotemearecletterforcollege.HewasjustexploitingthefactthatIowehimafavor.”Sheshoulderspasttwooldermeninsuitstogettothetournamentarea.“Likeyoudidwhenyousiccedyoursistersonme.”
“It’swhatyoudeserveforbringingZachandtherookheshoveduphisass.”
“Ah,Zach.IfonlywecouldknowwhathisFIDEratingis.”
Ilaugh.“Maybeweshouldaskhimand…”
Wewalkthroughthedoors,andmyvoicetrailsoff.
Thenoiseinthebustlingroomdims,thenquiets.
Peoplewalkaroundme,pastme,intome,butIstandstill,frozen,unabletostepoutoftheway.
Therearetables.Manytablespushedtogethertoformlong,parallelrows—rowsandrows,coveredinwhite-and-blueclothwithplastic,foldablechairstuckedintoeachside,andbetweeneachpairofchairs—
Chessboards.
Dozensofthem.Hundreds.Notgoodones:Icantellevenfromtheentrancethatthey’reoldandcheap,thepieceschippedandpoorlycut,thesquaresdirtyanddiscolored.Ugly,mismatchedsetsallaroundme.Thesmellintheroomislikeachildhoodmemory,madeoffamiliar,simplenotes:woodandfeltandsweatandstalecoffee,thebergamotnoteofDad’saftershave,home,belonging,betrayal,happiness,and—
“Mal?Youokay?”Eastontugsatmyarmwithafrown.Idon’tthinkit’sthefirsttimeshe’sasked.
“Yeah.Yeah,I…”Iswallow,andithelps.Themomentbreaks,myheartslows,andI’mjustagirl—perhapsaslightlyfawn-kneedone.It’sjustaroomthatI’mstandingin.Thechesspieces—they’rejuststuff.Things.Somewhite,someblack.Somecanmoveinanynumberofunoccupiedsquares,othersnotsomuch.Whocares?“Ineedadrink.”
“IhaveCrystalLight.Strawberry.”ShehandsmeherCamelBak.“It’sdisgusting.”
“Guys.”Zachcomesuptousfrombehind.“Don’tfreakout,butI’vespottedsomepreeettybignameswalkingaround.I’mtalkinginternational.”
Eastonletsoutanexaggeratedgasp.“HarryStyles?”
“What?No.”
“Malala?”
“No.”
“OhmyGod,MichelleObama?Doyouthinkshe’llsignmypocketconstitution?”
“No—RudraLal.MaximAlexeyev.AndreasAntonov.YangZhang.Famouschesspeople.”
“Ah.”Shenods.“Soregular,not-at-all-famouspeople?”
IdolovewatchingEastonmesswithZach,butIhaveheardthesenames.Iwouldn’tbeabletopickthemoutofalineup,butatmymostfervent,chess-obsessivestageI’vestudiedtheirgamesonbooks,simulationsoftware,YouTubetutorials.Oldimpressionssurfacequicklyinmybrain,likelong-unusedsynapsessputteringawake.
Lal:versatileopenings,positional
Antonov:tricky,buttechnical
Zhang:calculating,slow
Alexeyev:stillyoung,uneven
Ishrugthememoriesawayandask,“Whataretheydoingatanamateurtournament?”
“Thedirector’swellconnectedinthechessworld—she’stheownerofarespectedNewYorkchessclub.Plus,thewinningteamgetstwentythousandforacharityoftheirchoice.”Herubshishandstogetherlikeacartoonvillain.“IhopeIgettogoagainstthebigguns.”
“Youthinkyoucanbeatthem?”Easton’seyebrowlifts,skeptical.“Aren’ttheypros?”
“Well,I’vebeentraining.”Zachbrushesnonexistentcrumbsoffhisblazer.“Myrating’s2,546”—weallrolloureyes—“andLal’snotexactlyatthetopofhisgame.DidyouseehimlosetoSawyeratUbudInternationaltwoweeksago?Itwasembarrassing.”
“Everyone’sembarrassingagainstSawyer,”Joshpointsout.
“Well,plentyofpeopleareembarrassingagainstme.”
Easton’seyetwitches.“AreyoucomparingyourselftoSawyer?”
“Peoplesaywehavesimilarplayingstyles…”
Icoughtohideasnort.“Doweknowwhowe’vebeenpairedwithyet?”
“Sortof.”Eastonunlocksherphoneandtextseveryoneascreenshotoftheorganizers’email.“Wedon’tknowwhowe’regoingupagainst,becauseit’sateamtournament.ButMal,you’rePCCPlayerOne,andyou’vebeenpairedwiththeMarshallChessClubPlayerOne.Rowfive,boardthirty-four.Goodnews:you’reWhite.Roundonestartsinfive.Thetimelimitisninetyminutes,thenroundtwostarts.Soweshouldgetgoing.”Eastontugsatmyhand.“Wouldn’twanttomakeLalwaitforthethoroughass-kickinghe’sabouttoget,right,Zach?”
Ican’ttellwhetherZachrecognizestheshade.Hepuffsupandstrutstohisboard,andI’mleftwonderinghowsoontheblackholeofantimatterthatishisegowillswallowthesolarsystem.
“Listen,”Eastonwhispersbeforewegoseparateways,“Iputmyselfinatoo-highbracket.I’llprobablybedestroyedinaboutfivemoves,butit’sokay.AllthePCCwantedwasforustohaveapresencehere,andIdelivered.That’stosay,ifyouletwhoeveryou’replayingdestroyyouquickly,wecanpopbyDylan’sCandyBarandbebackbeforeroundtwo.”
“Areyoubuying?”
“Fine.”
“Oneofthosemacaronsstuffedinsideacookie?”
“Sure.”
“Deal.”
Itwon’tbehard,gettingcheckmatedlikeatotalloser,notwithhowrustyIam.Itakeaseatatboardthirty-four,Whiteside,andwatchthechairsaroundmefillup,peopleshakinghands,theintroductionandchitchattingaseveryonewaitsforthestartannouncement.Nooneispayingattentiontome,and…Ijustdoit.
Ireachformyking.Pickitup.Feelitsslight,perfectweightinmyhandandsmilesoftlyasItracethecornersofthecrown.
Thestupid,useless,good-for-nothingking.Canbarelymoveonesquare,scurriesintohidingbehindtherook,andhe’sso,soeasytocorner.Afractionofthequeen’spower,that’swhathehas.Heisnothing,absolutelynothing,withouthiskingdom.
Myheartsqueezes.Atleasthe’srelatable.
Iputthekingbackonhissquareandstareattheskylinemadeupbythepieces—thetrivialandyetmonumentallandscapeofchess.It’smorefamiliarthantheviewfrommychildhoodbedroom(unspectacular:abustedtrampoline,lotsofornerysquirrels,anapricottreethatneverlearnedhowtobearfruit).It’smorefamiliarthanmyownfaceinthemirror,andIcan’ttearmygazeaway,notevenwhenthechairinfrontofminedragsacrossthefloor,notevenwhenoneofthetournamentdirectorscallsforroundonetobegin.
Thetableshiftsasmyopponenttakesaseat.Alargehandstretchesintomylineofsight.AndjustasI’mabouttoforcemyselfoutofmyreverietoshakeit,Ihearadeepvoicesay,
“MarshallChessClubPlayerOne.NolanSawyer.”ChapterThree
He’snotlookingatme.
He’sholdingouthishand,buthiseyesareontheboard,andforasplitsecondIcan’tfigureoutwhatishappening,whereIam,orwhatIcameheretodo.Ican’tfigureoutwhatmynameis.
No.Wait.Idoknowthat
“MalloryGreenleaf,”Istammer,takinghishand.Itcompletelyengulfsmine.Hisshakeisbrief,warm,andvery,veryfirm.“PCC.Thatis,Paterson.Club.Uh,chessclub.”Iclearmythroat.Wow.Soeloquent.Mucharticulate.“Nicetomeetyou,”Ilie.
Heliesrightbackatmewitha“Likewise,”andstilldoesn’tlookup.Justsetshiselbowsonthetable,keepinghisgazefixedonthepieces,asthoughmyperson,myface,myidentity,areutterlyirrelevant.AsthoughIambutanextensionofthewhitesideoftheboard.
Itcannotbe.ThisguycannotbeNolanSawyer.Or,nottheNolanSawyer.Thefamousone.Thesexsymbol—whateverthatevenmeans.Theguywhoacoupleofyearsagowasnumberoneintheworldandnow…
IhavenocluewhatNolanSawyer’suptonow,buthecan’tbesittingacrossfromme.Thepeopleonourleftandrightseemtobenot-so-subtlyeyeinghim,andIwanttoyellatthemthatthisisjustadoppelg?nger.Plentyofthosegoingaround.Doppelg?nger-palooza,thesedays.
Itwouldexplainwhyhe’ssittingthere,doingnothing.Clearly,bizarroNolanSawyerdoesn’tknowhowtoplayandthoughtthiswouldbeamah-jonggtournamentandiswonderingwherethetilesareand—
Someoneclearstheirthroat.It’stheplayersittingnexttome:amiddle-agedmanwho’sneglectinghisownmatchtogawkatmine,pointedlystaringbetweenmeandmypieces.
Whicharewhite.
Shit—Ihavethefirstmove.WhatdoIdo?WheredoIstart?WhichpiecedoIuse?
Pawntoe4.There.Done.Themostcommon,boring—
“Myclock,”Sawyermurmursdistractedly.Hiseyesareonmypawn.
“What?”
“Ineedyoutostartmyclock,orIwon’tbeabletorespond.”Hesoundsbored,withadashofannoyed.
Iflushscarlet,utterlymortified,andlookaround.Ican’tfindthestupidclockuntilsomeone—Sawyer—pushesitaninchtowardme.Itwasrightbymylefthand.
Perfect.Lovely.Nowwouldbeanexcellenttimeforthefloortomorphintoquicksand.Swallowmealive,too.
“I’msorry.Um—Iknewabouttheclock.ButIforgot,and—”AndI’mthinkingofstabbingmyselfintheeyeballwiththatpenciloverthere.Isityours?CanIborrowit?
“It’sfine.”Hemakeshismove—pawnine5.Startsmyclock.Thenit’smyturnagain,and—shit,I’mgonnahavetomovemorethanonce.AgainstNolanSawyer.Thisisunjust.Atravesty.
Pawnind4,maybe?Andthen,afterhetakesmypawn,Imoveanothertoc3.Wait,whatamIdoing?AmI…I’mnottryingaDanishGambitwithNolanSawyer,amI?
TheDanishGambitisoneofthemostaggressiveopeningsinchess.Dad’svoiceringsinmyears.Yousacrificetwopiecesinthefirstfewmoves—thenshiftquicklyintoattack.Mostgoodplayerswillhavelearnedhowtodefendthemselves.Ifyoureallymustuseit,makesureyouhaveasolidfollow-upplan.
Ibrieflyconsidermyglaringlackoffollow-upplans.Well,then.Icouldreallyuseapukebucket,butinsteadIjustsighandresignedlypushmybishopintothemidst,becausethemorethemerrier.
Thisisadisaster.Sendhelp.
Imakefivemovesafterthat.Thentwomore—atwhichpointSawyerstartspressingme,doggingmeinsistentlywithhisqueenandknight,andIfeellikeoneofthebugsthatsometimeswanderintoGoliath’scage.Pinned.Squashed.Donefor.Mystomachtightens,gelid,slimy,andIspendfutileminutesstaringattheboard,scouringforawayoutofthismessthat’sjustnotthere
Untilitis.
IttakesthreemovesandIlosemypoor,batteredbishop,butIdisentanglemyselffromthepin.Thedreadoftheopeningisslowlymeltingintoanold,familiarfeeling:IamplayingchessandIknowwhatI’mdoing.AftereachmoveIpunchSawyer’sclockandglanceupathim,curious,thoughheneverdoesthesame.
He’salwaysunreadable.Opaque.Ihavenodoubtthathe’stakingthegameseriously,buthe’sdistant,asthoughplayingfromfaraway,lockedinacellonthetoplevelofoneofhisrooks.Here,butnotreallyhere.Hismovements,whenhetouchesthepieces,areprecise,economical,strong.Ihatemyselffornoticingthat.He’stallerthanthemensittingathissides,andIhatemyselffornoticingthat,too.Hisshouldersandbicepsfillhisblackshirtjustright,andwhenherollsbackhissleeves,Inoticehisforearmsandamsuddenlygratefulthatwe’replayingchessandnotarm-wrestling;Ihatemyselfforthatthemost.
TheMallory-hatepartyisclearlyinfullswing—andthenSawyermoveshisknight.Afterthat,I’mtoobusytryingtorememberhowtobreathetoberatemyself.
It’snotthatit’sthewrongmove.Notatall.Itis,infact,aflawlessmove.Icanseewhathe’splanningtodowithit—moveitagain,openmeup,forcemetocastle.Checkinfour,orfive.Knifetomythroat,andI’dbetoast.But
But,Ithinkit’spossiblethatelsewhereontheboard…
IfIforcedhiminto…
Andhedidn’tretreathis…
Myheartflutters.AndIdon’tdefend.InsteadIadvancemyownknight,alittlelight-headed,andforthefirsttimein—ohmyGod,havewebeenatthisforfifty-fiveminutes?Howisthatpossible?
Whydoeschessalwaysfeellikethis?
Fortheveryfirsttimesincewestarted,whenIlookupatSawyer,Inoticeatraceofsomething.Intheshiftinglineofhisshoulders,thewayhepresseshisfingersagainsthisfulllips,there’sahintthatmaybehereallyishere,afterall.Playingthisgame.Withme.
Well.Againstme.
Ablinkanditgoesaway.Hemoveshisqueen.Takesmybishop.Stopstheclock.
Imovemyknight.Capturehispawn.Stoptheclock.
Queen.Clock.
Knight,again.Mymouthisdry.Clock.
Rook.Clock.
Pawn.Iswallow,twice.Clock.
Rooktakespawn.Clock.
King.
IttakesSawyeracoupleofsecondstorealizewhathashappened.Afewbeatstomapallthepossiblescenariosinhishead,allthepossibleroadsthisgamecouldtake.Iknowit,becauseIseehimlifthishandtomovehisownqueen,asthoughitcouldpossiblymakeadifference,asthoughhecouldwigglehiswayoutofmyattack.AndIknowit,becauseIhavetoclearmythroatbeforeIsay,
“I…Checkmate.”
That’swhenheliftshiseyestomineforthefirsttime.Theyaredark,andclear,andserious.Andtheyremindmeofafewimportant,long-forgottenthings.
WhenNolanSawyerwastwelve,heplacedthirdatatournamentbecauseofanarguablyunfairarbitraldecisiononcastlingshort,andinresponsehewipedthechesspiecesofftheboardwithhisarm.Whenhewasthirteen,heplacedsecondattheverysametournament—thistime,heflippedanentiretable.Whenhewasfourteen,hegotintoascreamingmatchwithAntonovovereitheragirloradenieddraw(rumorsdisagree),andIcan’trecallhowoldhewaswhenhecalledaformerworldchampionafuckwhitfortryingtopullanillegalmoveduringawarm-upgame.
Idorecall,however,hearingthestoryandhavingnoideawhatafuckwhitmightbe.
Eachtime,Sawyerwasfined.Reprimanded.Theobjectofscathingop-edsonchessmedia.Andeachtime,hewaswelcomedbacktothechesscommunitywithopenarms,becausehere’sthedeal:foroveradecadeNolanSawyerhasbeenrewritingchesshistory,redefiningstandards,bringingattentiontothesport.Where’sthefuninplaying,ifthebestisleftout?Andifthebestsometimesactslikeadouchebag…well.It’sallforgiven.
Butnotforgotten.EveryoneinthecommunityknowsthatNolanSawyerisaterrible,moody,ill-temperedballoftoxicmasculinity.Thathe’sthepoorestloserinthehistoryofchess.Inthehistoryofanysport.Inthehistoryofhistory
Which,becausehejustlostagainstme,ispossiblygoingtodevelopintoaproblem.
Forthefirsttimesincethematchstarted,Irealizethatadozenpeoplearestandingaroundus,whisperingtoeachother.Iwanttoaskthemwhatthey’relookingat,ifIhaveanosebleed,awardrobemalfunction,atarantulaonmyear,butI’mtoobusystaringatSawyer.Trackinghismovements.Makingsurehewon’thurlthechessclockatme.I’mnotonetobeeasilyintimidated,butI’dratheravoidacheckmate-inducedtraumaticbraininjuryifhedecidestosmashafoldablechaironmyhead.
Though,surprisingly,heseemscontenttojuststudyme.Lipsslightlypartedandeyesbright,likeI’msimultaneouslysomethingoddandfamiliarandpuzzlingandlargerthanlifeand—
Helooks.Afterignoringmefortwenty-fivemoves,hejustlooks.Calm.Inquisitive.Upsettinglynotangry.Somethingfunnyoccurstome:topplayersarealwaysgivencutesynicknamesbythepress.TheArtist.ThePicassoofChess.TheGambitMozart.Nolan’snickname?
TheKingkiller.
TheKingkillerleansforward,eversoslightly,andhisintense,awestruckexpressionfeelsmuchmorethreateningthanafoldingchairtomyhead.
“Who—”hestarts,andIcannotbearit.
“Thankyouforthegame,”Iblurtout,andthen,eventhoughIshouldshakehishand,signthescorecard,playthreemoregames—despiteallofthat,Ileaptomyfeet.
Noshameinretreatingyourpiecesifyou’rebeingpinnedandcangetout,Dadusedtosay.Noshameinknowingthelimitsofyourgame.
MychairfallstothegroundasIrunaway.Ihearthegratingsound,andstilldon’tstoptopickitup.ChapterFour
“Mal?”
“Mal.”
“Maaaaaaal!”
Iblinkawake.Darcy’snoseispressedupagainstmine,eyesGalápagos-blueinthemorninglight.
Iyawn.“What’sgoingon?”
“Ew,Mal.”Sherecoils.“Whydoesyourbreathsmelllikeaskunkduringmatingseason?”
“I…iseverythingokay?”
“Yes.Imademyownoatmealthismorning.We’reoutofNutella.”
Isitup,orsomeapproximationofit.Rubsleepoutofmyeyes.“Yesterdaywehadmorethanhalfajarleft—”
“Andtodaywe’reout.Thecircleoflife,Mal.”
“AreMomandSabrinaokay?”
“Yup.McKenzieandherdadpickedupSabrina.Mom’sfine.Shegotup,thenwentbacktobedbecauseshewashavingaroughmorning.Butthere’ssomeoneatthedoorforyou.”
“Someoneatthe—?”
Memoriesofyesterdayslowlybegintosurface.
Sawyer’sking,heldincheckbymyqueen.TrippingonthesidewalkasIrantothetrain.TextingEastonaboutamade-upemergency,thenturningoffmyphone.Thedullurbanlandscapeoutsidethetrain’swindows,evermorphingintoachessboard.Thentherestofthenight—aVeronicaMarsmarathonwithmysister,myheademptiedoutofeverythingelse.
Nottobrag,butI’mgoodatcompartmentalizing.Togetherwithalwayspickingthebestitemonthemenu,it’smygreatesttalent.That’showImademyselfgetoverchessyearsago.Andthat’showImanagetosurvivedaybydaywithouthyperventilatingaboutallsortsofstuff.It’seithercompartmentalizingorgoingbrokebuyinginhalers.
“TellEastonthat—”
“NotEaston.”Darcyflushes.“Thoughyoucouldinviteherover.Maybethisafternoon—”
NotEaston?“Who,then?”
“Arandomperson.”
Igroan.“Darcy,Itoldyou:whenpeoplefrommillenarianrestorationistChristiandenominationscomeknocking—”
“—wepolitelyinformthemthateternalsalvationisbeyondus,Iknow,butit’ssomeoneelse.Theyaskedforyoubyname,notfortheheadofthehousehold.”
“Okay.”Iscratchmyforehead.“Okay—tellthemI’llbethereinaminute.”
“Cool.Oh,andalso,thisarrivedyesterday.AddressedtoMom,but…”Sheholdsoutanenvelope.Myeyesarestillblurry.Ihavetoblinktoread,butwhenIdo,mystomachtwists.
“Thankyou.”
“It’sareminder,right?”
“No.”
“Thatwehavetopaythemortgage?”
“No.Darcy—”
“Doyouhavethemoney?”
Iforcemyselftosmile.“Don’tworryaboutit.”
Shenods,butbeforesteppingoutshesays,“Ipocketeditwhenthemailmanbroughtit.MomandSabrinahaven’tseenit.”Thefrecklesonhernoseareshapedlikeacloudyheart,andwiththesingleneuroncurrentlyworkinginmybrainIcontemplatehowunfairitisthatsheneedstoworryaboutthisstuff.She’stwelve.WhenIwastwelve,mylifewasbobaandrefreshingchess.com.
Islipondirtyshortsandyesterday’stee.GivenDarcy’sgentlefeedback,IdecidetogarglewithmouthwashwhileIturnonmyphone.Idiscoverthatit’s9:13,andthatIhaveamillionnotifications.Iswipeawaydatingappmatches,InstagramandTikTokalerts,Newshighlights.IscrollthroughmytextsfromEaston(apanickedstring,followedbyEssayquestion:whatdoesNolanSawyersmelllike?Twoparagraphsorlongerandapictureofhervengefullybitingintoacookie-macaron),thenheadoutside
I’mnotsurewhoIexpecttofind.Definitelynotatallwomanwithapixiehaircut,afullsleeveoftattoos,andmorepiercingsthanIcancount.Sheturnsaroundwithagrin,andherlipsareabold,perfectred.Shemustbeinherlatetwenties,ifnotolder.
“Sorry,”shesays,pointingathercigarette.Hervoiceislowandamused.“YoursistersaidyouweresleepingandIthoughtyou’dtakelonger.You’renotgoingtostartsmokingbecauseyousawmesmoke,right?”
Ifeelmyselfsmileback.“Doubtful.”
“Good.Youneverknow,theimpressionabilityoftheyouths.”Sheputsoutthebutt,wrapsitinanapkin,andpocketsit,eithertoavoidpollutingortoconcealherDNA.
Okay,nomoreVeronicaMarsforme.
“You’reMallory,right?”
Icockmyhead.“Havewemet?”
“Nope.I’mDefne.DefneBubiko?lu—butunlessyouspeakTurkish,Iwouldn’ttrytopronounceit.It’snicetomeetyou.I’mafan.”
Iletoutalaugh.Thenrealizeshe’sserious.“Excuseme?”
“AnyonewhotrouncesNolanSawyerlikeyoudidgetsalifetimesupplyofadmirationfromme.”Shepointstoherselfwithaflourish.“Freehomedelivery,too.”
Istiffen.Oh,no.No,no.Whatisthis?“I’msorry.Youhavethewrongperson.”
Shefrowns.“You’renotMalloryGreenleaf?”
Itakeastepback.“Yes.Butit’sacommonname—”
“MalloryVirginiaGreenleaf,whoplayedyesterday?”Shetakesoutherphone,tapsatit,thenholdsitoutwithasmile.“Ifthisisnotyou,youhavesomeseriousidentitytheftissues.”
Shehaspulledupavideo.ATikTokofayoungwomancheckmatingNolanSawyerwithherqueen.Therearewispsofwhite-blondhairfallingacrossthesideofherface,andhereyelinerissmudged.
Ican’tbelieveEastondidn’ttellmethatmyeyelinerlookedlikeshit.
Also,Ican’tbelievethatthisstupidvideowastakenandithasovertwentythousandlikes.Arethereeventwentythousandpeoplewhoplaychess?
“Whatwasupwiththedramaticexit,bytheway?”sheasks.“Didyoudouble-park?”
“No.I—okay,thatisme.”Irunahanddownmyface.Ineedcoffee.Andatimemachine,togobacktowhenIagreedtohelpEaston.MaybeIcouldgobackevenfurther,justmurderourentirefriendship.“Thegame…Itwasafluke.”
Defne’sbrowfurrows.“Afluke?”
“Yeah.IknowthatitlookslikeI’msomekindof…chesstalent,butIdon’tplay.Sawyermustbeinsomekindoffunk,and—”Istop.Defneislaughingandlaughing.Apparently,I’mhilarious.
“Youmean,thecurrentworldchesschampion?Whoalsohappenstobethecurrentrapidandblitzchampion?Inafunk?”
Ipressmylipstogether.“Hecanbethecurrentchampionandstillbehavingabadmonth.”
“Unlikely,sincehewonSwedenChesslastweek.”
“Well,”Iscramble,“he’stiredbecauseofallthewinning,and—”
“Dude,stop.”Shetakesonestepcloser,andIsmellsomethingpleasantlycitrusymixedwiththetobacco.“Youwonagainstthebestplayerintheworld.Youcompletelyblindsidedhiminadamngoodgame—thewayyoufeintedafeint?Howyougotyourselfoutofthatpin?Yourqueen?Stopputtingyourselfdownandtakecreditforit—youthinkNolanwouldbehalfasreticent?Youthinkanyguywouldbe?”
Defneisyelling.WiththecornerofmyeyeIseeMrs.Abebe,myneighbor,stareatusfromheryard,aclearDoyouneedsaving?inhereyes.Isubtlyshakemyhead.Defnejustseemslikeaverypassionate,veryloudcheerleader.IthinkImightevenlikeher.Despitethefactthatshe’sheretotalkaboutchess.
“Ican’tbethefirstpersontowinagainstSawyer,”Isay.Asamatteroffact,IknowI’mnot.Istudiedhisplay,backwhenIstill…studiedplays.Antonov-Sawyer,2013,Rome.Sawyer-Shankar,2016,Seattle.Antoni-Sawyer,2012—
“No,butit’sbeenawhile.Andwhenpeoplewinagainsthim,it’sbecausehemakesdumbmistakes—whichhedidn’t,notthatIcouldsee.It’sjustthatyouwere…better.”
“I’mnot—”
“Andit’snotlikethisisyourfirstfeatwhenitcomestochess.”
Ishakemyhead,confused.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Well,Ilookedyouup,and…”Sheglancesatherphone.Hercasesays,Check,mate!onagalaxybackground.“Therearearticlesofyouwinningtournamentsinthearea,andpicsofyoudoingblindfoldedsimultaneousexhibitions—youwereanadorablekid,bytheway.I’msurprisedyoudidn’tplayinratedtournaments,’causeyou’dhavekilledit.”
Imightbeflushing.“Mymotherdidn’twantmeto,”Isay,withoutquiteknowingwhy.
Defne’seyeswiden.“Yourmotherdoesn’tsupportyouplayingchess?”
“No,nothinglikethat.Shejust…”
MomlovedthatIplayed.Sheevenlearnedtherulestobeabletofollowmynever-endingchess-relatedchatter.However,shealsodidn’tshyawayfrompushingbackagainstDad.Formostofmychildhood,thegreatesthitintheGreenleafhouseholdwasDadinsistingthatsomeoneasgoodasIwasatmanipulatingnumbersandpatternrecognitionsshouldbecultivatedintoapro;Momreplyingthatshedidn’twantmedealingwiththehyper-competitive,hyper-individualisticenvironmentofratedchessfromayoungage;Sabrinaemergingfromherroomtoaskflatly,Whenyou’redonearguingaboutyourfavoritedaughter,canwemaybehavedinner?Intheend,theyagreedthatI’dstartcompetingintherateddivisionsoftournamentswhenIwasfourteen.
ThenIturnedfourteen,andeverythingchanged.
“Iwasn’tinterested.”
“Isee.You’reArchieGreenleaf’sdaughter,aren’tyou?IthinkImethim—”
“I’msorry,”Iinterrupthersharply.SharperthanImeanto,becauseofthesourtasteinmythroat.Thethingsshe’ssaying,it’slikeunearthingacorpse.“I’msorry,”Irepeat,gentler.“Wasthere…Isthereareasonyou’rehere?”
“Right,yes.”Ifshe’soffendedbymybluntness,shedoesn’tletitshow.Insteadshesurprisesmebysaying,“I’mheretoofferyouajob.”
Iblink.“Ajob?”
“Yup.Wait—areyouaminor?Becauseifso,oneofyourparentsshouldprobably—”
“I’meighteen.”
“Eighteen!Areyouheadingofftocollege?”
“No.”Iswallow.“I’mdonewithschool.”
“Perfect,then.”Shesmileslikeshe’sgivingmeagift.LikeI’mabouttobehappy.Liketheideaofmakingmehappymakesherhappy.“Here’sthedeal:Irunachessclub.Zugzwang,inBrooklyn,overby—”
“I’veheardofit.”Marshallmightbetheoldest,mostrenownedclubinNewYork,butinthelastfewyearsZugzwanghasbecomeknownforattractingalesstraditionalcrowd.IthasaTikTokaccountthatsometimesgoesviral,communityengagement,strip-chesstournaments.Ivaguelyrememberhearingaboutamore-or-lessacerbicrivalrybetweenMarshallandZugzwang—whichwouldexplainhergleeatmybeatingSawyer,aMarshallmember.
“Here’sthedeal:someofourmembersdecidetousetheirovergrownchessbrainsforsomethingthatisn’tchess,and—well,theygooutintheworld,getjobsinfinanceandotherlucrative,amoralfields,maketonsofmoney,andlooovetaxwrite-offs.Longstoryshort,wehaveabunchofdonors.Andthisyearweinstitutedafellowship.”
“Afellowship?”Doesshewanttohiremetokeeptrackofdonors?DoesshethinkI’manaccountant?
“It’saone-yearsalaryforaplayerwhohasthepotentialtogopro.You’dbementoredandsenttotournamentsonourtab.Theprimarygoalistogiveaheadstarttopromisingyoungchessplayers.ThesecondarygoalisformetoeatpopcornwhileyouhandNolanhisass,again.Butthat’snot,like,amust.”
Iscratchmynose.“Idon’tunderstand.”
“Mallory,I’dloveforyoutobethisyear’sZugzwangfellow.”
Idon’timmediatelyparseherwords.ThenIdo,andIstillhavetoturnthemaroundinmyheadoverandover,becauseI’mnotsureIheardthemcorrectly.
Didshejustoffertopaymetoplaychess?
Thisiswild.Incredible.Thisfellowship—it’slikethestuffofdreams.Lifechanging.Everythingfourteen-year-oldMalloryGreenleafwouldhavewishedfor.
Toobadfourteen-year-oldMalloryGreenleafisnowhereinsight.
“I’msorry,”ItellDefne.She’sstilllookingatmewithabright,happyexpression.“Itoldyou,Idon’tplayanymore.”
Thebright,happyexpressiondarkensalittle.“Why?”
Ilikeher.Ireallylikeher,andforamomentIalmostconsiderexplainingthingstoher.Stuff.Life.Mysisters,andMom,androllerderbyfees.Bob,andchangingwindshieldwipers,andthefactthatIdon’tneedaone-yearfellowshipbutajobthatwillbetherenextyear,andtheyearafter,andtheoneafterthat.Dad,andthememories,andthenightIsworetomyselfthatIwasdonewithchess.Forever.
Itseemsliketoomuchforafirstmeeting,soIcondensethetruth.“I’mjustnotinterested.”
She’sinstantlysubdued.Herbrowfurrowsinaslightfrownandshestudiesmeforalongwhile,asthoughrealizingthattheremightbesomethingshedoesn’tknowaboutme.Ha.“Tellyouwhat,”shesayseventually.“I’mgoingtogetgoing—Sunday’speakdayatZugzwang.Lotsofprep.ButI’llgiveyouafewdaystothinkaboutit—”
“I’mnotgoingtochangemymind—”
“—andinthemeantime,I’llemailyouthecontract.”Shepatsmyshoulder,andI’menvelopedbyherlemonyscentonceagain.Oneofhertattoos,Inotice,isachessboard,withpiecesdevelopedonit.Afamousgame,perhaps,butIdon’trecognizeit.
“I—Youdon’thavemyemail,”Itellher.She’salreadyathercar—2019VolkswagenBeetle.
“Oh,Ido.Fromthetournamentdatabase.”
“Whichtournament?”
“Yesterday’s.”Shewavesgoodbyeasshegetsintothedriver’sseat.“Iorganizedit.”
Idon’twaitforhertodriveoff.Iturnaround,walkbackinsidethehouse,andpretendnottonoticeMomlookingatmefromthewindow.ChapterFive
Iamsurrounded.Undersiege.Relentlesslyattackedfromallsides.
HondaCivicleakingcoolant?Ontopofme.
Mortgageletterfromthecreditunion?Inmybackpack.
Sabrina’stextremindingmethatherderbyfeesaredueonFridayandifIdon’tpaythem,herlifewillbeinshambles?Onmyphone.
Bob’ssupervillainpresence,ragingbecauseIrefusedtopushanearlybrakejobonahighschooljunior?Hoveringalloverthegarage.
Easton,whiningatmenonstoplikeI’mherlocalcongressman?SomewherenexttotheCivic.
Isuccessfullyavoidedherforthreedays.Nowit’sWednesday,she’sshownuptothegarage,andIhavenowheretoretreat.Exceptunderasteadystreamofcoolant.
“You’reactinglikeatotalweirdo,”shesaysforthetwentiethtime.“WinningagainstSawyerandthenrunningaway?Refusingmoneytoplaychess?”
“Listen,”Isay,andthenstop.Partlybecausetheleakinghasintensified.PartlybecauseIexhaustedmyexplanationstenminutesago.“Ineedastable,long-termjobthatallowsmetopickupextrashiftswhenmoneygetstight.IneedittobehereinPatersonincasesomethinghappenstoMomandmysistersneedme.Ihavenointerestingettingsuckedbackintochess.”There’salimitednumberofwaysIcanparaphrasethesethreesimpleconcepts.“You’releavingnextWednesday,right?”
Sheignoresme.“Peoplearetalkingaboutyourgame.They’reanalyzingitonChessWorld.com.They’reusingwordslikemasterpiece,Mal.Zachkeepssendingmelinks!”
IpatchtheradiatorandrollfromundertheCivic,takeinEaston’sUniversityofColoradocroptop,andscrunchmynose.Seemsabitpremature.“DidZacheverendupplayingagainstLal?”
“Nowyou’reinterestedinthetournament?”Sherollshereyes.“No.Butthat’sprobablyforthebest,sincehelosteverysinglegame.”Ismilemyschadenfreude,butshewagsherfingeratme.“Hey—atleastZachdidn’tleavemewithoutaplayerbecausehefreakedoutwhenNolanSawyerwinkedathim.”
Ihuff.“Firstofall,IseriouslydoubtNolanSawyerhaseverwinked,willeverwink,orevenknowsthemeaningofthewordwink.”Istand,wipingmyhandsonthebuttofmycoveralls.Sawyer’sserious,intenseexpressionisnotsomethingI’vebeenlettingmyselfthinkabout.Okay,maybeIdreamedofhimstaringatmefromacrossachessboardthatspontaneouslyburstintoflames.Ofhimpushingthechessclockatme,smilingfaintly,andsayingwithhisdeepvoice,“DidyouknowthatI’maGenZsexsymbol?”Ofhimtippingmeoverlikepeopledowiththeirkingswhentheyresign,andthenstubbornlyholdingoutahandforme,eagertohelpmeup.Okay,maybeinthepastweekI’vehadthreeseparateNolanSawyerdreams.Sowhat?Sueme.Sendthesleeppolice.“Secondly,Ihadanemergency.”
“ForgottoturnontheCrock-Pot,didyou?”
“Somethinglikethat.Hey,Iwanttocometotheairportwhenyou—”Bob’svoicerisesinthemaingarage,andIfrown.“Waithereasec,”Isay,runningtocheckonthetoo-familiarnoise.
Myuncleusedtoco-ownthegaragewithBob,andIwasworkinghereduringsummerssincewellbeforeheshouldhaveagreedtohavemeunderfoot.I’vealwaysbeenintuitiveaboutfixingstuff—figuringouthowthedifferentpiecesareconnectedinalargersystem,visualizinghowtheyworktogetherasbuildingblocksofawhole,calculatinghowchangingonecouldaffecttheothers.Somuchlikechess,Dadusedtosay,andIdon’tknowifhewasright,butUncleJackwashappytohavemearound.Untilhewasn’taroundanymore:theweekafterIgraduatedandbeganworkingforhimfull-time,hemadetheunfortunatedecisiontosellhissharetoBobandmovetothePacificNorthwest“fortheDungenesscrab.”Asaconsequence,InowhavethepleasureofansweringonlytoBob.
Luckyme.
IfindhimstandinginfrontofawomanIdon’trecognize,flankedbyhisothertwomechanics,handsonhiships.Theyalllookangry.
Pissed,even.
“—foranoilchange,andIwastoldthatitwouldcostaroundfiftybucks,nottwohundred—”
“That’sbecauseoftheengineflush.”
“What’sanengineflush?”
“Somethingcarsneed,lady.Maybeweforgottotellyouwhenyoubroughtyoursover.Whodidyoutalkto?”
“Agirl.Blond,alittletallerthanme—”
“Ididtheintake.”Ismileattheclientandstepinside,ignoringBob’sglare.“Isthereaproblem?”
Shescowls.“Youdidn’tmentionthatmycarwouldneedanengine…whatever.I-Ican’taffordthis.”
Iglanceatthecarsaroundtheshop,tryingtoplaceher.“It’sa2019Jettasedan,right?”
“Yeah.”
“Youwon’tneedanengineflush.”Ismilereassuringly.Shelooksdistraughtandrattledovermoney—somethingIcanrelateto.“Thecar’swellunderfiftythousandmiles.”
“Sotheengineflushwasnotnecessary.”
“Notatall.I’msureit’samistake,and…”ItrailoffasIrealizewhatshesaid.Was.“Excuseme,doyoumeanthattheengineflushhasalreadybeendone?”
SheturnstoBob,steely.“I’mnotpayingforajobthatevenyourownmechanicsayswasn’tneeded.AndIwon’tbeusingthisgarageagain.Butnicetry.”
Ittakesherlessthanaminutetosettlethefifty-dollarbill.Thetensioninthegarageisthickandugly,andIstandbythecounter,feelingpainfullyawkward,untiltheJettahasdrivenoff.ThenIturntoBob.
Surprisesurprise,he’sfuming.
“I’msorry,”Isay,amixofcontrite,defensive,andgloating.WorkingwithBobclearlyarousescomplex,multilayeredemotionswithinme.“Ididn’tknowyou’dalreadydonetheflushorIwouldn’thavetoldheritwasn’tnecessary.Sheseemedlikeshedidn’thavethemoneyfor—”
“You’refired,”hesayswithoutlookingatme,stillfiddlingwiththecreditcardtransaction.
I’mnotsureIheardhimright.“What?”
“You’refired.I’llpayyouwhatIoweyou,butIdon’twantyouback.”
Iblinkathim.“Whatareyou—”
“Iamsickofyou,”heyells,turningtomeandcomingforward.Itaketwostepsback.Bob’snottallandhe’snotlarge,buthe’smean.“Youalwaysdothis.”
Ishakemyhead,glancingattheothermechanics,hopingthey’llintervene.Theyjustlookatusstone-faced,andI—
Ican’tlosethisjob.Ican’t.Ihavealetterinmypurseandatextinmyphone,andapparentlyguineapigsgetdepressedifthey’renotlivingindamnpairs.“Listen,I’msorry.ButI’vebeenworkinghereforoverayear,andmyunclewouldn’t—”
“Youruncleain’thereanymore,andI’mdonewithyou.Notonlydoyouneverupsell,butyoualsodon’tletmedoit?Getyourstuff.”
“Butthat’snotmyjob!Myjobistofixpeople’scars,notsellthemstufftheydon’tneed.”
“Ain’tyourjobanymore.”
“She’sright,youcan’tfireherlikethat.”Iturnaround.EastonisstandingbehindmewithherbestIwillnowcorrectyourgrammarface.“Thereareregulationsinplacethatprotectemployeesfromunjusttermination—”
“Luckily,Blondieherewasneveronthebookstobeginwith.”
ThatshutsEastonup.AndtherealizationthatBobcandoanythinghewantswithme—thatshutsmeup,too.
“Getyourstuffandleave,”hesaysonelasttime,rudeandobnoxiousandcruelasalways.Ican’tdoanythingaboutit.I’mcompletely,utterlypowerless,andIhavetoclenchmyfiststostopmyselffromclawinghisface.Ihavetoforcemyselftowalkaway,orI’lltearhimapart.
“AndMallory?”
Istop,butdon’tturnaround.
“I’llbedeductingthecostoftheengineflushfromwhatIoweyou.”
Strictlyspeaking,Ihaveneverbeenengulfedbyamudslideandhadmyseizingbodydraggeddownthejagged,rockyfaceofamountaintobesummarilydepositedatitsfoothillsandfedtothewildboars.However,IcanimaginethatifIweretofindmyselfinasimilarscenario,itwouldbenomorepainfulthantheweekthatcomesafterIgetfired
Thereareseveralreasons.Forone,Idon’twanttoworryMomormysisters,whichmeansnottellingthemthatBobfiredme,whichmeansfindingaplacetohideduringthedaywhileIsearchforanotherjob.Noteasy,consideringthatit’sstillAugustinNewJersey,andthatfreeplaceswithACandWi-FiarenotcommonenoughintheyearofourLord2023.IfindmyselfrediscoveringthePatersonPublicLibrary:it’schangedverylittlesinceIwasseven,andwelcomesmeandmybatteredlaptoptoitsunderfundedbosom.
Godblesslibraries.
“Uponexhaustiveinvestigation,”ItellEastononthephoneonThursdaynight,afteradayofless-than-fruitfulresearch,“IdiscoveredthatyoucannotpaybillswithCandyCrushgoldbars.Atravesty.Also,tobehiredasanautomechanicbysomeonewho’snotyourcrab-enthusiastuncle,youneedfancythingslikecertificationsandreferences.”
“Andyoudon’thavethem?”
“No.ThoughIdohavethatMallorytheCarMechanesscomicDarcydrewmewhenshewaseight.Thinkthatmightcount?”
Shesighs.“Youknowyouhaveanotheroption,right?”
Iignoreher,andspendthefollowingdaylookingforsomethingelse—anythingelse.Patersonisthethird-biggestcityinNewJersey,dammit.Therehasgottobeajob,anyjobforme,dammit.Thoughitalsohappenstohavethethird-highestdensityintheUnitedStates,meaninglotsofcompetition.Dammit.
Also,dammit:therednumbersthatblinkatmelaterthatnightwhenIpeekattheonlinebankaccountMomgavemeaccesstoonceDadwasn’tinthepictureanymore.Mybellyknotsover.
“Hey,”ItellSabrinawhenIfindheraloneinthelivingroom.Ishovemyhandsdownintomypocketstoavoidwringingthem.“Aboutthosederbyfees.”
Shelooksupfromherphone,eyesscaredwideopen,andblurtsout,“You’regoingtopaythem,right?”
Myeyesarescratchyfromstaringatascreenallday,andforamoment—ahorrible,terrifying,disorientingmoment—Iamangrywithher.Withmybeautiful,intelligent,talentedfourteen-year-oldsisterwhodoesn’tknow,doesn’tunderstandhowhardI’mtrying.WhenIturnedfourteen—ontheverystupiddayofmystupidbirthday—everythingchanged,andIlostDad,Ilostchess,IlosttheverymeI’dbeen,andsincethenallI’vedoneistryto—
“Mal,canyoupleasenotscrewthisonethingupforme?”
The“unlikeeverythingelse”isunsaid,andtheswellingbubbleofangerburstsintoguilt.GuiltthatSabrinahastoaskforwhatisduetoher.Ifithadn’tbeenformystupiddecisions,we’dhavehadnoproblemaffordingherfees.
Iclearmythroat.“There’sbeenamix-upatthecreditunion.I’llgochecktomorrow,butcouldyouaskforanextension?Justacoupleofdays.”
Shegivesmealevelstare.“Mal.”
“I’msorry.I’llpayassoonasIcan.”
“It’sokay.”Sherollshereyes.“Deadline’snextWednesday.”
“What?”
“IjusttoldyouafewdaysearlierbecauseIknowyou.”
“Youlittle—”Igasp,relieved,andfloponthecouchtotickleher.InthirtysecondsIhavemaneuveredherintoahug,andshelaughswhilesayingyikesandgrossandSeriously,Mal,you’reembarrassingyourself
“Whydoyousmelllikeoldbooksandapplejuice?”sheasks.“Dowehaveapplejuice?”Inodsilentlyandgotothekitchentopourheraglass,chokedinmythroatbecauseofhowmuchIlovemysisters,andhowlittleIcangivethem.
Thatnight,myGmailsnoozesanunansweredmessagefromdefne@zugzwang.com.Received5daysago.Reply?Istareatitforalongtime,butdon’topenit.
OnSaturdayandSundayIgetaluckybreak:acouplegigs—yardworkforaneighborIsometimesbabysitfor;dogwalking—andit’snicetohavesomecash,butit’snotsustainable,notlongtermandnotwithamortgage.
“Itjustneedstobepaid,”thecredituniontellersaysonMondaymorning,whenIshowherthereminder,urgent,youarebehindandfailingattakingcareofyourfamily,youuselessmemberofsocietyletter.“Preferably,allthreeoverduemonths.”Shegivesmeanassessinglook.“Howoldareyou?”Idon’tthinkIlookyoungerthanmyage,butitdoesn’tmatter,becauseeighteen’splentyyoung,evenwhenitfeelsanythingbut.MaybeI’mjustachildplayingatgrown-up.Ifthat’sthecase,I’mlosing.“Youshouldprobablyletyourmomhandlethis,”thetellersays,notunkindly.ButMom’shavingaterribleweek,oneoftheworstsincethenightmareofherdiagnosisstarted,andweprobablyneedtochangehermedsagain,butthat’sexpensive.Itoldhertorest,thatIhadeverythingundercontrol,thatIwaspickingupextrashifts.
Youknow,likealiar.
“Youlooktired,”GiannatellsmewhenIshowupatherplacelaterthatnight,indesperateneedofadistractionfromthinkingaboutmoney.SheandIusedtotakecalculustogether.We’dhavestudysessionsinthisveryhousethat’sprobablyaMcMansion,andwouldspendapproximatelyoneminuteworkingonfunctionsandtwohourshavinglotsoffuninherroom.Herparentsareoutoftownonasailingtrip,andshe’sleavingforsomesmallliberalartscollegeinlessthanaweek.Hasan,myothergoodfriend,theweekafter.
“Tiredismydefaultstate,”Itellherwithaforcedsmile.
WhenIgethome,notnearlyasrelaxedasI’dhoped,IfindEaston’stext(Justtakethefellowship,Mal)andforcemyselftolookatthesamplecontract.
It’sgoodmoney.Goodhours.Thecommutewouldn’tbeideal,butnotimpossibleoncemysisters’schoolstarts.Defnemightallowforaflexibleschedule,too
Still,there’slotstoconsider.Myfeelingsaboutchess,forone,whichIcannotdisentanglefrommyfeelingsforDad.Theyaretwisted,knottedtogether.There’spain.Regret.Nostalgia.Guilt.Hate.Aboveall,there’sanger.Somuchangerinsideme.Mountainsofit,entireblazinglandscapeswithoutasinglefury-lesscornerinthem.
I’mangrywithDad,angrywithchess,andthereforeIcannotplayit.Prettystraightforward.
Andsettingthataside,amIevengoodenough?IknowI’mtalented—I’vebeentoldtoomanytimes,andbytoomanypeoplenotto.ButIhaven’ttrainedinyears,andIhonestlybelievethatbeatingNolanSawyer(whoinmylatestdreambrokeoffapieceofhisqueenandofferedittomelikeaKitKat)wasnothingmorethanastrokeofluck.
Onthetwinbednexttomine,Darcysnoreslikeamiddle-agedmanwithsleepapnea.Goliathisinhiscage,wanderingaimlessly.Thefactis,competitivechessisasport,andlikeothersports,there’slittleroomatthetop.EveryoneknowswhoUsainBoltis,butnoonegivesashiitakemushroomaboutthefifteenth-fastestpersonintheworld—eventhoughthey’restillprettydamnfast.
ThedinerwhereIusedtowaittableshasafullroster,andthelocalgrocerystoremightbelookingforhelp,butstartingpositionsareminimumwage.Notenough.IcontemplatethenewsonTuesdayandwhineaboutitonthephone.
“Listen,youstubbornbitch:justtakethefellowshipandfakeyourwaythroughit,”Eastonsays,exasperated,affectionate,andsuddenlyI’mafraidagain.Thatshe’llforgetallaboutme,thatI’llnevermeasureuptoColoradoandthepeopleshe’llmeetthere.I’mabouttoloseher,IknowIam.Itseemssuchaninevitable,predestinedconclusion,Idon’tevenbothervoicingmyfears.
InsteadIask,“Howdoyoumean?”
“Youcantakethemoneyforayearandplayyourbest,butalsonotcareaboutchess.Don’tthinkaboutitafterhours.Itdoesn’thavetobeobsessiveorconsuminglikeitusedtobebeforeyourdad…Justclockin,clockout.Inthemeantime,youcangetthosemechaniccertifications.”
“Ha,”Isay,impressedbyhermore-or-lessdeviousplan.“Ha.”
“You’rewelcome.Canyoudothat?”
“Dowhat?”
“Notbeatotallunaticweirdoaboutsomething?”
Ismile.“Unclear.”
SheleavesonWednesday,afterstoppingbymyplacetosaygoodbye.Ijustfiguredit’dbedifferent.IexpectedaTSAfarewellandtostareatherplaneasitflewoff,butitdoesn’tmakesense:we’reeighteen.Shehasparents—anon-bedridden,still-togethersetthattakescareofher,anddriveshertotheairport,andpaysforanicedormroomwiththe529thatdidnotneedtobecashedoutwhentheoldwaterboilersputteredtoitstimelybutheart-wrenchingdemise.
“Youhavetocomevisit,”Eastonsays.
“Yeah,”Isay,knowingthatIwon’t.
“WhenI’mback,we’regoingtoNewYork.Getthatmacaronyoudon’tdeserve.”
“Ican’twait,”Isay,knowingthatwewon’t.
Shejustsighs,likesheknowsexactlywhatI’mthinking,andhugsme,andordersmetotexthereverydayandwatchoutforSTDs.Darcy,who’sbeenhoveringarounduswithheart-shapedeyes,asksherwhatthatstandsfor.
Iwatchthestreetlongafterthecarhasdisappeared.Itakeadeepbreathandemptymymindofeverything,allowingmyselfarare,beautiful,luxuriousmomentofpeace.Ithinkaboutadesertedchessboard.Onlythewhitekingonit,standingonthehomesquare.Alone,untethered,safefromthreats.
Freetoroam,atleast.
ThenIgobackinside,openmylaptop,andwritethemessageIknewI’dwriteeversincethismudslideofaweekstarted.
HeyDefne,
Isthatfellowshipstillonthetable?PARTTWOMiddleGame
ChapterSix
8:55am—ArriveatZugzwang!There’scoffee&bagelsintheloungeroom—helpyourself!(Donoteattherainbowbagel:it’sDelroy’s,oneofourresidentGMs.Hegetscrankywhenhisfoodhaslessthanfivecolors.)
9–10am—Memorizeassignedlistofopeningvariations
10–11am—Memorizeassignedlistofend-gamepositions
11am–noon—Gooverassignedlistofoldgames/tactics
noon–1pm—Break.I’veincludedalistofnearbyfoodplacesyoumightlike.(Gambit,theclub’scat,willmeowatyoulikehehasn’tbeenfedsincetheWeichselianglaciation;itisbutawell-practiced,deviousact.Donotfeelobligedtoshareyourmeatluncheswithhim.)
1–2pm—Analyzeassignedopponents’games
2–3pm—Logicalthinkingandpositionalchessreview
3–4pm—Trainingwithsoftware/databases
4–5pm—W–FMeetwithGMtrainertogooverweaknesses
Makesuretotakeashortbreakasneededtokeepyourfocus.Workoutschedule:4,5days/w,~30mins.Keephydratedandwearsunscreen,atleast30SPF(evenifit’scloudy—that’snothowsunrayswork).
IglanceoverthescheduleDefnejusthandedmetomakesurethatIreallyreadwhatIjustread.ThenIlookupandsay,
“Um.”
Shesmileswide.Todayherlipstickispink,hershirtSpiceGirlsthemed,andherpixiehaircuthasmewantingtograbtheclosestutilityknifeandhackmyownhairoff.Shelookscoolinavintage,effortlessway.“Um?”
“Just,thisisanawfullotof…”Iclearmythroat.Bitemylip.Scratchmynose.“Chess?”
“Iknow.”Hersmilewidens.“Great,right?”
Mystomachknots.Whydon’tyoujustfakeit?Eastonsaid,andthismorningontheNewJerseyTransit,duringmybrand-newone-and-a-half-hourcommute,Irepeatedittomyselflikeamantra:Thisisajob.Justajob.Iwon’tthinkaboutchessonesecondpast5:00p.m.ChessandIbrokeupyearsago,andI’mnotsomesimperinggirlwho’lltakebackhercheatingexafterbeingdumpedduringtheslowdanceatprom.I’monlygoingtodothenecessaryamountofit.
Ijustdidn’texpectthenecessaryamountofittoequalabajillioncraploads.
“Yeah.”Iforceoutasmile.Imaynotbethrilledtobehere,butDefneissavingmeandmyfamilyfromtheunderpass.AndI’mnotanungratefullittleshit—Ihope.“There’sa…workoutschedule?”
“Youdon’tworkout?”
Ihaven’tvoluntarilybrokenasweatsincemylastPErequirement—juniorhigh,Ibelieve.ButshelookssurprisedtofindoutthatI’masloth,soImassagethetruth.“Notquitethatoften.”
“You’llwanttoupthat.Mostchessplayersworkouteverydaytobuildstamina.Believeme,you’llneeditwhenyou’reinthemiddleofaseven-hourgame.”
“Aseven-hourgame?”I’veneverdoneanythingforsevenhoursstraight.Notevensleeping.
“Playersburn,like,sixthousandcaloriesadaywhileplayingatournament.It’sridiculous.”Shegesturesformetofollowher.“I’llshowyouyouroffice.Youdon’tmindsharing,doyou?”
“No.”ThismorningmyroommaterepeatedlyfartedonmypillowbecauseIdaredtoaskhernottopracticeherxylophoneat5:30a.m.“I’musedtoit.”
ThePatersonChessClubisaroominthereccenter,madeupofpainfullyfluorescentlightbulbs,vinylplanksstickingoutofthefloor,andenoughasbestostofrythebrainsofthreegenerations.IexpectedZugzwangtobemoreofthesame,buteverycornerissun-dappledhardwoodfloors,expensivefurniture,andsleek,state-of-the-artmonitors.Traditionandtechnology,newandold.EitherIunderestimatedthekindofmoneyonecanmakefromchess,ortheplaceisjustamobfront.
InearlygaspwhenDefneshowsmethelibrary,somethingstraightoutofOxford—ifonasmallerscale.Therearerowsandrowsofhighshelves,fancyladders,somethingthat,fromwatchingSellingSunsetwithMomexactlytwice,Ibelieveiscalledamezzanine,and—
Books.
So.Many.Books.
SomanybooksthatIrecognizefromthelivingroomshelvesstockedbyDad,thenhastilypackedawayinoldAmazonboxesoncethesilentdecisiontoerasehispresencewasmade.
“You’rewelcometousethelibrarywheneveryouwant,”Defnesays.“Severalvolumesinhereareonyourreadinglist.Andit’srightbyyouroffice.”
That’scorrect:myofficeisacrossthehall,andthistimeIdogasp,shamelessly.Ithasthreewindows,thelargestdeskI’veeverseen,variouschesssetsthatprobablycostmorethanagallbladderontheblackmarket,and—
“Quiet,please.”
Iturnaround.Onthedeskoppositetominesitsascowlingman.Hemustbeinhistwenties,buthisblondhairlineisalreadyrecedingintodeephills.There’sadevelopedchessgameinfrontofhim,andthreeopenbooks.
“Hey,Oz.”EitherDefnedoesn’tnoticehisfrownorshedoesn’tcare.“ThisisMallory.She’lltaketheemptydesk.”
Forafewseconds,Ozstareslikehe’sfantasizingaboutdisembowelingmeandusingmylargeintestinetocrochethimselfascarf.Thenhesighs,rollshiseyes,andsays,“Yourphoneisonmuteatalltimes—nobuzzer.Computeronmute,too.Useasilentmouse.Ifyouseemethinkingandyouinterruptme,Iwillstuffmychesspiecesintoyournostrils.Yes,allofthem.Nopacingaroundwhileyou’rethinkingthroughgames.Noperfume,hotfoods,orwrappers.Nosniffling,sneezing,heavybreathing,humming,burping,flatulating,orfidgeting.Notalkingtomeunlessyou’rehavingastrokeandneedmetocall911.”Athoughtfulpause.“Eventhen,ifyoucanmanagetoalertme,youcanprobablydialonyourown.Understood?”
Iopenmymouthtosayyes.Thenremembertheno-talkingruleandnod,slowly.
“Excellent.”Hegrimacesatme.OhGod,isthatasmile?“WelcometoZugzwang.We’llgetongreat,I’msure.”
“OzisoneofourresidentGMs,”Defnewhispersinmyear,likeitexplainshisbehavior.“Haveagoodfirstday!”Herhandwaveisalittletoochipper,consideringthatshe’sleavingmealonewithsomeonewho’llflogmeifIgetthehiccups,butwhenIglanceatOz,he’sbacktostaringathisgame.Phew?
IgrabthemanylistsDefnehasgivenme,retrievebooksfromthelibrary,bootupthecomputer,sitintheniceergonomicchairasquietlyaspossible(thesemi-leathercreaks,whichI’msurehasOzonthevergeoffreeingmefromthemortalcoil),findthechapterIneedtomemorizefromthefifteentheditionofModernChessOpenings,andthen…
Well.Iread.
It’snotanewbooktome.Dadwouldrecitepassagesaboutinitialgambitsandpositionalplayinhissoothing,lowbaritone,ignoringDarcyandSabrinascreaminginthebackground,Momputteringaroundthekitchenandwarningaboutdinnergettingcold.Butthatwascenturiesago.ThatMallorydidn’tknowanythingaboutanything,andshehadnothingincommonwithtodayMallory.Andanyway,doIreallyneedtostudyallthisstuff?AmInotsupposedtoreasonmywaythroughagame?
Itseemslikearidiculousamountofwork,andoverthedayitdoesn’tgetanybetter.Atten,IswitchtoreadingDvoretsky’sEndgameManual.Atelevenit’sTheLifeandGamesofMikhailTal.Interestingstuff,butjustreadingaboutitseemslikestudyingamanualonhowtoknitwithoutevertouchingneedles.Utterlypointless.Everyonceinawhile,IrememberthatOzexistsandlookuptofindhimimmobile,readingthesamestuffIam—excepthedoesn’tseemtobewonderingaboutthemeaningofitall.Hishandsareavisoronhisforehead,andhelookssodeepinconcentration,I’malmosttemptedtosay,“Rooks,amirite?”
Buthe’sclearlynotheretomakefriends.WhenIleaveforlunch(PB&J;yes,Defne’slistofnearbyeaterieslooksamazing;no,Idon’thavethemoneytoeatout),he’sathisdesk.JustlikewhenIreturn—sameexactposition.ShouldIpokehim?Checkwhetherrigormortishassetin?
Theafternoonismoreofthesame.Reading.Settingupchessenginesonthecomputer.TakingoccasionallongbreakstoraketheZengardenmydesk’spreviousinhabitantleftbehind.
Onthetrainbackhome,IthinkaboutEaston’sfakeyourwayadvice.Itwon’tbehard.I’mnotgoingtofallinlovewithchessagain—notifI’mnotplayingandjustreadingaboutdistant,abstractscenarios.
“Howdidthenewjobgo,honey?”MomaskswhenIletmyselfintothehouse.It’spastsixandthefamily’shavingdinner.
“Great.”IstealapeafromSabrina’splate,andshetriestostabmewithherfork.
“Idon’tgetwhyyouneededtochangejobs,”Darcysayssullenly.“Whowouldratherorganizeboccetournamentsforoldpeoplethantinkerwithcars?”
ThereisaspecificreasonI’mlyingtomyfamilyaboutmynewjob,andthatreasonis:
Idon’tknow.
Obviously,chessistiedtopainfulmemoriesofDad.ButI’mnotsurethatjustifiesmakingupanentirenewworkplace—aseniorreccenterinNYCI’vebeenhiredtomanagebecauseaformerhookuprecommendedme.Andyet,whenItoldMomI’dleftthegarage,theliejustrolledoffmytongue.
Ifigureitwon’tmakeadifference.Ajob’sajob.Andthisone’stemporary,tobeleftatthedoorwhenIcomehome.
“Oldpeoplearenice,”ItellDarcy.UnlikeSabrina,who’scurrentlyignoringmeandtextingthumb-spraininglyhard,she’sthrilledtoletmestealherpeas.
“Oldpeoplesmellweird.”
“Defineold.”
“Idunno.Twenty-three?”
MomandIexchangeaglance.“Soonyou’llbeold,too,Darcy,”shesays.
“Yes,butI’llbelivingwiththemonkeyslikeJaneGoodall.AndIwon’tbehiringyoungpeopletocometotheparktohelpmefeedthepigeons.”Sheperksup.“Didyouseeanycutesquirrels?”
Islipoutsilentlyaroundnine,whentheentirehouseisasleep.Hasan’scarisparkedattheendofmydriveway,theinternallightsoftonhishandsomefeatures.We’vebeendoingthisallsummer,andwhenheleansinforacasualpeck,asthoughwehavearoutine,asthoughthisisadate,Ithinkthatmaybeit’sgoodhe’sleavingsoon.
Idon’treallyhaveroomforthat.Notwitheverythingelsegoingon.
“Howareyou?”
“Good.You?”
“Great.Takingsomereallycoolcoursesthissemester.I’mthinkingofdeclaringmymajor—medicalanthropology.”Ilistenandnodandlaughintherightplacesashetellsmeaboutaprofessorwhooncesaidprostitutedinsteadofprosecuted,butthesecondthecarisparked,Ihandhimacondom,andthenit’shushedwords,hurriedmovements,musclesclenchingandreleasing.
Easton,who’ssurprisinglyromanticandpainfullymonogamous,onceasked:Doyoufeelclosetothem?
Towhom?
Thepeopleyouhookupwith.Doyoufeelclosetothem?
Notparticularly.Ishrugged.Ilikethemaspeople.We’refriendly.Iwishthemthebest.
Why,then?Wouldn’tyouratherbeinarelationship?
Truthis,itseemssafernotto.Inmyexperience,commitmentleadstoexpectations,andexpectationsleadtolies,andhurt,anddisappointment—stuffI’drathernotexperience,orforceotherstoexperience.ButIstilllikesexasarecreationalactivity,andI’mgratefulthatIwasraisedbyaveryopen-mindedfamily.Noyour-body-is-a-temple,it’s-time-to-have-the-talkcrapintheGreenleafhousehold.MomandDaddiscussedsexinalmostembarrassinglyhonestterms,liketheywouldopeningacreditcard:You’llprobablywanttotryit,there’llbeprosandcons,doitresponsibly.Here’sbirthcontrol.We’rehereifyouhaveanyquestions.Needadiagram?Yousure?
DadhadbeengoneforalmosttwoyearswhenAleshaConnersmiledatmeshylyfromacrossthehomeroom,thenbrushedherhandagainstmineduringalacrossegame,thengiggledwhilepullingmeinsidethesecondstallfromtheleftintherestroomnexttothechemlab.Itwasclumsy,andnew,andgood.Becauseitfeltgood,andbecauseforamomentIwasjust…me.NotMallorythedaughter,thesister,themakerofmistakes,butMallorythebreathless,pullingupherpantiesandsuckingonelastbruiseintoAlesha’sskin.
Idon’thaveroomtocareaboutanythingthat’snotfamily.Idon’thaveroomtocareaboutmyself—notthatIdeserveit.Butit’snicetostealbrief,harmless,containedmomentsoffun.TowaveHasangoodbyelessthanthirtyminutesafterhe’spickedmeup,slideintobedrelaxedandwithnointentionofthinkingabouthimformonths.
Afterlastweek’sscare,everything’sfine.Themortgageispaid(well,themostoverduemonth,anyway),soaretherollerderbyfees,andeverythingisfine.AtnightIdreamofMikhailTaltellingmewithaheavyRussianaccentthatIshouldgointothehallwaytodial911,andeverythingisfine.
Daytwoismoreofthesame.Longcommute,reading,memorizing.PonderingthehowsandwhysofthisweirdscheduleDefneputmeon.IconsidertextingEastonandaskingheropinion,butwehaven’ttalkedsincesheleftlastweek,andI’mafraidtodisturbherwhileshe’s…Idon’tknow.Beer-ponging,ordiscoveringLeninistMarxism,orhavingafoursomewithherdormRAwhohappenstobeasapiosexualfurry.Sheknowswhatsheleftbehind,butIhavenocluewhatshe’sdoing,whatI’mcompetingwith,whethershe’salreadyforgottenaboutme.IsthisFOMO?Yikes.Eitherway,I’drathernotreachoutandavoidbeingsadbecauseshedidn’tanswer.Plus,thesoundofmetextingmightgiveOzaseizure.
IreplayBobbyFischer’sgames,trudgethroughadissertationontheprosandconsofAlekhine’sDefense,learnabouttheLucenapositionintherookandpawnversusrookendgame.Itfeelslikeadilutedversionofchess,witheverythingexcitingsuckedoutofit.Liketakingthetapiocaballsoutofbubbletea:what’sleftisokay,butjusttea.
Idon’tcare,though,becausethisisjustajob.Andit’sstilljustajobonWednesdaymorning,whenIstepintomyofficeandOzisalreadythere,inthesamepositionasyesterday.Iwanttoaskifhewenthometosleep,butIwon’t,becauseIalsowanttohavemyeyesnotgougedoutofmyskull,soIjustspendfourhoursreadingaboutkingsafety.AtlunchIgototheparkandreadmycommutebook(LoveintheTimeofCholera—kindasad).WhenIcomeback,I’msupposedtolearnaboutpawnstructure,butinsteadIglancefurtivelyupatOz—stillinthesameposition;doesheneedtobewatereddaily?—andhidemybookinsidealargeronetokeeponreadingaboutFermina’squestionableromanticchoices.AtfourIalmostpickupmybagandheadtoPennStation,thenremember:
W–F:MeetwithGMtrainertogooverweaknesses
Thescheduledoesn’tsaywhere.“Oz?IfyouhadtomeetwithaGM,wherewouldyougo?”
Helooksupforthefirsttimeinthreedays—eyesblazing,nostrilsflaring.He’sgoingtounhingehisjaw,eatme,andthendissolvemeinhisgastricacids.“Library,”hebarks.IhurryacrossthehallwaybeforeIbecomeastatistic,expectingtofindtherainbow-lovingDelroy.TheonlypersoninsidetheroomisDefne,sittingatamassivewoodentable.
“Hi.MaybeI’minthewrongplace.Ozsaid—”
“Ozspoke?”
“Underduress.”
Shenodsknowingly.
“I’msupposedtomeetwithoneoftheGMs,and—”
“That’sme.”
“Oh.”Iflush.“I—I’msosorry.Ididn’tthinkyouwere—”AGM.Iflushsomemore.WhydidInotthinkthat?Becauseshelookscool?Plentyofcoolpeopleplaychess—I’mnotajockfromaninetiesteencomedy.Becausesherunstheplace?Youneedachessplayertorunachessclub.BecauseI’dneverheardabouther?It’snotlikewekeepacopyofChessMonthlyDigestinthebathroomathome.Becauseshe’sawoman?TherearetonsofwomenGMs.
God,isthiswhatEastonmeanswhenshetalksaboutinternalizedmisogyny?
“Areyouokay?”Defneasks.
“Ah.Yes.”
“Youlooklikeyou’rehavingaprettyintenseinternalmonologueoverthere.Wouldn’twanttointerrupt.”
“I…”Iscratchmyforeheadandtakeaseatacrossfromher.“I’malwayshavingintenseinternalmonologues.I’velearnedtotunemyselfout.”
“Good!Howwereyourfirstfewdays?”
“Great.”
Shestudiesmeforafewmoments.Todayshe’swearingcat-eyeeyelinerandanupper-armbraceletshapedlikeascorpion.“Let’stryagain.Howwereyourfirstdays?”
“Great!”Shekeepsstaring.“No,really.Great,Iswear.”
“Youhaveabadpokerface.We’llhavetoworkonitbeforetournaments.”
Ifrown.“Whywouldyouthinkthat—”
“Ifsomethingisn’tworkingaboutyourtrainingprogram,youshouldletmeknow.”
“Everything’sfine.I’vebeenreadingalot—goingthroughthelistyougaveme,searchingthechessengines.It’sfun.”
“But?”
Ihuffoutalaugh.“There’snobut.”
“But?”
Ishakemyhead.“Nothing,Ipromise.”ButDefneisstillstaring,likeI’munsuccessfullyhidingashadymurderouspastfromher,andIhearmyselfadd,“Just…”
“Just?”
“It’s…”Somethingscreamsatmenottotellher.Ifyoutellher,itmeansthatyoucare.Whichyoudon’t.Youcanhalf-assthis,Mal.Youcandoit.“It’sjust…Ifreadingallthisstuffissupposedtohelpmeimprovemygame,I’mnotsurethat’sthecase.”Defne’sexpressionisnotquiteasopenasusual,andIdon’tknowwhetherit’sbecauseIwantherapprovalorjusthermoney,butIfindmyselfbacktracking,panicky.“I’msureyouknowwhatyou’redoing!Studying’simportant—readingoldgames,goingthroughopenings.Butifoneneveractuallyplayschess…”
Iwringmyhandsunderthetable.Defnegivesmealong,levellookbeforesmilingandshrugging.“Okay,”shesays.
“Okay?”
“Let’splay!”
Shedragsasetbetweenus,whiteonmyside,andadjuststhepieces.Thengesturesatmetostart.“Noclocktoday,okay?”
“Ah…okay.”
Atthestart,I’malmostpumped.Readingaboutchesswithoutplayinghasbeensomeseriousedging,alittlelikehavingacarrotdangledinfrontofme.NowIgettoeat,andit’sgoingtobesodamngood.Right?
Wrong.BecauseIrealizesoonenoughthatthisisnothinglikemygameagainstSawyer.Ican’timmediatelytellthedifference,butafterthirtyminutesorso,whenthepiecesaredevelopedandtheplay’sunderway,Iknowwhat’smissing.
TherewasspecifictensionwithSawyer.Atight,heart-stoppingdancemadeofaggressiveattacks,slitheringambushes,obsessiveoutthinking.This…It’snothinglikethat.Itrytomakethingsmoreexcitingbyshowinginitiative,makingthreatsDefnecannotignore,but…well.Shedoesignoreme.Defendsherpieces,guardsherking,makessomesilentfillermoves,andthat’saboutit.
We’vebeenplayingforforty-fiveminuteswhenItryforabreakthrough.Iwanttopenetrateherdefensessobad,Igetalittlerecklessandlosemybishop.Mystomachknotsinamixofboredomanddread,andIgobacktoplayingitsafeforawhile,but—no.Somethingneedstohappen.Herknight,forinstance.It’soverloaded.Ithastodefendtoomanyotherpieces.IfItakeitwithmyrook—
Crap.Defnetakesmypawn.NowI’mdowntwopiecesand—
“Draw?”
Ilookup.She’sofferingmeadraw?Noway.Ifrown,don’tbotherreplying,andtryforanotherattack.It’sgettinglate.IfIdon’tmakethenexttrain,I’llbehomelaterthanusualandDarcyandMomwillbedisappointed.Sabrinawon’tcaremuch,but—
“Check.”
Defne’squeencomesformyking.Shit.IwassobusymountinganattackthatImissedit.ButIcanstill—
“Ithinkwecanstopnow,”shesays,smilingatmelikesheusuallydoes—genuinelykind,amused,withoutatraceofsmugness,eventhoughwebothknowthatshehastheupperhand.“Yougottheidea.”
Iblink,confused.“Theidea?”
“Whatjusthappened,Mallory?”
“I—Idon’tknow.Wewereplaying.Butyou…well,nooffense,butyouweren’treallydoingmuch.Youwereplaying…”
“Conservatively.”
“What?”
“Iwasplayingsafe.Cautious.EvenwhenIwasinthepositiontopushforanadvantage,Ididn’t.Iwasdefensive.Whichconfusedyou,thenfrustratedyou,thenhadyoumakingbasicmistakesbecauseyouwerebored.”Shepointsatthepositions.“Thisiseasyforme,becauseIgrewupwithaformalchesseducation.Now,you’reamuchbetterplayerthanIam—”
Iscoff.“ClearlyI’mnot.”
“Letmerephrase,then:youhavemoretalent.I’veseenvideosofyourplays—yourinstinctwhenitcomestoattackisfantastic.Itremindsmesomuchof…well.”Sheshakesherheadwithawistfulsmile.“Anoldfriend.Buttherearesomebasicsthatalltopplayersknow.Andifyoudon’tknowthem,anyopponentwithasolidtechnicalfoundationwilleasilyexploitthemagainstyou.Andyouwon’tevengettouseyourtalent.”
Idigestwhatshesaid.Thennod,slowly.Suddenly,IfeelasthoughI’mrunningbehind.AsthoughI’vewastedthepastfouryears.Which…
No.ItwasadecisionImade.Thebestdecision.Runningbehindonmywaytowhere,anyway?
“Itdoesn’thelpthatyou’reancient,”Defneadds.
Ifrown.“I’meighteenandsixmonths.”
“Mostprosstartmuchyounger.”
“I’vebeenplayingsinceIwaseight.”
“Yeah,butthebreakyoutook?Notgood.Imean,this”—shegesturestotheboard—“wasembarrassinglyeasyforme.”
Mycheeksredden.Iswallowsomethingbitterandrusty,suddenlyrememberinghowmuchIhatelosing.
So.Much.
“WhatdoIdo,then?”
“Ithoughtyou’dneverask.Youdo…”Shegrins,pullingapieceofpaperoutofherbackpocketandholdingitouttome.Itearitopen.“This.”
“ThisisthescheduleyouhandedmeonMonday.”
“Yeah.Iprintedtwobymistake.Sogladitcameinhandy—Ihatewastingpaper.Anyway,we’llhaveyouinshapeinnotime.Thatis,ifyoudoeverysinglethingonthislist.Andwe’llrevieweverythingyoulearnduringourmeetingstomakesureyou’reontrack.”
Fantastic.I’mgoingtobetested.
Ilookatthelistagain—allthethingsI’msupposedtodoeverysingledayfortheentireyear.Ithinkaboutmyplantophoneitin.AboutFermina’squestionableromanticchoices.AboutDefne’sexpectant,encouragingsmile.
Iwanttohead-desk.ButIjustsigh,andnodather.ChapterSeven
Ozdoesn’ttalktomefortwoweeks—thenhedoes,andIwanttokillhim.
It’saThursdaymorning.I’matmydesk,staringattheZengarden,replayingaFischer–Spassky1972gameinmyhead,whenhesays,“Soyou’recomingtothePhillyOpen.”
Istartle.Thenhiss:“What?”
I’msupremely,virulently,irrationallyannoyedthathe’sinterruptingmethisclosetoabreakthrough.Earliertoday,whilemakingDarcy’soatmeal(Callitwhatitis:Nutellawithoatssprinkledontop,SabrinamutteredwhilebitingintoaGrannySmith)IrealizedthatFischermadeamistake,onethatSpasskycouldhaveexploited.I’vebeenthinkingaboutiteversince,surethatifBlackusedtheknightto—
“I’lldrive,”Ozsays.“Weleaveatsix.”
Whyishetalking?Iamsoirritated.“Drivewhere?”
“ToPhilly.What’swrongwithyou?”
Iignorehim,gobacktofocusingonmyreplayuntilmyafternoonsessionwithDefne.I’vestartedlookingforwardtomymeetingswithher—partlybecauseshe’stheonlyhumanadultIinteractwithasidefromMom,butalsobecauseIgenuinelyneedhertoparsechessstuffwithme.ThemoreeffortIputintolearningtechnicalstuff,theharderithitsmehowlittleIknow,andhowmuchIneedasoundingboard.Iguessthat’swhyGMshavecoachesandtrainersandwhatnot.
“Canwegooveraplay?”IstartthesecondIstepintothelibrary,slidingmynotebookinherdirection.“I’vebeenstuckon—”
“Let’sfirsttalkaboutPhillyOpen.”
Istop.“Phillywhat?”
“PhillyOpen.Thetournament.Yourfirsttournament—thisweekend.”
Iblink.“I…”
Shecocksherhead.“You?”
Oh.Oh?“Idoubt…There’snoway…”Iswallow.“DoyouthinkI’mready?”
Shesmilescheerfully.“Honestly,notatall.”
Lovely.
“But,it’stoogoodanopportunity.Philly’scloseby,andthisisaveryreputableopentournament.”Ionlyhaveavagueideaofwhatthatmeans,whichmustbewhyDefnecontinues.“Itattractseliteplayers,thetoptenintheworld,butalsoallowsunratedplayerslikeyouintheratedsection.Andit’saknockouttournament—theloserofeachmatchiseliminated,thewinnermovesforward.Soyouwon’tbestuckwithmediocreplayersjustbecauseyou’recurrentlyunrated.Providedthatyoukeepwinning.”Sheshrugs.Thesinglefeatheredearringshe’swearingtinkleshappily.“I’llcomewith.Worsecomestoworst,youjustmakeafoolofyourself.”
Super-duperlovely.
Andthat’showIfindmyselfinthepassengerseatofOz’sredMiniHatchonaSaturdaymorning.Inthebackseat,Defneliststournamentrulesastheycometomind,hervoicetooloudfor7:00a.m.“Touch-moveandtouch-take,ofcourse—ifyoutouchapieceduringyourturn,you’llhavetomoveit.Youmustrecordallyourmovesonthescoresheet,inalgebraicnotations.Notalkingtoyouropponentunlessit’syourturnandyou’reofferingadraw.Whencastling,useonlyonehandandtouchthekingfirst.Ifthere’saconflictoradisagreement,calloneofthetournamentdirectorstosolveitforyou,don’teverfightwith—”
“Whatdoyouthinkyou’redoing?”Ozbarks.Ifollowhiseyestothefoil-wrappedPB&JIjusttookoutofmybag.
“Um—wantapiece?”
“Eatthat—oranythingelse—inmycar,andIwillchopyourhandsoffandboiltheminmyurine.”
“I’mhungry.”
“Thenstarve.”
Ibitetheinsideofmycheek.Honestly,IthinkI’mgrowingonhim.“Butthisismyemotionalsupportsandwich.”
“Thenhaveamentalbreakdown.”Heturn-signalsandswervestotherightsohard,Ialmosthitmyheadagainstthewindow.
PhillyOpenisnothingliketheNYCcharitytournament,andmyfirstclueisthatthere’spress.Notaridiculousamount,likethepaparazzionTaylorSwiftca.2016.ButasizablegaggleofjournalistswithcamerapeopleandphotographersintowcrowdsthehallofthePennStateengineeringbuilding,wherethetournamentwilltakeplace.It’svaguelysurreal.
“Wasthereahomicideorsomething?”Iask.
Ozgivesmehisusualyou’retoodimtoliveglance.“They’recoveringthetournament.”
“AretheyunderthemisconceptionthatthisistheNBA?”
“Mallory,atleastpretendtohavesomerespectforthesportthatisyourlivelihood.”
He’snotwrong.“Thetournamentwon’tstartforanotherhour,though.”
“They’reprobablyjusthopingtogetaglimpseof—”
SomeoneentersthelobbyandOzturnsthatway—togetherwitheveryoneelse.There’ssomecommotionasthejournalistsspringintoaction.Ican’tseemuch:atallheadofdarkhair,thenanothertallheadofdarkhair,bothpeekingthroughthecamerasandtheboommicsandheadingstraightfortheelevator.Ican’tquitemakeoutwhatthepressisasking,onlyvaguewordsthatmakelittlesensetogether—inshape,prize,Baudelaire,win,breakup,candidates,WorldChampionship.BythetimeI’vepushedtomytoes,theelevatordoorshaveswishedclosed.Journalistsmurmurtheirdisappointment,thenslowlyscatterabout.
Partofmewonderswhothatwas.Anotherpart,theonethat’sbeenhavingodd,invasivedreamsofdarkeyesandlargehandswrappedaroundmyqueen,isalmostcertainthat—
“Yourregistration’sallset,guys.”Defneappearstohanduslanyardswithnametags.“Let’sgotothehotel,leaveourstuff,thencomebackfortheopeningceremony.”
Inod,hopingtosneakinamicronap,whenanoldermanwithamictakesafewstepstowardus.“GMOzNothomb?”heasks.“I’mJoeAlinsky,fromChessWorld.com.Doyouhavetimeforashortinterview?”
“Oziscurrentlynumbertwenty,”DefnewhispersinmyearwhileOzaffablyanswersquestionsabouthisshape,training,hopes,favoritepregamesnacks(surprisingly:gummybears).
“Twenty?”
“Twentyintheworld.”
“Twentyintheworldof…?”
“Chess.”
“Ah,right.”
Defnesmilesencouragingly.ConsideringthatIlivedandbreathedchessfornearlyadecade,andhowmuchIstillrememberaboutthegameitself,Iknowsurprisinglylittleaboutthenitty-grittyofprofessionalchess,probablybecauseofMom’smoratoriumonratedplay.ButDefnenevermakesmefeellikeI’matotalidiot,evenwhenIasktotallyidioticquestions.“Thetoptwentyintheworldisimportant.They’retheoneswhomanagetomaketheshiftfromcompetitivechesstopros.”
“Arethosenotthesame?”
“Oh,no.Anyonecanbeacompetitiveplayer,butprosmakealivingfromchess.Theysupportthemselvesthroughcashprizes,sponsorships,endorsementsfromcompanies.”
IpictureaMountainDewSuperBowladfeaturingachessplayer.MtnDew:TheDrinkofGrandmasters.“IsOzalsoafellow?”
“Theopposite.HepayssomeoftheGMsatZugzwangtotrainhim.”
“Oh.”Imullit.“Doeshehaveasidejob?”MaybehedoesInstacartdeliveriesfrom2:00to5:00a.m.?Itwouldexplaintheperennialbadmood.
“Nope,buthedoeshaveadadwho’sanexecatGoldmanSachs.”
“Ah.”InoticethattheChessWorld.comjournalististakingapictureofOzandquicklystepoutofframe.
It’sstupid.SabrinaandDarcyarewithfriendstilltomorrow;Momhasbeenbetterandisworkingonafewtechnicalwritingpieces,whichshouldbringinsomeneededcash;ItoldthemthatI’dspendthedayinConeyIslandwithfriends,thenstayatGianna’splaceforthenight.SoIamlyingtothemaboutwhatI’mdoing,butthere’snowaythey’llfindoutwhereIreallywentfromthebackgroundofOz’spictureonChessWorld.com.
I’mbeingparanoid.BecauseI’mtiredandhungry.BecauseOzdidn’tletmeeatmyPB&J.Monster.
“Hey,”JoeAlinskysays,suddenlyignoringOz,eyesnarrowonme,“aren’tyouthegirlwho—”
“Sorry,Joe,wegottagofreshenupbeforethetournament.”Defnegrabsmysleeveandpullsmeoutsideofthebuilding.Themorningairisalreadytoohot.
“Washetalkingtome?”
“IfeellikeStarbucks,”shesays,walkingaway.“DoyouwantStarbucks?It’sonme.”
IwanttoaskDefnewhat’sgoingon.ButIwantanicedkiwistarfruitlemonadeharder,soIjogafterheranddropthesubjectaltogether.
WhenIsitdownformyfirstmatch,infrontofamanwhocouldbemygrandfather,myheartpounds,mypalmssweat,andIcannotstopnibblingattheinsideofmylip.
I’mnotsurewhenithappened.Iwasfinetilltenminutesago,lookingaroundthecrowdedroom,staringdownatmylilacsundress,wonderingifit’sproperchessattireorwhetherIcare.Thenthetournamentdirectorsannouncedthestart,andhereIam.AfraidofdisappointingDefne.AfraidofthesourflavorinmythroatwheneverIlose.
Idon’trememberthelasttimeIwasthisnervous,butit’sokay,becauseIstillwinintwelvemoves.Themansighs,shakesmyhand,andI’mleftwithforty-fiveminutestokill.Iwalkaround,studyinginterestingpositions.ThenIsnapapictureoftheroomandtextittoEaston.
MALLORY:iblameyouforthis
BOULDEREASTONELLIS:Whereareyou?
MALLORY:sometournamentinphilly.
BOULDEREASTONELLIS:Dude,areyouatPhillyOpen???
MALLORY:maybe.how’shigheredtreatingyou?
BOULDEREASTONELLIS:I’vebeensleepingthreehourspernightandjoinedanimprovgroup.Putmeoutofmymisery.
MALLORY:LMAOtellmeabouttheimprov
ThelittledotsofEaston’sreplybounceonthebottomofthescreen,thendisappearandnevercomeback.Notinfiveminutes,orten.IpictureanewfriendwalkinguptoEaston,herforgettingaboutme.She’salreadypostedahandfulofselfieswithherroommatesonInstagram.
Islidemyphoneintomypocketandmovetothenextround,whichIalsowineasily,justlikethethirdandthefourth.
“Fantastic!”DefnetellsmewhileweshareaCostcobagofTwizzlersonthecampusquad.She’ssurreptitiouslysmokingacigarette,whichshelitsaying,FYI,Iamnotmodelinggoodbehavior.“Butitisaneliminationtournament.Themoreyouwin,thebetteryouropponents,theharderit’llget.”Shenoticesmyfrownandbumpshershoulderagainstmine.“Thisischess,Mallory.Painstakinglyengineeredtomakeusmiserable.”
She’sright.IgetatasteonmylastmatchofthedaywhenIfindmyselfdroppingarook,thenabishopagainstawomanwholookseerilylikemymiddleschool’slibrarian.Not-Mrs.-Larsenisafidgety,anxiousplayerwhotakesagestomakeamoveandwhimperswheneverIadvanceonher.IalternatebetweendoodlingonmyscoresheetandfeelinglikeI’matthezoo,staringatthesloth’scageandwaitingforittomove.Thegamedragsuntiltheendoftheround,whenwe’rebothoutoftime.
“It’sadraw,”thetournamentdirectorsaysdispassionately,surveyingourboard.“Blackadvances.”
That’sme.I’mmovingtothenextroundbecauseIwasatadisadvantage.Iknowdrawsareexceedinglycommoninchess,butIamdistressed.Frustrated.No—I’mfurious.Withmyself.
“Imadetonsofmistakes.”ItearangrilyintothedriedapricotsDefnehandedme.Iwanttokickthewall.“Ishouldhaveplayedrookc6.Shecouldhavehadmethreetimes—didyouseehowcloseshecametomykingwithherbishop?Itwassuchashitshow.IcannotbelieveIamevenallowedwithintenfeetofachessboard.”
“Youwon,Mallory.”
“Itwasadisaster.Itqualifiesforfederalrelief—Ididn’tdeservetowin.”
“Luckyforyou,inchessdeservingandundeservingwinscountthesame.”
“Youdon’tunderstand.Imessedupsomany—”
Defneputsahandonmyshoulder.Iquiet.“This.Thisfeelingyouhaverightnow?Rememberit.Bottleit.Feedit.”
“What?”
“Thisiswhychessplayersstudy,Mallory.Whywe’resoobsessedwithreplayinggamesandmemorizingopenings.”
“Becausewehatetodraw?”
“Becausewehatefeelinglikewedidanythinglessthanourabsolutebest.”
Thehotelisafive-minutewalkfromcampus.Myroomisnothingtowritehomeabout,exceptthatitisbecause:privacy.IcannotrememberthelasttimeIhadaccesstoabedwithouttheaudienceofatwelve-year-oldgoblinandthethree-thousand-year-olddemonwhopossessesherguineapig.Ishouldtakeadvantageofit.Iconsiderwatchingamovie.ThenIconsiderwhippingoutmyphone,pullingupdatingapps,lookingformatchesinthePhillyarea.Perfectno-strings-attachedopportunity.Plus,orgasmsdoimprovemymood.
InsteadIstareoutthewindow,replayingmylastgameasthesunsetsslowly.
It’slikethattimeIaccidentallysextedMom.LikethatdaytheentirecheeringteamwalkedinonmewhileIpretendedtoopentheautomaticslidingdoorswiththeForce.Likeinmiddleschool,whenIwalkedintotheteachers’restroomtowashmyhandsandfoundMr.Cartersittingonthetoiletdoingasudoku.WheneverIdosomethingreallyembarrassing,fordaysaftertheincidentIliveinastateofuttermortification.AtnightIclosemyeyesandmybrainwillyankmebacktothedeepwellofmyshame,projectingcringeworthyscenesinexcruciatingdetailagainstmyeyelids.
(Overdramatic?Perhaps.ButIsextedmymother.Iamallowed.)
Myneuronsclingtoeverysplinterofembarrassment,won’tletgoofthemistakesImadeduringmymatches.Iwon,fine,butinmysecondgameIleftmyknightopenlikethat.Gross.Disgusting.Appal—
Someoneknocks.
“Defneaskedmetotakeyoutothesocialandintroduceyouaround,”OzsayswhenIopenthedoor.He’sstaringathisphone.
“Thesocial?”
“There’sareceptiondownstairs,forplayerswhomovedtodaytwo.Defnecan’tgo,sinceit’sonlyforplayers.There’sfreefoodandbooze.”Heglancesup,assessing.“Howoldareyou?”
“Eighteen.”
HemutterssomethingaboutbabysittingtoddlersandnotbeingMaryFuckingPoppins.“TheyprobablyhaveSierraMistsomewhereinacooler.Come.”
I’mnotsurewhatIexpectedfromachessparty.Eastonaside,IneverhungoutwiththePCCpeople,buttheyalwaysstruckmeasquietandescapism-driven.Theplayershere,though,lookmorelikebusinessmen,wearingtailoredsuitsandlaughingoverchampagneglasses.Therearenosweatervestsinsight,andnooneisbemoaningtheuntimelyendofBattlestarGalactica.Theyallseemboisterousandconfident.Young.Wealthy.Sureoftheirplaceintheworld.
OneofthemnoticesOzandleaveshisgrouptoapproachus.“Congratsonbreakingthetoptwenty.”Heglancesatme—firstdistracted,thenappraising,thenlingering.Anunpleasantshivertravelsupmyspine.“Ididn’tknowwecouldbringaplus-one.”
Oh,yeah—thepeopleinthisroom?They’re98percentmale.
“Isthisyoursister?”Hemustbearoundmyage,andtheoreticallyheshouldbehandsomeinaclassic,wholesomeway,butthere’ssomethingwaxyabouthim,somethingunsettlinginhisbluegazethatliftsmyhairs.
“Whythehellwouldshebemysister?”Ozasks.
“Idunno,man.”Heshrugs.“She’sblond.You’reblond.Andshe’swaytoohottobeyourgirlfriend.”
Istiffen.SurelyImisheard.
“Malloryisachessplayer,man.”Oz’stonedripsdisdain.Whateverantipathyhemayharbortowardme,theOfficeIntruder,it’snothingcomparedwithwhathefeelsforthisguy.
Hedoesn’thateme,afterall.Imightevenbehisbestfriend.Howheartwarming.
“Ifyousayso.”HisEnglishisperfect,ifslightlyaccented.VaguelyNorthernEuropean.“Well,honey,thispartyisforpeoplewhowonalltheirmatches,so…wait.”Heleansback,makingashowofstudyingme.“AreyouthegirlwhotrashedSawyeratthecharitytournament?”
“I—”
“Yes,youare.Guys,thisisthechickwhohumiliatedSawyer!”
I’mnotsurewhat’shappening,orwhy,butthegroupofpeople(men,allmen)NorthernEuropewaschattingwithgiveusinterestedglances,thenmaketheirwaytous.
“Whatdidyoudobeforethegame?”atallmaninhisthirtiesasks.Hisaccentissothick,Icanbarelymakeoutthewords.“Ineedthatkindofluck.”
“WasSawyerhavingareallybadday?”
“Wereyouwearingsomethinglow-cut?Isthatthetrick?”
“Doesheknowshe’shere?”
“Well,she’sstillalive.So,clearlyno.”
Everyonelaughs,andIam…paralyzed.Mortified.They’restaringlikeI’mabarelysentientslabofmeat,andIfeellikeadaftchild,ondisplay,outofplaceinmyflowylacesundress.I’mnowitheringflower,andovermyyearswithBobI’vehadmyfairshareofsparringwitholder,sexistmen,butthesepeoplearejustso—soblatantly,openlyrude,I’mnotevensurehowIshouldberespondingto—
“Excuseus”—Ozgrabsmyelbowandtugsmeaway—“we’regoingtogofindsomefoodandmaybepeoplewhoaren’ttotalassholes.”
“Oh,comeon,Nothomb!”
“Learntotakeajoke.”
“Letherstay—betshewantstogettoknowus!”
IstumbleafterOz,mouthdry,handsshaking.Hedragsmeallthewaytotheothersideoftheroom,toatableladenwithhorsd’oeuvres.IthinkI’mshell-shocked.“Whowerethey?”
“MalteKochandhisminions.”
Ishakemyhead.Rackmybrain.Hisnamesoundsfamiliar,butIcan’tquitepoint—
“He’sbeenworldnumbertwoforthelastcoupleofyears.Andanassholesincebirth,onecanonlyassume.TheslightlyolderguywhoaskedifSawyerknowsyou’rehereisCormenzana,numberseven,thetallSerbianisDordevic,somewherearoundthirty,buttheothersareaboutasconsequentialasablockofconcretewithgooglyeyes.LittleshitswhoseclaimtofameislickingKoch’sanus.”Herollshiseyesandreachesblindlyforabacon-stuffedmushroom.OzNothomb:unexpectedly,anemotionaleater.“Ihadnointentionofintroducingyou.Nooneshouldevertalktothem.Theirplaceisonatop-secretminingcolonyonMars,ifyouaskme.Sadly,nooneeverasks.”Hechewsonhismushroomforamomentandthenmumblesastilted“Sorryaboutthat.”
Iwonderifit’sthefirstapologyofhislife.Itsuresoundslikeit.“It’snotyourfault.Butthatwas…IthinkIhatethem?”
“Yeah,I’llgetyoutheclub’slaminatedbadge.”Hestudiesme.“Areyougoingtocry?”
“No.”
“Areyougoingtopasseyewater?”
“No.I’mfine.Ijust…”Ileanagainstthewallbehindme.“Aretheylikethatwithallwomen?”
Ozsnorts.“Lookaround.Howmanywomendoyousee?”Idon’tneedtolookaround.InsteadIreachoutforapieceofBriemeltedonacrustofbread.“Mostwomeninchessdecidetoskiptheseeventsandcompeteinwomen-onlytournaments.Ibetyou’rewonderingwhy.”
“Totalmystery.”Iputmycheeseonanapkin.Ihavenoappetite.“Whatdiditmean,thatthingaboutmebeingalive?”
Hesighs.“KochandhisgangloveitthatyoumadeafooloutofSawyer,becausetheyhatehim.Buttheyalsohatethatyoubeathiminonego,becauseKochfancieshimselftobeSawyer’slifelongrival.”
“Butheisn’t?”
“Hecannotcompete.NoonecancompetewithSawyer,really.He’sbeendominatingfornearlyadecade.Imean”—hepopshalfadeviledegginhismouth—“Koch’sanexcellentplayer,ifinconsistent.Hehasmomentsofbrilliance.He’sforcedSawyerintodraws,andonceevencameclosetobeatinghim.Butultimatelythey’renotcomparable.”
Mustbemiserable,losinggameaftergame.“Koch’snotaware?”
“I’msurehe’splentyaware,butyou’veseenthekindofpeopleheholdscourtwith.TheirnarrativeisthatSawyerissomesuper-evilvillainwhomadechesspredictablebybeingunbeatable—asthoughheisn’tthereasonchessgotsobigamongyoungerpeopleinthelastfewyears.TheymakeitsoundlikeSawyer’sThanosandKoch’sTonyStark.”Herollshiseyes.“Obviously,they’rebothThanos.”
OzNothomb:unexpectedly,aMarvelguy.“Arewe…inmiddleschoolagain?”
Ozshrugs.“Closeenough.Kochisjustachild,saltybecausehealwaysendsupdeadinFMK.MeanwhileSawyergetsalltheattention,makesseriousbank,endsuponTime’sMostInfluential,andsleepswithBaudelairesorwhatnot—”
“Baudelaires?”
“Yeah.It’sthisexperimentalrockband—”
“IknowwhotheBaudelairesistersare.”Sabrinaisobsessed.Iliketheirmusic,too.“Sawyersleepswiththem?”
“Yes.AndKochwantsthatforhimself.Asif.”
Myheadisexploding.“Didhe—WhichBaudelairedidSawyer…?”
“Idon’tknow,Mallory.Idonotwatchrealitytelevision.”
“Right.”Ilookaway,chastised.I’mgoingtohavetogooglethis.I’mdyingtowhipoutmyphonerightnow.“Well,thetoptensoundsprettycrowdedwithassholes.”
“MostlyjustKochandCormenzana.AndSawyer,buthe’sabetterbrand.I’mnotgonnamakeafriendshipbraceletforhim,butI’lltakeasphincter-clenchinglyscaryassholelikeSawyeroveraslug-slurping-moisture-after-a-rainstormslimyassholelikeKochanyday.”
Theybothsounduniquelyhorrible,Ithinkasamanpluckscustard-filledbeignetsoffthetableandquicklyscurriesaway,unimpressedwiththeanustalk.
“Anyway,”Ozconcludes,“everyoneelseinthetoptenislesspunchable.”
Ismilefaintly.“Is‘lesspunchable’Oz-speakfor‘nice’?”
Hearchesoneeyebrow.“Andwhatdoesthatmean?”
“Well,you’renotthenicestguyI’veevermet.”
“Iamamotherfuckingdelight,Greenleaf.Andfortherecord,youandIareequallyhot.”
Ionlystayatthereceptionforaboutthirtyminutes.Ozisright,andnoteveryoneinchessisadick:heintroducesmetoseveralpeoplewhodonotinsultme,sexuallyharassme,oractwithamessianic-gradesuperioritycomplex.Buthisgroupoffriendsisafewyearsolderthanme,andIdriftoutofconversationwhenitfallsontheirwivesandgraduateeducation.IfeeltheoccasionalsideglancesfromKoch’sgangonme,andcannotquiterelax,soIwavegoodnightandheadbacktomyroom,readytospendtherestoftheeveningberatingmyselfovermymistakes.
UntilIseethesignintheelevator.Threelittlewordsnexttothefifthfloor:
IndoorPool&Gym.
Iheadtherewithoutthinkingitthrough.Theentranceforthepoolslidesopenundermykeycard.WhenIpeekinside,I’minstantlyenvelopedbyheat,chlorine,andsilence.
Iloveswimming.OrwhateverthatthingIdothatpassesasswimmingis—floatforhours,occasionallymoveaboutlikeadrowningpuppy.Andhere’sthisamazing,desertedpool.
Problem:Idon’thaveaswimsuit.Thetatteredbikinithatbarelyfitmeacupsizeagoissomewhereinmydresserathome,andGoliathisprobablyusingitatthisverymomenttowipehisbutt.WhatIdohave,however,isunderwearthat’sbasicallyabikini.Andastrongyearningforaswim.
SoIdon’tthinkaboutittoomuch:Ipullmydressovermyhead,shrugoffmysandals,andtossthemonthenearestbench.ThenIjumpinwithaloud,messysplash.
Ineedtominimizemyblunders,Itellmyselffifteenminuteslater,driftingoverthewaterandstaringattheceiling.Thereflectionofthewavesontheceilingisamangled,distortedchessboard.Ishouldaimforbreadthofknowledge,sinceI’munlikelytoachievemuchdepthinoneyear.Ishouldplaymoreoffbeatlines.
BythetimeIliftmyselfout,I’minbetterspirits.Iscreweduptoday,butI’llfocusonimproving.IfIknowmyweaknesses,Icantailormytraining.Itrainaridiculousamountanyway.
Youarefakingyourwaythroughthisfellowship,avoiceremindsme.It’seithermineorEaston’s.
Well,yes,Ireplydefensively,grabbingmydressandshoes,rubbingchlorineoffmyeyesButI’vesignedaone-yearcontract,soImightaswell—
Istopdeadinmytracks.
I’mnotaloneanymore.Someoneisstandingrightinfrontofme.Someonebarefooted,who’swearingswimtrunks.Ilookup,andup,andup,andupevenmore,and—
Mystomachdrops.NolanSawyerisstaringdownatme,afaintscowlbetweenhiseyes.I’mdumbfoundedbythefactthathe’s…fit.Hischest.Hisshoulders.Hisbiceps.Noonewhospendshoursadaymovingone-ouncepiecesaroundachessboardhasanybusinesslookinglikethat.
“I—Hi,”Istammer.Becausehe’sstandingrightthere,andIdon’tknowwhatelsetosay.
Buthedoesn’tanswer.Juststaresdown,takinginmynow-see-throughbra,mypantieswithlittlerainbowsalloverthem.Thetemperatureinthepoolincreases.Thegravity,too.I’mconcernedthatmylegswon’tholdme.
ThenIrememberwhatKoch’sfriendssaid:Doesheknowshe’shere?
Well,she’sstillalive,soclearlyno.Fearpopsintome.
NolanSawyerdespisesme.NolanSawyerwantstomurderme.NolanSawyerisstaringdownatmewiththesheersoul-cuttingintensityonereservesforthosehehateswiththestrengthofamillionbloodthirstybears.
Didn’theoncebreakanotherplayer’snasalseptum?Irememberhearingsomestories.Somethinghadhappenedafteratournament,and…
Ishegoingtotearmetopieces?Willthelocalmorguenotknowhowtoputmetogether?Willtheyhavetocallinaprofessionalmakeupartist,oneofthoseYouTubebeautyguruswhoarealwaysmakingcalloutvideosabouteachother—
“Cooooomingthrouuuuuuuugh!!!!”
Someonerunspastus,ablurofdarkskinandredtrunks,andcannonballsintothepoolwithatsunami-likesplash.Sawyermutterssomethinglike“Shit,Emil,”andit’stheescapechanceIwaswaitingfor.Iscamperaway,feetslappingagainstthewetfloor.I’matthedoorwhenImakethemistakeoflookingbehindme:Sawyerisstaringatme,lipsparted,eyesdarkerthandark.
SoIdotheonlysensiblething:Islamthedoorinhisface,anddon’tstoprunninguntilI’minmyroom,drippingonmybed.
It’sthesecondtimeI’vemetSawyer.AndthesecondtimeI’veretreatedlikeapinnedknight.ChapterEight
Isleeppoorly,stuckindreamsofchessblunderssurveyedbydark,judgmentaleyes,andwakeuptooearlywithacrampinmyleftleg.
“Ihatemylife,”ImutterasIlimpintothebathroom,contemplatingchoppingoffmyfootwithameatcleaver.ThenIfindoutthatmyperiodjuststarted.
Iglaredownatmyill-timed,uncooperative,treacherousbody,andvowtoneverfeeditleafyvegetablesagaininrevenge.Takethat,youlittlebitch.
Ipackedanothersundressfortoday,bluewithalacehemandflouncysleeves,butthesecondIslideiton,IrememberMalteKoch’sleering.
Wereyouwearingsomethinglow-cut?
Duringsophomoreyear,CadenSanfilippo,ajuniorwhomI’dknownsincegradeschoolandwhosemissionstatementwasbeingadick,startedmakingfunofmeforthewayIdressed.MytheoryisthathehadacrushonEastonandwastryingtogetherattentionbyannoyingherbestfriend,becausetheharassmentstoppedtheverydayshecameout.Eitherway,wheneverI’dwalkintophysicsclass,CadenwouldsaycreativestufflikeHey,granola,orGoodmorning,discounthippie,orThisisnotaWholeFoods.Hediditformonthsandmonths.AndyetIneveronceconsideredalteringmyfashionchoices.
Today,though,Ilookinthemirrorandinstantlytakeoffmydress.“Becausethey’llbeblastingtheAC,”Itellmyself,adjustingmyjeansandflannelshirt,butIdon’tquitemeetmyowneyesbeforegoingdownstairs.
Iwinmyfirstmatcheasily,evenfeelinglikeawaterloggedcorpse.AftertheabashingperformanceIgavelastnight,I’mverycarefulabouteachmove.Iteatsupsomeofmytime,butbeinglessrecklesspaysoff.
“Merde,”myopponentmurmursbeforethrustinghishandatme,presumablytoconcededefeat.Itakeitwithashrug.
Mysecondopponentislate.Oneminute.Two.Five.I’mplayingWhite,andthetournamentdirectorencouragesmetomakethefirstmoveandstarttheclock,butitseemsdickish.
Aseliminationshappen,thenumberofgamesperturnisdwindling.Icanspotonlyahandful,allatdistanttables,andnoticethatmostoftheremainingplayersseemtobearoundmyageorjustalittleolder.IremembersomethingDefnesaidtheotherday,whenshecheckedonwhetherIhaduppedmyworkoutschedule(Ihadnot):chessisayoungperson’sgame,sophysically,mentally,cognitivelytaxing,mostofthetopGMsstartdecliningintheirearlythirties.ThemoreItrain,themoreIbelieveit.
Topassthetime,Idoodleflowersonthescorecard,thinkingabouttheemailDarcy’sschoolsent:therearetwokidswithnutallergiesinherclass,andPB&Jswon’tbeallowed.Theysuggestedsunflowerseedbutter,butIhaveanonzeronumberofreasonstobelievethatifDarcydoesn’tlikeit,she’llemailCPSthatI’mpoisoningher—
“Iamsosorry,”aBritishaccentsays.Atallguyfoldsintothechairacrossfrommine.“Therewasalineforthebathroom,andIhadthreecupsofcoffee.TheHungerGameshavenothingonthemen’srestroomatachesstournament.I’mEmilKareem,nicetomeetyou.”
Istraighten.“MalloryGreenleaf.”
“Iknow.”Hissmileisopenandwarm,teethivory-whiteagainstclean-shavendarkskin.He’smovie-starhandsome—andhe’saware.
“Havewemetbefore?”Iask.
“Wehavenot.”Hegrinsagain,andthedimpleonhisleftcheekdeepens.There’ssomethingfamiliarabouthim,anditdoesn’toccurtomewhatitisuntilthreemovesin.
He’stheguyfromthepool.Running.Wearingredtrunks.SplashingwaterallovermeandNolanSawyer,givingmeawayout.Ishouldprobablyweightheramificationsofthisinformation,butEmilistoogoodaplayerformetoletmyminddrift.Hisstyleiscareful,positionalwithburstsofaggressiveadvances.Ittakesmeseveralmovestogetusedtohim,andevenlongertomountasensiblecounterattack.
“Greenleaf,”hesayswithaself-deprecatingsmilewhenItakehisqueen,“showsomemercy,willyou?”He’sthefirstplayertotalktomeduringamatch,andIhavenoideahowtoreply.Clearlychessisdestroyingmysocialskills.
“Well,well,well.”Ihavehimcornered,andhealmostsoundspleased.“Iseewhyhe’sbeengoingonaboutyounow,”hemurmurs.Ormaybehedoesn’t,Ican’tquitemakeoutthewords.He’ssmilingatmeagain,pleasantandwelcoming
Iwanttobehisfriend.
“Areyouapro?”Iask.
“Nah.Ihavealife.”
Ilaugh.“Whatdoyoudo?”
“I’masenioratNYU.Economics.”Itiltmyheadtostudyhim.Ithoughthe’dbeclosertomyage.“I’mnineteen,butIskippedafewgrades,”hesays,readingmymind.
“AreyouaGrandmaster?”
“Atthisstageofthetournament,everyplayeris.Exceptforyou,”hesays,withnomaliceandalotofrelish.“You’regoingtosendseveralofthemweepingintothemen’srestroom.”
“Theyseemtobemorelikelytokeymycar.”
“Justthewankers.Letmeguess—youmetKoch?”
Inod.
“Ignorehim.He’sapitifullittleslug,foreverbitterbecauseheoncepoppedaboneronnationaltelevision.”
“Noway.”
“Oh,yeah.Prize-givingceremonyatMontrealChess.Puberty’sabitch,andso’stheinternet.Theymeme’ditintoeternity.JustlikethattimeheplayedanentirematchagainstKasparovwithaginormousboogerdanglingfromhisnose.Thatshitscarsyou.”
Icovermymouth.“It’shissupervillainoriginstory.”
“It’snoteasygrowingupasaprodigyinfrontofthecameras—journalistsaremerciless.WhenKochwassixteenanddecidedtogrowagoatee?Everyonetookpictures.Noonetoldhimthathelookedlikehisownmalnourishedeviltwinwithanirondeficiency.”
Iletoutalaugh—arealone,myfirstsincethetournamentstarted,maybeevensinceEastonleft.Emilstareswithakind,curiousexpression.
“Hehasnochance,”hesayscryptically.
Iclearmythroat.“Haveyoubeenplayingforlong?”
“Sinceforever.MyfamilymovedtotheUnitedStateswhenIwaslittlesoI’dhavethebesttrainingavailable.Butunlikeallthesepeople”—hegesturesaroundtheroom—“Ionlylovechessareasonableamount.I’dratherworkinfinanceandplaytheoccasionaltournamentforfun.Italsodoesn’thelpwhenyourclosestfriendisthebestplayerthesporthasseeninacouplehundredyears.YoukeeplosingyourSpider-Manactionfigurestohim.Makesyourethinkyourpriorities.”
Ifrown.“Whatdoyou—”
“Whitemovesforward,”thetournamentdirectorsays,interruptingus.“Nextround’sintenminutes.”
IhatecuttingmychatwithEmilshort,evenmoresowhenIfindDefneoutside,sittingnexttoasullen,gloomy,seethingOz.
“Whathappened?”Iask.
“Myweddingplannerisoutofpeonies.Whatdoyouthinkhappened?Ilost.”Heglares.“Thisentiretournamentcouldhavebeenanemail.”
Iscratchmyhead.IwanttoaskDefneifshehasanyCostcoTwizzlersleft,butitseemslikeabadmoment.“Ibetitwasareallytoughgame.”
“Donotpatronizeme.”
Isnapmymouthshutandretreatonestep.
“IsawyouwerematchedwithKareem,”Defnesays.“He’sanexcellentplayer.”
“Heis.”
“Howdiditgo?”
Iglancearound,uneasy,consideringthechancesthatOzwillattackme.Icanprobablytakehim,butwhatifhewhipsasickleoutofhispocket?He’sdefinitelytheportable-sickletype.“Igotreallylucky.Hewasn’tingreatshape,so—”
“OhmyGod.”Sheleapstoherfeet.“Youwon?”
“I’msureitwasjust—”
Shehugsmearoundtheneck.“Thisisfantastic,Mal!Whyareyouidlinghere?”
“Itwasjustagame.Ididn’t—”
“Youadvancedtoquarterfinals!”
Wait.“Wait.”What?“What?Thereisnowaywe’realreadyatquarterfinals.”
“Didyouevenglanceatthetournamentboard?”Ozasksacerbically.
“I’m…notsurewhereitis.Iwaskindoftakingitgamebygame—”
“Pearlsbeforeswine,”Ozmutters.
Ifrown.“Didyoujustcallmeapig—”
Defnepullsmebackinsidethebuilding,excitedlyblubberingaboutmyFIDErating.Iexpecthertoleadmebacktothelargetournamentroom,butshetakesasharpturnleft.
“Wherearewe—”
“Thequartersareinhere.”Shegivesmealong,appraisingglance.“Didyouwanttoputonmakeup?”
“WhywouldIwanttoputonmakeup?”
“Oh,youdon’thaveto.Ididn’tmeantoimplythatyoushould.”Shegivesmeanapologeticglance.“Youlookfantastic.Youalwaysdo.Plus,bodiesarebutthemeatyshellswedwellinsideaswemoveaboutthemortalplane.Noneedtodollthemupforthecameras—”
“Thecameras?”
“Yeah.Lotsofclose-ups,too.Comeon,we’relate.”
Thenewlocationissmaller,glitzier,andmorecrowded.Therearedozensofchairsrapidlyfillingup,andpeoplewhisperexcitedly,likethenextFast&Furiousmovieisabouttobescreened.Alltheseatsarefacingadaiswitharowoffourboards.Thechesssetsarefancy.Theclocksarefancy.Eventhewaterbottlesarefancy—Fiji?Atthreebucksapop?Really?
“Thecamerasfilmeachsetofplayersandtheirboard,andthematchesarelivestreamedonthoselargescreensbehindthedais.And”—shepointstotheside—“thecommentatorsareoverthere.”
“Commentators?”
“Don’tworry.TheyworkforvariousstreamingservicesandTVchannels.Youwon’thavetolistentothemnarrateyoureveryblunder.”Jesus.“Thetournamentdirectorwillcallyouonstage,but—”
“Hereweare,”anannouncerstarts.“Boardone,MalteKochandIlyaMiroslav.Boardtwo,MalloryGreenleafandBenulJackson.Boardthree,LiWeiandNolanSawyer.Boardfour—”
Anxietyknotsinsideme.IturntoDefne.“WhathappensifIwin?”
Defnegivesmeaconfusedlook.“Youmovetosemifinals.”
“Againstwho?”
“Againstwhoeverwontheirmatch.Why?What’stheproblem?”
What’stheproblem?What’stheproblem?“Defne,Idon’twanttogoagainst—”
“Please,players,cometothestageandstandnexttoeachotherforafewpictures.”
Mykneesbuckle.Defnegivesmeanencouragingnod.Thenanencouragingsmile.Then,whenit’sclearthatmylegsaremadeofconcreteandhavenointentionofmoving,anencouragingpush.Itrudgethroughmyowndreadupthedais,fullyexpectingtotriponthesteps.ItisI,JenniferLawrenceattheOscars.Thetemplepriestessofpublicmishaps.MaybeI’llpukeallovermyself,too,justforfun.
Itakemyselftotheendoftherowoffinalists,nexttoKoch(whogivesmeatheyreallyletanyoneinherenowadaysglance)andtwoheadsdownfromtheotherplayer,theonetallerthantheothers,theonewiththedeepscowlandthetemper.
Irefusetothinkofhisname.
“Greenleaf,right?”thetournamentdirectorasksme.I’mtemptedtodenyit,butInod.It’snothardtoguess:I’mtheonlyplayerunfamiliartohim,sinceI’mnoonefromNoonetown.Nottomention,theonlygirl.Iamcarefulnottolooktowardtheaudience.Thesoundsofflashesandwhispersarebadenough.“Boardtwo.Ontheright.”
Ishufflethere,keepingmyheaddown.Therearedark,broodyeyesIwouldn’twanttoriskmeeting.
BenulJacksonisatleastthreeyearsyoungerthanme,andpullsoutofmesomeofthebestchessI’veeverplayed.Thereisanelegancetohismoves,abeautytohisattacks,aclasstohisdefense,thathavemenearlyforgettingthatI’minthemostpublicmomentofmylife.Dadoncetoldme,Therearetwotypesofplayers:thewarriorsandtheartists.Jacksonisthelatter.
He’salsopainfullyslow.
Duringmyothermatches,whenevermyopponentwouldtaketoolongtodecideonamove,I’dstandandstrollaround,stretchabit,maybeeventakeapeekatinterestingpositionsonthenearbyboards.Onthedais,though,Idonotdare.WhatifIslip?WhatifIstanduptooquicklyandfaint?Whatifmytamponleaksthroughmyjeans?MalteKochandhisuntimelybonershouldbeacautionarytaleforusall.SoIjustlookaround—thecommentatortable,theverticallineonJackson’sforehead,myannotationscoresheet.Irecordmymovesandscribbleinthemargins.Flowers.Hearts.
Deep-set,dark,intenseeyes.
Istopmyself,flushing.Thankfully,Jacksonchoosesthatmomenttotakemyrookandfallintomytrap.Toomuchofanartist,notenoughofawarrior.Iwininfourmoves,andheshakesmyhandwithaconfused,befuddledsmile.
“Impressive,”hesays.“Remarkable.Yourstyleremindsmeof…”Hisgazedriftssomewherepastmyshoulder.Hetrailsoffwithaheadshakebeforeleavingthedais.WhenIlookaroundinsearchofDefne,severaljournalistseyemecuriously.Iclosemyeyesandwhisperasilentprayertothepantheonofchessdemigods:Don’tletmynextmatchbeagainstSawyer.Please.Iwillgutanabductedguineapigwithdepressionatyouraltar.
It’snotuntilthetablesaresetupforsemifinalsthatIrealizetheerrorofmyways.SomeoneannouncesthatSawyer’snextgamewillbeagainstEtiennePoisy.Iinspectmybraintomakesurethatit’snotmyname—phew—andmerrilyheadtomyboard,hopingDarcywon’tbetoomadwhenIslaughterherpet.
That’swhenIseeMalteKoch,sittingontheWhiteside.
Ihaltabruptly.
No.Nope.Nope-itynope.I’mnotplayingagainstsomedickwhoseunderstandingofgendercanbedatedsomewhereinthe1930s.NowayI—
“Everythingokay?”thetournamentdirectorasks,noticingmyhesitation.
I’dratherdrinkacanofAxebodyspraywhileferalraccoonsfeastonmyexposedbonemarrowthansitacrossfromthistwat.“Yeah.”Iswallow.
Koch’ssmirkisquitepossiblythemostslappablethingI’veeverseen,butthewayhehandleshispiecesontheboardgivesitarunforitsmoney.Wheneverhemovesthemtoanewsquare,headdsalittleflourish,likehe’sputtingoffacigarettebutt.ItmakesmewanttoskinhimandusehishidetoreupholsterMom’scouch.
Thenhestartstalking.“Soyougottosemifinals.”
“Clearly.”
“AreyouherethroughtheMake-A-Wishprogram?WasthereamemoaboutlettingyouwinthatInevergot?”
ImovemypawninresponsetothevariationoftheRuyLopezthatheopenedwith,whichIhappentohavebeenreadingaboutadnauseamforthepasttwoweeks.I’mprettysureit’sagainsttherulesforhimtotalktomeduringmyturn.Prettysure,butunfortunatelynotcertain.
“Didyouknowthatsingle-eliminationtournamentsarealsocalledsuddendeath?Asin,whenyoulose,you’reasgoodasdead.”
Iclenchmyjaw.“Istheconversationnecessary?”
“Why?Areyouannoyed?”
“Yep.”
Anothersmirk.“Thenyes,itis.”
Iwanttocuthisbrakelines.Justalittlebit.
“Youknow,”hecontinuescasually,“Ilikeitbetterwhenwomensticktotheirowntournaments.Ifindthatthere’sanaturalordertothings.”
Ilookupandsmilesweetly.“Ilikeitbetterwhenmenshuttheirmouthsandstufftheirrooksuptheirasses,butclearlywecan’talwaysgetwhatwewant.”
Koch’ssmilewidens.Heliftshishandtosignaltothetournamentdirectortocomecloser.“Excuseme,couldyouaskMs.Greenleaftoavoidusingprofanelanguage?”
Thedirectorgivesmeawitheringlook.“Ms.Greenleaf.You’renewhere,butyoumustfollowtherules.Likeeverybodyelse.”
“But—”Isnapmymouthshut,cheeksheating.
I’mgoingtokillhim.IamgoingtomurderMalteKoch.OrI’lldothenextbestthing:annihilatehisdamnking.
Probably.
Maybe.
IfImanageto.
Theworstpartis—I’mnotsurprisedtohearthathe’snumbertwointheworld.He’sanexcellentplayer.Itrytopinhisqueen,butheweaselsout.Itrytotakecontrolofthecenter,buthepushesmeback.Itrytowreckhisdefenseline,butnotonlydoeshefieldmyattempts,buthealsomountsanattackofhisownthatalmosthasmykingincheck.
Thisisaverydangerousplayer,Itellmyself.
Ontopofbeingtheworstsackofshityou’veevermet,avoiceinsidemeadds.Iletoutasilenthuffofalaugh,andplayevenmoreaggressively.
Ourgamelastslongpasttheother.Seventyminutesin,andwe’restillbattling.Ihavehisqueen,buthegotmyrookandmyknight,andadense,concrete-likedreadstartschurningatthebottomofmystomach.Ibreakasweat.Thebackofmyneckishot,hairstickyagainstmyskin.
“Whatareyoudoinghere?Cametoseehowit’sdone?”Koch’stoneislowenoughthatthemicswon’tpickitup.He’snottalkingtome.
“She’llhaveyouinlessthanfivemoves,”adeep,assuredvoicesaysfrombehindme.Irecognizeitbutdon’tturnaround,notevenwhenIhearfootstepsfadingaway.
Sawyer’sinthemidstofsomedelusion.I’mnowherenearwinning.There’snexttonothingIcandowiththisposition.Thenagain,Koch’sprettymuchatthesame…
Oh.
Oh.
Itsuddenlymakessense.Inlessthanfivemoves.Yes.Yes,Ionlyhaveto—
Imovemypawn.Asilent,safemove,butKoch’seyesnarrow.HehasnoideawhatI’mdoing,andI’vetrainedhimtoexpectbackdoorattacks.Hestudiestheboardlikeit’saWW2cypher,andIsitbackandrelax.Itakemypen,annotatemymove,attemptaportraitofGoliathonthescorecardtokilltime.Thatstupidbeasthastrulyinfiltratedmyheart—
Kochmoveshisknight.Iimmediatelyrespondwithmybishop,confusinghimevenmore.Repeatthat,withminimalvariations,again,andagain,until…
“Time’sup,”thedirectorsays.Kochlooksup,wideeyed,thinlipped.Myintentionsdawnonhim.“It’sadraw.Blackmovesforward.”
Koch’sjawclenches.Hisnostrilsflare.He’sstaringatmelikeIjuststolehislunchmoneyandboughtmyselfafeatherboawithit.Which,let’sbereal,Ikindofdid.
Suddendeath,Imouthathim.
“Youtrickedme,”hespitsout.
“Why?Areyouannoyedbyit?”
“Yes!”
Ismile.“Thenyes.Itrickedyou.”
There’saforty-five-minutebreakbeforethefinal,whichIspendwithDefneandOzonapatchofgrassshadedbythehibiscusbushes.ThehighofowningKochfadesfast,andanotherkindofdreadrises.
MynextmatchisagainstSawyer.Andbecausemybrainismadeofapplesauce,Ican’tstopthinkingabouthissternexpression.Thechlorine-thickaircurlingthehaironhisneck.Hisfulllipsalmostmoving,asthoughhewasreadytosaysomething—
“Firsttournament,andyougettothefinal,”Ozmumbles,angrilysplittingatwiginamillionpieces.“Damnchildprodigies.”
“I’meighteen,”Ipointout.
“Youareachesschild.Aninfant.Icouldshovemynippleinyourmouthandyouwouldn’tbeabletolatchontoit.”
Defne’seyebrowlifts.“Ididn’tknowyoulactated,Oz.”
“AllI’msaying,she’sunjustlybrilliant.Wunderkindsaresodéclassé.Youknowwhat’sin?Hardwork.Tribulations.PeoplelikeyouandSawyer,withyourgiftedbrainsandboundlesstalentaretherealplebs.”
IexchangeanamusedlookwithDefne.MaybeI’mnotgrowingonOz,buthe’ssuregrowingonme.
“HaveyoueverplayedagainstSawyer?”Iaskhim.
“Ofcourse.Sincehewasabrat.”
“Everwon?”
Helooksawaycagily,chinhigh.“Notassuch.ButonceIofferedhimadrawandheconsideredaccepting.”
“Whataboutyou?”IaskDefne.
I’malmostpositiveher“Yeah.Ihave”isabittense.
“Anytipsonhowtoavoidmakingafoolofmyself?”
“OpenwiththeRuyLopezortheCaro-Kann.Castleearly.”Sheseemsuncharacteristicallyun-chatty.Reticent.“You’llbefine.YouknowwhattodowithNolan.”IwonderwhyshecallsSawyerbyhisfirstname,whenlastnamesseemtobethenorminthechessworld.
“Assumingthatyouevenwanttowin,”Ozpointsout.“Sincehe’spants-crappinglyterrifying,rudelystormsoutofpressconferences,puncheswalls,andoncecalledanarbiterashitstain.Plus,weallknowthekindofgenesthatruninthatfamily,so—”
“Oz.”Defne’stoneissharperthanI’veeverheardit.
“What?It’strue.AboutSawyer’sgrandfatherandaboutSawyerbeingahotheadedasshole.”
“Hewasachild.HewasonlyeverviolentwithKoch,whichhecanhardlybeblamedfor,andhasn’tdoneanyofthatinyears,”Defneretorts.“WhenhelosttoMallory,hejustsatthereandstaredafterherand…”Defneshrugsandholdsmyeyes.“Noneedtoholdback,Mal.He’sabigboy.Whateveryou’lldishout,Nolancantakeit.”Hersmileisfaint.“Heprobablywantsit.”
IdoubtNolanNoEmotionalRegulationSkillsSawyerwantsanythingfromme.I’mprobablyworkingmyselfupfornothing,andhebarelyknowsthatIexist,doesn’trememberweeverplayed,andstaredatmelastnightonlybecauseIwasbathinghalf-nakedinthepool,likesomenuttygirlwhotalkswithlampposts.
Thematchwillbefine.Uneventful.Notabigdeal.Amicrodeal.Nanodeal.I’mprobablygoingtolose,becauseNolanSawyerisNolanSawyer,andalthoughthecompetitivepartofmybrain(i.e.,allofit)hatestheidea,itdoesn’tmatter.Iamfakingmywaythroughthisfellowship—
“Mallory,doyouhaveamoment?”
SomeonepushesamicintomyfacethesecondI’mbackinthetournamentroom.Thepressseemstohavetripled—ormaybeitfeelslikeit,becausethejournalistsfromearlierarecrowdingaroundme,askingwhatmybackgroundis,ifI’mtrainingatZugzwang,whatmystrategyforthefinalmatchis,andmypersonalfavorite:“Howdoesitfeeltobeawomaninchess?”
“Excuseus,”Defnesays,smilingpolitely,thenslidesbetweenmeandthecameras,andweavesusthroughthecrowd.Photosaretaken,requestsforcommentsaremade,andthere’sonlyoneescaperoute.
Upthestage.
Sawyerisalreadythere.Waiting.SittingonBlack,trackingallmymovements.Hiseyesonmeareunsettling.There’ssomethingtoosharp,tooravenous,almostacquisitiveaboutthem.Likethematchisanafterthought,andIamwhathecameherefor.
Theonlypossibleexplanationisthathedoeshateme.He’sthrilledtohavemewherehecaneasilyripmetoshreds—revengeforthattimeIdefeatedhim.He’sgoingtochopmeintopieces,smearmewithbalsamicvinegar,andrelisheverybite.
Calmdown.It’syouroveractiveimagination.Likewhenyouseebirdsintheskyandcan’thelpbutwonderifthey’reafamilyofvulturescirclingaboveyourhead.Thick,warmtensioncoilsinsideme.Sawyerisanintenseguy.Heprobablydoesdislikeme,butjustalittle.Leisurely.Asasidegig.
Iforcemyselftogotohim,stepafterstepafterstep.FlashesclickandthecrowdbuzzesandIfinallygettotheWhitesideofthetable.
Sawyerstands.
Iextendmyhand.
Hetakesitimmediately,almosteagerly.Holdsitforatouchtoolong.Hispalmsarewarm,unexpectedlycalloused.
“Mallory,”hemurmurs.Hisvoiceisdeep,somberagainsttheshutteringofthecameras,andIshiver.Somethinghotandelectriclicksdownmyspine.
“Hi,”Isay.Ican’ttearmygazefromhis.AmIoutofbreath?
“Hi.”Isheoutofbreath?
“Hi,”Irepeat,likeatotalidiot.Ishouldjustsitdown,Ireallyshould—
“Excuseme.”Anunfamiliarvoice.I’mfocusedonSawyer,andittakesawhiletopenetrate.“Ms.Greenleaf,I’msorry.Weneedtotalk.”
Iturn.Thetournamentdirectoriswatchingourhandshakewithanapologetic,harriedexpression.
“Therehasbeenanerror,Ms.Greenleaf.”Heclearshisthroat.“Youwillnotbeplayingthismatch.”ChapterNine
IntheFyreFestivalreenactmentthatismylife,Ishouldprobablynotfindanyofthissurprising.ButevenIcannotbelieve—simplycannotbelieve,thatIbeganplayingchessthreeweeksago,andI’malreadyinvolvedindrama.
Honestly:whatthehell?
Peoplearetweetingaboutyou,Defnewhisperedafewminutesago.Thisisasham.Everyone’sonyourside.
Inoddedblindly,nauseouslygratefulthatneithermymom(toosensible),norDarcy(tooyoung),norSabrina(tooTikTok)areonTwitter.Ishouldhavegottenmyselfachessnomdeplume.QuinnVonRook.HorsieMcCastle.KnighterellaBlack.
“Shewon.”Defne,whointroducedherselfasmytrainertothetournamentdirector,hasbeenchampioningmeforthepasttenminutes.Istandbyherside,barelyfollowingtheconversation.
“Shedid,yes,”thedirectorsays,lookingMayIhavesomefentanyl?levelsofpained.Hemovedtheconversationoffthestage,ostensiblytobeawayfromthecameras,butthepresscirclesarounduslikepiranhas.
ThischessdramaI’minvolvedin?It’sapparentlytelevised
“Buttherearerules,”thedirectorcontinues,“andoneoftheserulesisthatnothingbutthemovesshouldbeannotatedonthescorecard.AndMs.Greenleafwroteand,um,drewseveralthingsonhers,and—”
“Comeon,Russel.”Clearly,heandDefnegowayback.“It’sherfirsttournament—shehadnoidea.”
“Nevertheless,heropponenthascomplained.Asishisright.”
TenpairsofeyesturntoKoch,whosurveysusplacidlyfromtheheightofhisSmirkingPersonalityDisorder.Hehastheupperhand,andIwanttoparboilhimandfeedhimtotheNewJerseytreefrogs.
“Whatevenisthepurposeoftheno-doodlingrule?”IaskDefneundermybreath.
“Topreventplayerssmugglinginnotesthatmighthelpagainsttheiropponent.But”—sheraiseshervoice—“it’sarulethathasn’tbeenenforcedinages.It’slikethoseNoeatingfriedchickenwithaforklaws!”
“Whatwasshedrawing?”Sawyerasks,deepvoicealmostlazy.
Becausetomakethingscherry-on-topunpleasant,NolanSawyerandhismanager—asharp-lookingredheadinherthirties—arepartofthisconversation.Hestandstall,armscrossedonhischest,blackblazeroverawhitebutton-downopenatthecollar.Stupidlyattractive,anunwelcome,inopportunevoiceinsidemeblathers.
Iquashitsilent.
AtleastseeingSawyerinteractwithKochistangibleproofthatheabsolutelyabhorshim.I’mstillnotsurehowhefeelsaboutme,butevenifhehatesme,I’madistantnumbertwoinhisdisaffections.
“Here.”Defneholdsmyscorecardtohim,andIflush.
“Ifailtoseehowdoodlinga”—helooksatthemarginofmysheet;hiseyebrowarches—“cathelpedherwinthematch.”
“It’saguineapig,”Imutter,andgetadozendirtylooksformyeffort.
“Unfortunately,theruleisphrasedbroadly,”Russelexplains.“Iwouldn’tenforceitifitwereuptome,butifMs.Greenleaf’sopponent—Mr.Koch—asksustodoso…”
“Thisisbullshit.”Sawyerreturnsthesheet,unimpressed.
“What,Sawyer?”Kochsays.Thesmirkingintensifies.“YouscaredI’mgoingtobeatyou?”
IsthisthereasonSawyerissidingwithmeonthis?Becauseheconsidersmetheleastdangerousopponent?Tendrilsofdisappointmentcurlinmybelly,butIremindmyselfthatIdon’tcare—aboutchess,orabouttheman-boyswhoplayit.Faking.I’mfakingthis
“Justshutthefuckup,Koch,”Sawyersdrawls,moreannoyedthanangry,likeKochisamosquitohe’sswattingaway.“IfyoueliminateMallory,”hesays,likehehasarighttomyname,likehecansayawordandmakemeblush,“Iwon’tplay.”
Russelpales.Havingthebestplayerstepawayfromyourtournamentisprobablynotagoodlook.“Ifyouforfeit,Mr.Kochwillautomaticallywinfirstprize.”
“Soundsgoodtome,”Kochsays.
Sawyerissilentforamoment.Thenheshakeshisheadbitterly.Hisjawclenches,andIexpecthimtodowhathe’sknownfor:Yell.Makeascene.Breaksomestuff.
Hedoesn’t,though.Heturnstomewithalong,unreadablelook.Thenmutters,“Ihatethisshit,”andstartsupthestage,takinghisplaceoncemore.
Russeldeflateswithrelief.IbarelyresistthetemptationtotripKochashefollowsSawyerupthestage.
“Gross,”Defnetellsme.Hereyesareonthelive-feedmonitorsasthematchcommences.“Whatadouchebag.”
“Yeah.Honestly,weshouldleave.Idon’twanttowatchKochplay…Wait.What’sSawyerdoing?”
Hemoveshisqueenknightinaweirdpattern.Forwardandback,andthenagain.Abunchofuseless,silentmoves—whileKochmountsanattackinearnest.WithWhite.
“He’s…”Defne’sgrinunfurlsslowly.“Oh,Nolan.Youlittleshit.”
“What’shedoing?”
“GivingKochatwo-movesodds.”
“What’sthat?”
Shecoversherlaughwithonehand.Theroomisamessofwhispers.“He’stellingKochthathecanbeathim,evenwithahandicap.”
“That’s…”
“Someseriousshade.”
“Andreckless.Imean…whatifheloses?”
Hedoesn’t.Lose,thatis.Hewinsinanumberofmovesthatcanonlybedescribedasembarrassing—mostlyforKoch,who’sstillflushedwithrageduringtheawardsceremony,whenRusseltheTournamentDirectorWho’sAbouttoDevelopaDrinkingProblemhandsSawyerafifty-thousand-dollarcheck.
Myeyesbulgeoutsohard,I’llprobablyneedsurgery.“Fiftythousanddollars?”
“Well,it’sjustanopentournament,”Defneexplains.“Iknowit’ssmall,but—”
“It’sabucketloadofmoney!”Inearlychokeonmysaliva.Ihadn’texpectedtheprizestobethishigh.Whatisthis,OnlyFans?
Ican’thelpfollowingSawyer’smovementsashenipsoffthestage.Thepressimmediatelycrowdshim,startsaskingquestions,butaraisedhandfromhimhastheminstantlybackingoff,likethey’realarmedbythishistoricallymercurial,unpredictabletwenty-year-old.Andthen…
Then,abeautifulgirlwithlongblackhairrunstowardhim,andhe’shuggingher.Iseeherlaugh,Iseehimhalfsmile,Iseehimdrapeanarmoverhershoulderandheadfortheexit.Ilookaway,because…wouldn’twanttomeethiseyesandendupwithmysouldevoured.I’mmusingoverhowmiserablehisgirlfriendmustbe,whatwiththetemperandBaudelairerumors,whenadark-hairedyoungwomaninaBBCbadgeapproachesme.IopenmymouthtosayNo,pleaseno,don’tmakemedothis,don’tmakemegiveaninterview,butshetalksfirst.“Mallory?I’mEleniGataki.It’ssonicetomeetyou.”
“Idon’treally…”
Shefollowsmygazetoherbadge.“I’mnotherefor—I’mjustanintern.”
“Oh.”Irelax.
“Well,fornow.IhopeonedayI’llgettocoverchessfortheBBC.Anyway,Ijustwantedtoletyouknow,yourplayatthistournamentwasamazing.I’malreadyafan!Betweenus,theBBC’scurrentchesscorrespondentisaboringold-schoolguywhoonlywritesaboutthesamethreedudes,butI’mgoingtotrytopitchmyfirstarticleaboutyou.Well,notyouyou,butyourchessstyle.It’ssoengagingandentertaining!”
I’mbewilderedbyherenthusiasm.Withnocluehowtoreply,I’malmostrelievedwhenRusselinterruptsusandasksforamomentalone.“Sosorryaboutearlier.”Hehandsmeanenvelope.“Hereisthesemifinalistprize.”
Iopenit,expecting…I’mnotsure.AbrochureonhowtoeffectivelyusetheSicilianDefense.Acouponfortwohoursofcounselingwithasportspsychologist.Lilo&Stitchstickers.
Notacheck.Fortenthousanddollars.
It’sclearlyamistake.Andyetmyfirstgreedy,uglyinstinctistopocketit.Concealit.Abscondwithit.
Iwantthismoney.Oh,thethingsIcoulddowithit.Icouldbezeromonthsbehindwithourmortgage.Setupasavingsaccount.Payformyauto-mechaniccertifications.SayyestoDarcyandSabrinanexttimetheyaskforwhatevertrivialcrapthey’vefallenincovetwith.Rollerskates.Slime.Pianolessons.Acotton-toptamarinplushie.
God,howIwantthismoney.Somuchso,Ineedtogetridofit.Immediately.
“Ihavetotellyousomething,”IsaytoDefne.She’swashingherhandsintheunsurprisinglydesertedladies’restroom.“I—Theygavemeacheck.Bymistake,Ithink.Tenthousand.”
“It’sthesemifinalistprize.”Shebrieflystruggleswiththesoapdispenser.“Didn’tyouseetheinfoonthetournamentwebsite?”
Thereisatournamentwebsite?“I…”Iblink.Ten.Thousand.Dollars.OhGod.But—Ican’t.Itshouldgotoher.“Here.”Iholdthecheckout.“Yousponsoredme.Youhaveit.”
“Nuh-uh.Youearnedit.Thoughyoumighthavetopaytaxesonit.Checkwithyouraccountant.”
MyaccountantRight.TheonecurrentlyonvacationinSeychelleswithmyhedgefundmanager.
“I’llgogetthecarsowecanheadhome,butMal.”Shegivesmealoadedlook.“TheprizefortheWorldChampionshipistwomilliondollars.TheChallengers,ahundredthousand.Justmakingsureyouknow,sinceyouhatetournamentwebsites.”Sheleaveswithawink,andIstaredownatmycheckforalongtime.
PlanFakeYourWayThroughChessisgoingtoneedsomeseriousreworking.ChapterTen
DefneordersmetostayhomeonMonday,tosleepoffmy“chesshangover”andthe“tournamentcrud.”It’sararefreedaywithoutmysistersunderfoot,andwhenIgotobedonSundaynight,I’mfullycommittedtodroolingonmypillowtillmidmorning,thengoingtotheKrispyKremedrive-throughinmyPJstopurchasemyweightindonuts,theneating90percentofthemwithMomwhilewewatchHoardersonYouTube.
Ifailmiserably.
Forreasonsthatmayhavetodowiththecheckhiddenintheinsidepocketofmyhobobag,I’mupatsixthirty,scrollingdownChessWorld.com,browsingthrougheverygameMalteKochhaseverplayed.
Therearealot,andhe’sadamngoodplayer.
But,also:he’snotwithoutexploitableweaknesses.I’mhalfcomatose,eyesfullofsleepboogers,andyetI’mfindingblundersinhisgames.
Also,also:Ihaveanewarchenemy.Ilikeitbetterwhenwomensticktotheirowntournaments.MylifemissionistorepeatthewordsbacktohimwhileIcheckmatehisuseless,bloatedking.
“Pleeeease,driveustoschool!”Darcyasksaftergivingmeherbacktofartinmydirection—hernewfavoritemorningritual.Inthecarshetalksmyearoff:maleseahorsescarrytheoffspring,jellyfishareimmortal,pigs’orgasmslastthirtyminutes(mentalnote:installparentalcontrolsoftware).Sabrinasitsquietly,headphonesinherears,headbenttoherphone.Itrytorememberwhethershehassaidanythingthismorning.ThenItrytorememberthelasttimeI’vehadaconversationwithher.
Mmm.
“Hey,”Itellheratdrop-off,“yougetoutanhourbeforeDarcy,right?”
“Yeah.”Shesoundsdefensive.
“I’llcomegetyouearly,then.”
“Why?”Nowshesoundsdefensiveanddubious.
“Wecandosomethingtogether.”
“Likewhat?”Thedefensivenessisstillthere,butlacedwithsomethingelse.Hope,andmaybeabitofexcitement.“Wecouldgetcoffeeatthatplaceonthecorner.”
“Okay.Decaf,though,”Iadd.
Shefrowns.“Why?”
“You’retooyoungforcaffeine.”Thefrowndeepens.I’mlosingher.“Icanhelpyouwithyourhomework,”Ioffer,tryingtoreviveherenthusiasm.
“Idrinkcoffeeallthetime.AndI’vebeendoingmyhomeworkaloneforyears.Ifyouhaven’tnoticed,I’mnotnineanymore,Mal.”Sherollshereyes,andIknowI’velosther.“I’lljusthangoutoutsideschoolwiththeotherderbygirlssoyoudon’thavetodotwotrips.”Sheslipsoutofthecarwithoutsayinggoodbye,andIseetheabouttheyouthstillIgettothecreditunion.
I’dlovetodepositthechecktothefamilyaccount,butIcan’tthinkofabelievableexcusethatwon’tinvolvemementioningchess.Mom,IwonthePowerball.ImicrowavedDarcy’soatmealfortoolonganditturnedintoadiamond.Ihaveasecretwritingcareerinfurryerotica.Yeah.No.
Ipayoutstandingbills,depositwhat’sleftinmyaccount,andrunerrandsthatwouldusuallyfallonMom.Andifinthegroceryline,attherecyclingcenter,bythelibrary’sreturndesk,whileIwaitforMomtofinishworkingtohavelunchwithher—ifwheneverIhavetenminutestomyselfIspendthemanalyzingKoch’sgamesonmyphone,well.
Ishouldn’t.Boundariesandallthat.Chessisjustajob,andtodayI’moff.Imadeapromisetomyself.
Butit’sokay,avoicerebuts.You’rethinkingofprizemoney.You’renotfallinginlovewithchessagain.You’refirmlyoutoflove.
Yeah.Exactly.Precisely.That.
IpickupmysistersmidafternoonandI’maggressivelythrownintotheGrade7CinematicUniverse,whichismorerivetingthanaBraziliansoapopera.
“…soJimmywaslike,‘Peptopinkmakesmethrowup,’andTinawaslike,‘MyshirtisPeptopink,’andJimmywaslike,‘No,yourshirt’sagoodpink,’andTinagoogledPeptopinkanditwasthesamecolorashershirt,andJimmywaslike,‘Whatdoyouwantmetosay?’andTinawaslike,‘Admitthatyouhatemyshirt.’?”
“AndwhatdidJimmysay?”Iask,pullingupourdriveway,genuinelyentertained.
“Hewasall,like—”
“There’saguyontheporch,”Sabrinainterruptsus.
“Probablythemailman,”Isaydistractedly.“WhatdidJimmydo?”
“That’snotthemailman,”Sabrinasays.“Imean,Iwish.”
Ilookatwhereshe’spointing.Thenimmediatelyflattenmyselfasdeepintothedriver’sseatasIcango.“Shit”
“Shouldyoubesayingshitinfrontofus?”Darcyasks.
“Yeah—whathappenedtothepedagogicalmodelingofappropriatebehaviors?”
Impossible.He’snothere.Hecan’tbe.I’mhallucinating.Paranoiddelusions.Yes.FromthechemicalsintheTwizzlers.Allthatdye.
“Mal.Mal?”
“What’swrongwithher?”
“Astroke,maybe?She’sstartingtobeofacertainage.”
“Callnine-one-one!”
“Onit.”
“No—Sabrina,don’tcallnine-one-one.I’mfine.IjustthoughtIsaw…”Iglancetotheporchagain.Heisstillthere.
Nolan.
Sawyer.
Is.
On.
My.
Porch.
Well.It’seitherSawyeroranalienwearinghisskin.I’mkindofrootingforoptiontwo.
“Doyouknowhim?”Sabrinaasks.
“Shesurelookslikeshedoes,”Darcysays.“Isheanotheroneofyoursexfriends?”
“Maybehe’sherstalker,”Sabrinaoffers.
“Mal,youhaveastalker?”
Sabrinasnorts.“Youdidn’tletmewatchYoubecauseI’mfourteen,andnowIfindoutthatyouhaveyourownstalker?”
“Shouldwerunhimover?Doesbloodstainwood?”
“No!”Iraisemyhands.“He’snotmystalker,he’sjust,um,a…friend.”Whomighthateme.IfIamfoundstrangled,lookintohiscreditcardpurchases.You’llfindrope.Orlotsoffloss.“Acolleague,actually.”
DarcyandSabrinaexchangealong,dangerouslook.Thentheyjumpoutofthecarwithanovereager“Let’sgomeethim!”Ihurryafterthem,hopingthisisaluciddream.
Well.Nightmare.
Sawyerisleaningagainsttheporch,armscrossedonhischest,eyestravelingbetweenthethreeofusasiftosoakuptheresemblancethatalwaysleavespeoplebefuddled,andIhavetostopmyselffromblurtingout,They’remysisters,notmydaughters—yes,peopledoassumeHe’swearingjeansandadarkshirt,andmaybeit’sbecausetherearenochessboards,noarbiters,nopressinsight,buthealmostdoesn’tlooklikehimself.Hecouldbeanathlete.Acollegestudentonafootballscholarship.Astern,handsomeyoungmanwhohasnot(allegedly)datedaBaudelaire,whohasnot(confirmedly)calledanintervieweradickheadforimplyingthathisgamelookedtired.
“AreyouMal’sfriend?”Darcyaskshim.
Hecockshishead.Studiesher.Doesn’tsmile.“AreyouMal’sfriend?”
Iftheworldwerefair,DarcyandSabrinawouldroasthimandhecklehimoffourproperty.Andyet,theygiggleliketheyusuallydoinEaston’spresence.Whatthe—
“What’syourname?”
“Nolan.”
“I’mDarcy.LikeMr.Darcy.AndthisisSabrina.LikeSabrinaFair.Maldidn’tgetaliterarynamebecause…we’renotsure,butIsuspectthatourparentstookalookatheranddecidedtotempertheirexpectations.Shesaidyouworktogether?”
Henods.“Wedo.”
“Attheseniorcenter?”
Nolanhesitates,puzzled.Looksatmeforthefirsttime.Findsmeonthevergeofapanicattack.Thensays,“Whereelse?”
“Doyoueverfeedthesquirrels?”
“Guys,”Iinterrupt,“gotellMomwe’rehome,okay?”
“ButMal—”
“Now.”
Theydragtheirfeetandslamthescreendoor,likeI’mdeprivingthemofafantasticafternoonstaringatSawyer.It’snotuntilthey’reoutofearshotthatIletmyselffocusonhimagain.
Thereis,Ibelieve,abitofastandoff.WhereIlookathim,helooksatme,andwe’rebothfairlystill.Assessing.Feelingeachotherout.Inmycase,monitoringescaperoutes.Thenheasks:
“Areyougoingtorunaway?”
Ifrown.“What?”
“Youusuallyrunawayfromme.Areyougoingto?”
He’sright.He’salsorude.“Youusuallyloseyourkingtome.Areyougoingto?”
Iwasaimingforasharp,jugular-cuttingjab.ButSawyerdoessomethingIdidnotexpect:hesmiles
Whyishesmiling?
“Wheredidyougetmyaddress?”
“Itwasn’tdifficult.”
“Yeah,that’snotarealanswer.”
“No.Itisn’t.”Heturnsaround,takinginmyyard:therustytrampolineIcan’tbebotheredtothrowaway,theapricottreetoodumbtoyieldfruit,theminivanIpatchuponceamonth.Ifeelvaguelyembarrassed,andhatemyselfforit.
“CouldIhavearealanswer,then?”
“I’mgoodwithcomputers,”hesayscryptically.
“DidyouhackHomelandSecurity?”
Hiseyebrowlifts.“YouthinkHomelandSecuritystoreshomeaddresses?”
Idon’tknow.“Isthereareasonyou’rehere?”
“Doyoureallyworkataseniorcenter?”Hefacesmeagain.“Ontopofchess?”
Isigh.“Notthatit’sanyofyourbusiness,butno.”
“Lyingtoyoursisters,huh?”
“It’snotagoodidea,mentioningchessaroundmyfamily.”AndI’mtellinghimthis…why?
“Isee.”Heleanshisforearmagainsttherail,drumminghisfingersunhurriedly.“Youknow,Iplayedagainstyourfatheronce.”
Ifreeze.Forcemyselftorelax.“Ihopeyouwon.”Ihopeyouhumiliatedhim.Ihopehecried.Ihopeithurthim.Imisshim.
“Idid.”Hehesitates.“I’msorrythathe—”
“Mallory?”Momleansoutfromthedoorframe.Whilewe’retalkingaboutDad.Shit,shit—“Who’syourfriend?”
“Thisis…”Iclosemyeyes.Sheprobablydidn’thear.It’sfine.“ThisismycolleagueNolan.Weworktogether,andwe…madeplanstogogetabite,butIforgotaboutit,sohe’lljust…he’llleavenow.”
Nolansmilesather,lookingnotatalllikethesullenman-childIknowhimtobe.“Nicetomeetyou,Mrs.Greenleaf.”
“Oh,that’stoobad.Nolan,wouldyouliketostayfordinner?Wehaveplentyoffood.”
IknowwhatNolansees:Mom’sinherlateforties,butlooksolderthanthat.Tired.Fragile.AndIknowwhatMomsees:ayoungmanwho’stallerthantallandhandsometogowiththat.Polite,too.Heshoweduptovisitthedaughterwhodatesalotbutneverbringsanyonehome.Ripeformisunderstanding,thissituation.ItneedstoendASAP.
That’swhatI’mthinkingwhenIopenmymouthtotellMomthatNolanreallycan’tstay.WhatI’mthinkingwhenNolanisjustafractionofasecondquickerandsays,“Thankyou,Mrs.Greenleaf.Iwouldloveto.”
HesitswhereDadusedto.
Whichdoesn’tmeanmuch,sinceourdinnertableisround.Anditmakessense:he’sleft-handed,soamI.Weshouldcluster—avoidelbowingtherighties.Still,there’ssomethingbeyondweirdinNolanSawyertakingjaw-unhingingbitesofMom’smeatloaf,wolfingdownaportion,two,helpinghimselftomoregreenbeans,noddinggravelywhenDarcyasks,enthralledbyhisappetite,“Doyouhappentohaveatapeworm?”HeobviouslyenjoysMom’scooking.Hemadeadeep,gutturalsoundafterthefirstbite,somethingthatremindedmeof…
Iflushed.Nooneelsepaidattention.
“Haveyoubeenworkingattheseniorcenterlong,Nolan?”Momasks.
Istiffen,spearingasinglegreenbean.IpressmykneeagainstNolan’sunderthetable,tosignalhimtobequiet.“Wedon’thavetotalkabout—”
“Awhile,”hesayssmoothly.
“Doyoulikeit?”
“Ithasitsupsanddowns.Iusedtoloveit,butalittle…samenesssetin,andIactuallythoughtaboutquitting.ThenMalloryarrived.”Hiskneesuddenlypushesbackagainstmine.“NowIloveitagain.”
Momcocksherhead.“Youtwomustworkverycloselytogether.”
“NotnearlyasmuchasI’dlike.”
OhmyGod.Oh.My.God.
“How’sMalloryatwork?”Darcyasks.“Dotheoldpeoplelikeher?”
“Shehasareputationforpocketingpuddings.”EveryonestaresatmelikeI’mthatPharmabrowhohikedbasicmeds’prices.“Andforpublicnear-nudity.”
Mom’seyeswiden.“Mallory,thisisconcerning—”
“He’skidding.”IkickNolan’scalf,hard.Hedoesn’tseemtocare,buthedoestrapmyfootbetweenhisown.“He’sknownforhisterriblesenseofhumor.”Mylegisnowtwinedwithhis.Cool.Cool.
“Okay.”Sabrinasetsherglassdown.“I’llgoaheadandaskit,sinceweallwanttoknow:Areyouguyshavingsex?”
“OhmyGod.”Icovermyeyes.“OhmyGod.”
“Sabrina,”Momchides,“thatisreallyinappropriate.”Sheturnstome.“Butyes,areyou?”
“OhmyGod,”Imoan.
“Wearen’t,”Nolansaysbetweenbitesofmeatloaf.Thirdhelping.
Oh.
My.
God.
“Maybeyou’llhavesextonight?”Darcyasks.“Isthatwhyyoucameover?”
Mytwelve-year-oldsister,whosleepswithastuffedfox,justaskedtheworld’snumberonechessplayerifhecameovertobangme.Andhejustreplies,matter-of-fact,“Itseemsunlikely.Andno,it’snotwhyIcame.”
“DidyouknowMalhassexwithboysandgirls?”Darcyadds.“I’mnotoutingher—shetoldmeIcouldtellanyone.”
Nolanglancesatme.Lightning-quick.“Ididnot.”
“Hedoesn’tcare,Darcy.AndFYI,thatdidn’tmean‘pleasegotelleveryone.’?”
“Wouldyoulikemoremeatloaf,Nolan?”Mominterjects,andleavesforthekitchenwhenNolannodsgratefully.
“So,Nolan,”Sabrinacontinues,“doyoualsohavesexwithboysandgirls?”
“Jesus.”AnimageoftheentireBaudelairefamilyflashesinmyhead.“Okay,I’mgoingtonukethisconversationandremindyouthatyoucannotaskpeopleyoubarelyknowabouttheirsexualorientationduringdinner.Oratall.”
“Maybehedoesn’tmind,”Sabrinasays.“Doyoumind,Nolan?”
“Idon’t,”hesays,remarkablyunperturbed.
Sabrinashootsmeatriumphantsmile.Sistercide.Sistercideistheonlyoption.I’llmakeDarcyhelpmehidethebody.OrMom.OrGoliath.“So,boysandgirls?”
Nolanshakeshishead.“Nope.”
“Mostlygirls?”
“No.”
“Mostlyboys?”
“No.”
Sabrinalooksbrieflyconfused,thendelighted.“Youdon’twanttoexcludenonbinarypeople!”
“So,”Darcyinterjects,“whenareyouguysgoingtohavesex?”
Nolan’s“Hardtotell”overlapswithmy“Never!”andcompletelyswallowsit
Iface-palm.
“IbetMallory’sreallygoodatit.Shesurepracticesalot.”
Nolangivesmealong,assessinglookthat’smercifullyinterruptedbyMomarrivingwithmoremeatloaf.“Doyouhaveanysiblings,Nolan?”sheasks.I’veneverbeenmoregratefulforachangeoftopic.
“Twohalfbrothers.Onmyfather’sside.”
“Howoldarethey?”
Hesquints,asiftryingtorememberaremotepieceofinformation.“Somewhereintheirearlyteens.Maybeyounger.”
“You’renotsure?”
Heshrugs.“Ineverseethem.”
Mom’sbrowfurrows.“Youmustspendmostholidayswithyourmother.”
Heletsoutahushedlaugh.Ormaybeit’sascoff.“Ihaven’tseeneitherofmyparentsinyears.Usuallyafriendinvitesmeover.”
“Whydon’tyouseeyourparents?”Darcyasks.
“A…differenceofopinions.Overmycareer.”
“Theydon’tliketheseniorcenter?”
Nolanbitesbackasmileandnodssolemnly.
“That’skindasad,”Darcysays.“Iseemyfamilyeverydayofeveryweekofeveryyear.”
“That’salsokindasad,”Sabrinamumbles.“Wouldn’tmindsomespace.”
Darcyshrugs.“Ilikeit,thatwe’realwaystogether.Andwetelleachothereverything.”
ThepointedlookNolangivesmemakesmewanttokickhiminthegonads,butmylegisstillstuckbetweenhis,soIconsiderdrowningmyselfinthegravy.Aslow,nutritious,tastydeath.
I’mnotsurehowithappens,orwhatatrociousdeedsIcommittedinpastlivestodeservethisindignity,butafterdinnerNolangetstalkedintostaying“justalittlebitlonger!Pleeeeease!”andwatchingTVwithmysisters.
“DoyoulikeRiverdale?”Sabrinaaskseagerly.SheandDarcyflankhimonthecouch,andGoliathisinhislap.(“Whatastrangelyfamiliarbeast,”Nolansaidwhenshedepositedhiminhishands.“IwonderifI’verecentlyseenaportraitofhim.”Inearlyforkedhimintheeye.)Momleansagainstthedoorframe,takinginthescenewithalevelofenjoymentthatIvastlyresent.I’vebeensenttofetchicecreamsandwiches,thensentbackwhenIbroughtthechocolatekindinsteadofstrawberry.
“I’veneverseenRiverdale.”
“OhmyGod.Okay,so,that’sArchieandhe’s,like,themaincharacter,buteveryonelikesJugheadbetterbecausehello,ColeSprouse,andthere’sthismurderthat…”
“He’scute,”MomwhisperswhileI’mloadingthedishwasher.
“ColeSprouse?”
“Nolan.”
Ihuff.Itdoesn’tcomeoutasindignantasI’dlike.“No,he’snot.”
“Andheseemstohavegreattaste.”
“Becauseheateastomach-pumpingamountofyourmeatloaf?”
“Mostlythat.Onlysecondarilybecausehedoesn’tseemtobeabletolookawayfrommymostobliviousdaughter.”
I’m93percentsurethathe’sabouttoplaceanapalmbombinourbasement,Idon’ttellher.Ormaybehewantstorobus.He’llabscondwiththefamilynickeljarthesecondwe’redistracted.Andwithwhat’sleftofthemeatloaf.
Istillhavenoideawhyhe’shere.He’saskingmysisters“WhichoneofthecharactersisRiverdale?”withhissoothingNPRvoice,makingthemgiggleandslaphisforearms,andIwanthimgonefrommyhouse.Stat.
Andyetit’soveronehourbeforeMomremindsDarcythatsheneedstofinishherEnglishhomework,andSabrinalocksherselfinherroomtovideo-chatwithderbyfriendsabouthowEmmaleeshouldbejammerandwhat’swrongwithCoachthesedays,anyway?
“I’mgoingtobed,”Momsays,atadtoopointedly.Ilookoutsidethewindow:thesun’snotdonesetting.
“Nolan’sleaving,too.”
“Hedoesn’thaveto.”Shegiveshimabrilliantsmileandwalksaway,leaningonhercane.
“Yes,hedoes,”Iyellafterher.
EavesdroppingisnotsomethingI’dputpastmyfamily,sowhenNolanfollowsmeoutside,Iwalkallthewaytotheapricottree.Thistimeoftheyear,it’slittlemorethanahandfulofleavesonscrawnybranches—asanyothertime.
Handsonmyhips,Iturnaroundtofacehim.Atduskhe’sevenmoreimposingthanusual,theanglesandcurvesofhisfaceclashingdramaticallyagainsteachother.
Honestly,itdoesn’tmakesense.Ishouldn’tfindhimthishandsome,becausehesimplyisn’t.Hisnoseistoolarge.Hisjawtoodefined.Lipstoofull,eyessettoodeep,thosecheekbonestoo…toosomething.Ishouldn’tevenbethinkingaboutthis.
“Nowthatyou’veeatenapproximatelytwelvepigswithmymom’smeatloafasavehicle,doyoumindtellingmewhyyou’rehere?”
“Prettysureitwasgroundbeef.”Hereachesforoneofthetallestbranches.Easily.“Doesyourfamilythinkwe’redating?”Hedoesn’tlookupset.Moreintheballparkofproud.
“Whoknows.”Probably.“Isitaproblem?”
Iwanthimtosayyes,andthenthrowinhisfacethatit’shisfaultforshowingupunannounced.Hethwartsmymove.“Whodoesn’tloveagoodfakedatingscheme.”
Iarchmyeyebrow.“I’msurprisedyou’refamiliarwiththeconcept.”
“AfriendisahugeLaraJeanfan.Isatthrough,like,sixofhermovies.”
Hemeanshisgirlfriend.“Thereareonlythree.”
“Feltlikemore.”
He’ssoassured.Soeffortlesslyatease.You’dexpectaknownsoreloserwithtemperproblemswhospends90percentofhistimestudyingopposite-coloredbishopendgamesnottoexcelinsocialsituations.Andyet.
Ithinkaboutthemountainsofself-confidencehemusthavewithinhimself.Wherevertheymightcomefrom.Lookathim,thevoiceinmyheadsupplies.Youknowwherethey’refrom.
Oh,shutup.
“Whyareyouhere,Nolan?”
Heletsgoofthebranch.Watchesitbounceafewtimes,thensettleagainstthedarkeningsky.Whenhereachesoutforme,I’mreadytoroundhousekickhiminthechin,buthepushesaloosestrandofhairawayfrommyface.I’mstilldizzyfromthebriefcontactwhenhesays,“Iwanttoplaychess.”
“Youcouldn’tfindsomeoneinNewYork?YouhadtodriveallthewaytoNewJersey?”I’massumingheownstheLucidAirparkedinfrontoftheAbebes’place.Becauseofcoursehe’downmydreamcar.
“Idon’tthinkyouunderstand.”Heholdsmyeyes.Ithinkhisthroatmoves.“Iwanttoplaychesswithyou,Mallory.”
Oh.
Oh?“Why?”
“Itshouldhavebeenyou,yesterday.Itwas…Ihadyouthere.Infrontofme,acrosstheboard.”Hislipspresstogether.“Itshouldhavebeenyou.”
“Yeah,well.”Itwouldhavebeenfunifithadbeenme.Aknotofregretsqueezesinsideme,andIhavethesneakingsuspicionthatithasnothingtodowiththeprizemoney,andeverythingtodowiththefactthatmymatchagainstthisguy—thissullen,handsome,oddguy—wasthemostfunchessI’veeverplayed.“MalteKochhadotherideas.”
“Kochisanonentity.”
“He’sthesecond-bestplayerintheworld.”
“Hehasthesecond-highestratingintheworld,”hecorrectsme.
IrememberthewayNolanhumiliatedhimyesterday,andsay,“HaveyouconsideredthatKochmightbelessofanall-aroundjerktoallofusifyouspentacoupleofminutesperweekpretendingtoindulgehisdelusionsofarchrivalry?”
“No.”
“Right.”Istarttoturnaround.“Well,thiswasfun,but—”
Hishandwrapsaroundmyforearm.“Iwanttoplay.”
“Well,Idon’tplay.”
Hiseyebrowlifts.“Couldhavefooledme.”
Iflush.“Idon’tplayunlessI’matwork.”
“Youdon’tplayunlessyou’reatZugzwang?”He’sclearlyskeptical.Andstillholdingmywrist.
“Oratatournament.Neverinmyfreetime.Itrynottothinkofchessatallinmyfreetime,actually,andyou’rekindofmakingitimpossible,so—”
Hescoffs.“Youthinkaboutchessallthetime,Mallory,andwebothknowit.”
Iwouldlaughhimoff,butI’vebeengoingoverKoch’sgamesalldayinmyhead,andthejabhitsclose.Ipullfree,ignoringthelingeringwarmthofhisskin,andsquaremyshoulders.“Maybeyoudo.Maybeyouarethoroughlyaddicted.Maybeyouwrapchesssetsinplasticbagsandhidetheminyourtoilettankbecauseyouhavenothingelsetothinkabout.”IremembertheBaudelairerumor,andithitsmethatoutofthetwoofus,theonewithoutalifeiscertainlynotNolan.Still,I’vecometoofartostop.“Butsomeofusseechessasagame,andenjoywork-lifebalance.”
Heleansin.Hisfaceisjustafewinchesfrommine.
“Iwanttoplaychesswithyou,”herepeats.Hisvoiceislower.Closer.Deeper.“Please,Mallory.”
There’sanopennesstohim.Avulnerability.HesuddenlylooksyoungerthanIknowhimtobe,aboyaskingsomeonetodosomethingvery,veryimportantforhim.It’shardtosayno.
Butnotimpossible.
“I’msorry,Nolan.I’mnotgoingtoplayagainstyouunlessithappensinatournament.”
“No.”Heshakeshishead.“Ican’twaitthatlong.”
“Excuseme?”
“Youbarelyhavearating.You’renotgoingtobeallowedintoinvitationalsorsuper-tournamentsforyears,thenextopenisn’tuntillatespring—”
“That’snottrue,”Iprotest,eventhoughIhavenoidea.Hisstubborn,displeased,near-worriedexpressionletsmeknowthatitlikelyis.
Somethingtwistsinmystomach.
“Why?”heasks.“Whythisbullshitno-play-outside-workrule?”
“Idon’toweyouanexplanation.”Thenwhyareyougivinghimone?“But…Idon’tlikechess.Notlikeyoudo.It’sjustajob,somethingIfellintobackward,and…”Ishrug.Itfeelstense,unnatural.“It’sjustthewayIwantit.”
Hestudiesme,silent.Then:“Isthisbecauseyourfather—”
“No”Iclosemyeyes.There’saloudroarinmyears,drumspoundingatmytemples.Slow,deepbreathsmakeitrecede.Alittle.“No.”Iholdhisgaze.“Andplease,don’teverbringupmydadagain.”
Hebrieflylookslikehewon’tletitgo.Thennods.“I’llgiveyouthemoney.”
“What?”
“I’llgiveyouthetournamentprize.Theoneyoushouldhavebeencompetingfor.”
“Areyouforreal?”
“Yes.”
“IfIbeatyou,you’llgivemefiftythousanddollars.”
“I’llgiveittoyouevenifIwin.”
Ilaugh.“Bullshit.”
“I’mnotlying.Fiftythousanddollarsisnothingforme.”
“Yeah,well.”Havinghimsaysoinfrontofmylower-middle-classhouse-and-apricot-treecombostings.“Screwyou.”
Iwalkawayagain,andthistimehedoesn’tgrabmywrist.Hedoesn’tneedto:withtwostepshe’sinfrontofme,betweenmeandthehouse.Thesunhassetagain,andthegardenispitchblack.“ImeantthatI’mgoodforthemoney.I’llpayyoutoplaywithme.”
“Why?Isitbecauseyoucan’tstandtohavesomeonebestyou?AreyoulikeKoch,unabletoacceptthatyouoncelosttoawoman?”
“What?”Helooksgenuinelyappalled.“No.Iamnothinglikehim.”
“Thenwhy?”
“Because,”henear-growls.“BecauseI—becauseyou—”Hestopsabruptlyandtakesafewstepsaway.Hemakesafrustrated,abortivegesturewithhisarm,somethingIrecognizefromhisrarelossesatchess.
IguessIwon,then.
“Listen,Nolan.I’msorry.I…I’mnotgoingtoplaywithyou.”Iexpectthedisappointedexpressiononhisface.Themirrorfeelinginmychest,notsomuch.“It’snotpersonal.ButIpromisedmyselfthatI’dkeepchessatadistance.”
Iturnwithoutsayinggoodbyeandwalkbackinsidethehouse,hatingmyselfallthewaytomyroomfortheoddfeelingoflossinthepitofmystomach.
I’mstupid.Hejusthatestheideathatweplayedonceandhelost.I’mnotspecial.Thisisnotaboutme—it’sabouthim.Hisstatus.Hisinsecurities.Hisneedtodominate.
Iletmyselfintomyroom.Myheadthrobs,andIcannotwaittogotobed.Icannotwaitforthisdaytobeover.
“DidNolanleave?”
Darcy’svoicestartlesme.I’dforgottenshe’dbeinhere,doinghomeworkatherdesk.
“Yes.Hehadtogohome.”
“Well,that’sunderstandable.”
Inod,lookingformypajamas.
“Hemustbeverybusy.He’sthenumberonechessplayerintheworld,afterall.”ChapterEleven
Iblink.
Iblinkagain.
Iblinkoncemoreandmakeasplit-seconddecision:lie.“Youhavehimconfusedwithsomeoneelse,honey.”Icough.“Didyouneedhelpwithyourhomework?”
“NolanSawyer,right?”
“It’sjusttwopeoplewiththesamename.”Iwavemyhandairily.“Likewhenyouwereinkindergartenandtherewere,like,fourMadisonSmithsin…”
Sheturnshertabletaround.It’sonNolan’sWikipediapage,whichincludesahigh-rescandidofhimscowlingdownatachessboard.AsmuchasI’dlovetodenyit,heisundeniablythesameguywhojustraidedourmeatloafstash.
Iblink.
Iblinkagain.
Iblinkoncemoreandmakeanothersplit-seconddecision:lieagain.Darcy’stwelve.Icantalkmyselfoutofthis.
Igaspdramatically.“Noway!Areyouserious?”Iamaterribleactress.I’mtalkingelementaryschoolplaylevel.“Henevermentioned.I’llhavetoaskhimnexttimewe…”
Ifallquiet,becauseDarcyhasnavigatedtoanewpage.Ithasapictureoftwopeople:Nolan,loomingdarklyononesideoftheboard,shakesthehandofablondgirlwearingaflanneltopthatlooksjustlikemine.Neithersmilesorspeaks,butthey’reholdingeachother’seyesinawaythatseemsalmostintimate,and—
Myeyesfallonthetitleofthepage:WhoisMalloryGreenleaf,chess’snewbreakoutplayer?
“Fuck.”
“There’sawholearticleaboutyou.”
“Fuck.”
“Andpictures.”
“Fuck.”
“Andevenavideo,thoughIcan’tmakeitwork.Ithinkpop-upsareblocked?”
“Fuckfuckfuck.”Ofcoursethisshit’sonline.Thepresswaseverywhere—whatdidIthinktheyweregoingtodowiththefootage,scrapbookit?“Fuck.”
“Youshouldstopswearinginfrontoftwelve-year-olds.Mrs.Vitellisaysthatmybrain’sstillallsquishy.I’llprobablyendupinjuvieifyouswearjustoncemore.”
“Fuck.”
“Heregoesanotherpromisingyoungwoman.”
IpluckthetabletfromDarcy’shands.ThearticleisonChessWorld.com.TheheaderboastsLargestchesswebsite,over100millionuniquevisitspermonth
Igroan.
…enteredthetournamentasanunratedplayer,butsurprisedeveryonebynotlosinganymatch.Greenleaf,whocurrentlytrainsatZugzwangwithGMDefneBubiko?lu,isthedaughterofthelateGMArchieGreenleaf(peakFIDEranking:97),whopassedawayayearago.Lastmonth,attheNYCCharityTournament,shedefeatedWorld’sNo.1NolanSawyer.SawyerhadachanceforarematchatPhillyOpen,but—
Itossthetabletontothebed.Myhandsareshaking.“Howdidyoufindthis?”
Darcyshrugs.“Iwasdoinghomework.”
“Homework.”
“It’sgenealogyweek.I’msupposedtowriteaboutmypaternalgreat-grandparents,andit’snotlikeIcanaskyouorMom,sinceyoubothgointocovertoperationmodewheneverImentionDad,soIgoogledArchieGreenleaf,andI’msorryifI—”Darcy’svoiceishighpitched,andshelooksabouttocry.Myhearttwists.
“Okay—it’sokay!Youdidn’tdoanythingwrong,honey.IswearI’mnotmad.And…”She’srightthatwedon’treallydiscussDad,orwhathappenedtohim.Maybeweshould?MaybeIshouldbetalkingaboutDadtoher?NotMom—itwouldbepainfulforher.Itwouldbemyresponsibility.
It’sonlyfair,consideringthatit’smyfaultinthefirstplacehe’snotaroundanymore.
Ikneelinfrontofherandtakeherhandinmine.“DoyouwanttotalkaboutDad?”
“Notnow.”Thereliefthatsweepsovermeisembarrassing.“I’dliketoknowwhataZugzwangfellowis,though.”
Walkedrightintothatone.“It’sa…ajob.Iambeingpaidtolearnaboutchess.Foroneyear.”
“Andtheseniorcenter?”Hereyeswiden.“Andthepigeons?”
“Thereareno—well,therearepigeons,plenty,morethanweneed.Butnoseniorcenter.”
“DoMomandSabrinaknow?Didyouliejusttome?”
“No.”Ishakemyheadenergetically.“Nooneknows.”
Sheseemsrelieved.Forasplitsecond.“Soyou’replayingchessformoney?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’tthatlikegambling?”
“What?”
“Andisn’tgamblingillegal?”
“I—”
“Isthatwhyyou’relying?Becauseyou’reworkingforthegamblingmob?”
“It’snotgambling,Darcy.It’sasport.”Inoticeherraisedeyebrow.Sheknowsmyathleticprowess.“Kindof.”
“Whydon’tyouwantustoknow,then?”
“Thereare…thingsyoumightnotremember,becauseyouwereveryyoungwhentheyhappened,but—”
“BecauseDadusedtoplaychess.”
Isigh.“Yes.Partially.Ijustwanttoprotectyouguysfromsomethingthatcouldhurtyou.”
“I’mnotfragileor—”
“ButIam.AndsoisSabrina—eventhoughshe’sinherrebelliousphaseandwoulddenyit.AndMom…Manypainfulthingshappened,Darcy.Butwe’rehappynow.”
“Sabrina’smostlyjustsullen.”
Ichuckle.“True.Ijustwanttotakecareofallofyou.”
“Andyet,youbroughttheKingkillerintoourhouse.”
“Howdoyouevenknowabout—”
“TheWikipediaentrywasverythorough.DidyouknowthatheonceplayedJeffBezosforcharity?Hebeathimintwentyseconds,thenaskedifthewaterbottlenexttothechessboardwasforpeeing.”
“Atrueherooftheworkingclass.Darcy—”
“Also,there’stonsoffanfictiononAO3,mostlyofhimmakingoutwithsomeEmilKareemguy,but—”
“What?Howdoyouknowwhatfanfictionis?”
“Ireaditallthetime.”
“Excuseme?”
“Chill.ThePG-13stuff.”
“PGmeansparentalguidance,whichmeansthataparent—me—shouldbetherewithyou.”
Shecocksherhead.“Youareawarethatyou’renotmyparent,right?”
Itakeadeepbreath.“Listen,Darcy,thereasonIwaskeepingasecret—”
“OhmyGod.Mal,nowit’soursecret!”Allofasudden,shelooksseriouslypumpedup.
“No.No,Idon’twantyoukeepingsecretsfromMom—”
“Idon’tmind,”shesaysquickly.“Iwantto!”
“Darcy,youwereallaboutustellingeachothereverythingatdinner.I’llexplaintoMom—”
“Yousaiditmightbepainfultoher.AndIwanttohaveasecretwithyou.Somethingjustours!”
Istudyherhopeful,shiningeyes,wonderingifshe’sbeenfeelingisolated.I’minNYCalot,afterall.It’snotlikeSabrinacanbecoaxedawayfromherphone,andMomistoolow-energytospendmuchtimewithher.Plus,tellingthetruthwouldopenawholesiloofworms.AndI’mreasonablyconfidentthatneitherMomnorSabrinawillbelookingmeupontheinternet.
“Okay,”Isay.It’saterribleidea,butDarcyfist-pumps.Thenherfacetakesonacalculatedexpression.
“Butit’llcostyou.”
Myeyesnarrow.“Really?Areyougoingtoblackmailme?”
“IjustthinkthatmymorningoatmealcoulduseonemoretablespoonofNutella.Half?Ateaspoon?Please?”
Ishakemyheadandgoinforahug.
Idon’tseeNolanagain.
Notlike,ever.Butnotforweeks,andIdon’thearabouthim,either,withtheexceptionofaTuesdayafternoonwhenhetrendsonchessTwitter,afterforgettingaboutavirtualtournamentandshowinguponcamerafiveminuteslatewhilestillpullingaHenleyoverhischest(#KingkillerSoHot).ThefactthatInoticehisabsencefrommylifehasmeslightlyrattled.Imightbeevenmorerattled,butit’sthebusiestI’veeverbeen.
AfterPhillyOpen,Defnechangesmyroutine.SheschedulesmoretimeformewiththeGMs(includingOz,wholovesit)tofocusonspecificweaknessesinmyplay.Shealsohasmeplayonlinechesstoincreasemyrating,anddailymatcheswithZugzwang’spatrons.“Itsuitsyoubetter—learningbydoing,”shetellsme.
She’sright.Mygameimprovesquickly,positionsandstrategieseasyatmyfingertips.“Who’dhaveguessedthatdeliberatelycultivatinganaturaltalentwouldleadtothebettermentofsaidtalent,”Ozsaystartly.Inretaliation,Ichewanentirebagofkettlechipsatmydesk.
Ahugechunkofmytimeisspentreplayingoldgames.“ThanksfornotbuyingthecreamerIaskedfor,”SabrinahuffsafterIspendahazyhourdriftingthroughthegrocerystoreaisles,wonderingifSalovcouldhaveunpinnedhisknightin’95.I’mtrainingsomuch,Ican’tseemtoturnitoff,noteveninmysleep.Chesspositionsaretakingoverthebackofmyhead,andafternightsspenttossingandturningtoKarpov’sendgames,Ialmostwelcomefleetingdreamsofdark,deep-seteyesglaringatmeinfrustration.
InthelastweekofSeptemberthemorningairgetschilly,andIbreakoutmyfavoritebluescarf,theoneEastonmadeformeduringhershort-livedknittingphase.(“Somestitchesaremissing.Poeticlicenseandthat.”)Isnapaselfieandsendittoher,scowlingwhenheronlyresponseisalazyheartemoji.Irealizethatwehaven’ttalkedinoveraweek,andIscowlharderwhenshedoesn’treplytomyHowhavethingsbeen?Whenmyphonepingsanhourlater,Ifeelaburstofhope,butit’sjustHasan,askingifI’dliketomeetupovertheweekend.
I’mnotsurewhy,butIleavehimonread.
Forthefirsttime,whenIwalkintotheoffice,Ozisnotathisdesk.
“He’satatournament,”Defneexplains.
Inearlypout.“Whydidn’tIgettogo?”
“Becauseyourratingisatthecoreoftheearth.Mosttournamentsareeitherinvitation-onlyorhavestrictaccesscriteria.”
Ifullypout.
“You’reinanunprecedentedsituation,Mal.Mostplayersgrowinthegame,andtheirratingsgrowwiththem.Butevenifyoudonothingbutwinatchessandeattunastraightfromthecan,itwillstilltakeyouacoupleofyearstogettoapointwhenyourratingrepresentsyouractualskills.”Shepatsmyshoulders.“IdidsignyouupfortheNashvilleOpeninmid-October.Prizeisfivethousand,butyou’regoingtowin—topplayersdon’tshowupforthat.”Shebitesherlowerlip,hesitating.“I’vebeenapproachedwithanotheropportunity,but…”
“Whatopportunity?”
Shechewsonherlip.“YouknowtheChessOlympics?”
Iblink.“That’snotreallyathing,isit?”
“Ofcourseitis.”
“Let’ssaythatIbelieveyou.Whatisit?”
“Justateamtournament.NotrealOlympics,butasimilarformat:oneteampernation,fourplayersperteam.Fivedays.Thisyearit’sinToronto,thefirstweekofNovember—doyouhaveapassport?”Inod.“Emilcalledandaskedif—”
“Emil?Kareem?”
“Yup.Theproblemis,thePasternakInvitationalisrightafter,inMoscow,andthat’sawaymoreprestigioustournament.”
“MoreprestigiousthantheOlympics.”Seemsfake.
“Well,youknowhowprochessis.”DefnemustrememberthatIdonot,infact,know,becauseshecontinues,“Intheend,it’sallaboutthemoney.ThePasternakhasridiculousprizes,unliketheOlympics,andmostprosandSuperGMsdon’twanttotirethemselvesfornothing.Well,notnothing.Thereisatrophy.Itlooksnice,kindoflikeacup.Iguessyoucouldeatcerealinit?Soup?Salads,ifyoudon’tmindyourforkclinkingagainstthemetal—”
“Who’sontheUSteambesidesEmil?”
“Notsure.”Shesoundsalittlecagey.“MaybeTanuGoel?”
“Doyouwantmetogo?”
“I…”Shescratchesthebackofherhead,andhersleeveslidesbackward,revealingherchessboardtattoo.Istudythepositionswhilesheseemstoreachadecision.Whiteisattackingwiththerook,andBlackistwopawnsdown.“Itwouldbeagreatopportunityforyoutoraiseyourrating,gainexpertise,network.”Shesmiles.Forthefirsttimeinthisconversation.“I’dlovetosendyou,ifyoucanswingittime-wise.”
AfewhourslaterIsitatthedinnertablewithmyfamily,munchingonthetailofatyrannosauruschickennuggetandmentioningascasuallyasIcanmuster,“Theseniorcenteraskedmetoaccompanytheresidentsonatrip.”
“Oh.”Momlooksupfromherplate.“Whereto?”
“Toronto.Fivedays,inNovember.”IcanfeelDarcy’seyesburningthroughme.Havingacrucialsecretwithanaturallychattytwelve-year-oldisnotallit’scrackeduptobe.“They’dpaymetimeandahalf.Andit’dbecooltoseeCanada.Ineedtoletthemknowbytomorrow—”
“Wait.”Sabrinasetsherphoneonthetable.Forcefully.“You’regoingtopartyinTorontoandleaveusonourown?Forreal?”
Iblink,takenabackbythemixofpanicandangerinhervoice.“Iwasjust—”
“WhatifGoliathhasavetemergency?WhatifDarcysticksaMonopolytokenuphernoseandneedstobetakentourgentcare?WhatifIneedaridetoaderbymeet—amIsupposedtohitchhike?”
“I’darrangeeverythingbeforehand,”IstartjustasDarcysays,“Ihaven’tstuckanythingupmynosesinceIwasfive!”andMompointsout,“Iwillstillbearound,Sabrina.”
“Darcy’sanidiot,andidiotsareunpredictable,Mal.Andthat’sthepointofemergencies—youcannotprepareforthem.WhatifMomhasaflare-up?Who’sgoingtotakecareofher?Howegotisticalcanyou—”
“Sabrina.”Mom’svoice,usuallygentle,cutslikeawhip.“Apologizetoyoursisters.”
“Ididn’tsayanythingthat’snottrue—”
“Sabrina.”
She’sgoneinaflurryofscreechingchairsandstompingfeet.Theroomfallssilent,andsecondslateradoordownthehallwayslamsintoitsframe.
Momcloseshereyesforexactlythreebreaths.Thensays,“Mallory,ofcourseyoushouldgo.We’llbefine.”
Ishakemyhead.Deepdown,IknowSabrinaisright.Afterall,I’mtheonewhokeepsremindingherhowfragileMom’shealthis.Ishouldn’tbesurprisedifshe’sfreakingoutattheideaofmeleaving.“No.Honestly—”
“Mallory.”Momcoversmyhandwithhers.It’sstillclutchingthefork,thehalf-eatennuggetspearedatitsend.“Iamaskingyoutopleasetellyourbossthatyou’regoing,okay?”
Inod.Thenchurnitovertheentirenight,sleepless,bitter,Sabrina’swordsahatefulringinmyears.Iamangry.Guilty.Furious.Sad.
Egotistical.DoesshenotunderstandthesacrificesI’vemadeforthefamily?DoesshethinkthatIwantedtostopgoingtoschool?DoesshethinkthatIenjoyit,knowingthatinfouryearsEastonwillhaveadegreeandacareerandI’llbestuckinsomeminimum-wagedead-endjob?Thatwe’llgrowfurtherandfurtherapartastimegoeson,asIfallbehind,forgotten?ScrewSabrina,honestly.
Butit’syourownfaultifyourfamilyisinthissituation,thatobnoxiouslittlevoiceremindsme.Shehaseveryrighttobemadatyou.Andweren’tyouonlygoingtocompeteintournamentswithmoneyprizes?WhydoyouevenwanttogotoToronto?
Tobuildrating!Toaccessfuturetournaments!
Notbecauseyouenjoyedthethrillofcompetitivechesssomuch,you’vebeenjonesingforitsincePhilly?Cool.Justmakingsure.
Oh,shutup.
Youjustsaidshutuptoyourself,butgooff,Iguess.
IwakeupinthemorningeagertoapologizetoSabrinafor…Idon’tknow.Ruiningherlifefouryearsago,maybe?Herroom,though,isempty.
“McKenzie’smom’sdrivinghertoschool,”Darcyexplains.“ForsomeonewhosebiggestfearisnothavingaridetotheER,SabrinatheTeenageBitchisprettycraftyatfindingoneonshortnotice.”
“Firstofall,wedonotusethatword.”Ismileandstepcloser,pushingherbangsback.It’slikelookingintoafreckled,rejuvenatingSnapchatfilter.“Secondly,youknowSabrinalovesyou,right?Shedoesn’treallythinkthatyou’reanidiot.”
“IbelievethatshelovesmeandthinksthatI’manidiot.Becausesheisanidiot.”Shegivesmeanappraisinglook.“Bytheway,Idon’tthinkyou’reegotistical,Mal.Imean,youskimpontheNutellaanddon’tshowTimothéeChalamettheadmirationthat’sduehim,andyouare,objectively,aliar.ButIdon’tthinkyou’reegotistical.”Ifeelalumpswellinmythroat.UntilDarcyfrowns.“ThoughI’mnotonehundredpercentsureIhavethecorrectdefinitionofegotistical.”
AcoupleofhourslaterI’minDefne’soffice,whichisabitlikeitsowner:colorful,happy,andfullofknickknacksthatshouldnotgowelltogetherbutsomehowdo.
“Goodmorning!”Shegrinsfromherdesk.“DidyoustealDelroy’srainbowbagel?He’sveryupset.”
“Nope.Justgothere.”
“Oh.HowcanIhelpyouthen?”
Iclearmythroat.Well,heregoes.“CouldyoutellEmilthatI’dlovetodotheOlympics?”ChapterTwelve
IfeelNolanbeforeIseehim.
OnesecondI’mstrugglingtodragmyduffelbagontotheLaGuardiasuitcaseconveyorandwonderingwhytheGreenleafclanneverinvestedinsomethingwithwheels(orasetofdumbbells,forupperbodystrength);thenext,someonetakesitfromme,liftsiteffortlessly,anddepositsitonthebelt.
Iturnaround,butmybodyalreadyknows,likemyatomsvibratedifferentlywhenhe’snear.Whichprobablyjustmeansthathispresencegivesmeradiationpoisoning.
“Hi,Mallory,”hesays.He’swearingsunglassesandadarkshirt,buthisvoiceisthesame.Helooksthesame:Tall.Unsmiling.
Good.
Afewpimples,that’swhatheneeds.Awarttobreaktheperfectimperfectionofhisface.
“Hi,”Iscratchout.
It’sbeenovertwomonthssinceIwasinhispresence.Twomonthsofchess,chess,chess.Wranglingmysisters,takingMomtothedoctor,thenmorechess.BeingglaredatbyOz,puttingoffcheckingTinder,thenchess.IwontheNashvilleOpenandanotheronlinetournament.Ihaven’tlostamatchyet,butmyrating’snoteveninthenineteenhundreds.There’salittleengineinacornerofmyskull,constantlyworkingonpositions,pawnstructure,squaretheory
“Areyou…flyingsomewhere?”Iaskoncehe’sbeensilentalittletoolong.Myvoicesoundsbreathy.IhopeI’mnotgettingsickrightbeforetheOlympics.
Thecornersofhislipstwitch.“That’swhatairportsarefor.”
Ibristleoutofmybreathlessness.“Youcouldbeflyingin.Orpickingupsomeone.OrbelikeTomHanksinthatmovie,livinginaterminalbecauseoffunkyimmigrationpaperwork.”Iclearmythroat.“Whereareyouflying?”
Hetiltshishead.“Forreal?”
Forreal,what?“AreyougoingtothattournamentinRussia?”
“Youhaven’tfigureditout?”
“WhatamIsupposedto—”
“Greenleaf.”EmilKareemappearsandhugsmelikeI’mhislong-lostsister.There’sagirlwithhim,asupermodelwhojustflewintoLaGuardiaforfashionweek.Wait,she’sfamiliar.FromPhillyOpen—Nolan’sgirlfriend,theonehehugged?Idon’tknow,butsheishuggingmelikeI’mherlong-lostsister.
“Mallory,I’msohappyyou’reontheteam.IcannotbelieveI’mgoingtohaveameaningfulconversationthatdoesn’trevolvearoundfantasyfootball.Wait—areyouintofantasyfootball?”
Shesmellsamazing.Lavender,Ithink.“I’m…notsurewhatthatis.”
“Phew.”
“Greenleaf,thisisTanuGoel.Shealsohasnoideawhatfantasyfootballis,”Emilsays.“AndofcourseyouknowNolan.Fromtrashinghimbackinthesummer.”
IglanceatNolan.Hedoesn’tseemtomindbeingreminded—theopposite,infact.Which,initself,isannoying.Iwanttobethethorninhissidethatheisinmine.Iwanthimtodreamofmystupideyes.
“Youguysknoweachother?”Isay,glancingbetweenNolanandEmil.
“Unfortunately,”theysayatthesametime,beforeexchangingalong,brotherlylook,andthat’swhenitoccurstome.
Nolanisontheteam.
NolaniscomingtoToronto.
Withus.
Toplaychess.
AttheOlympics.
Emilnevertoldme.BecauseIneverasked.We’vebeenintouchtoarrangeflightsandaccommodations,butIalwaysfiguredthatwhoeverthefourthmemberturnedouttobe,Iwouldn’thaveheardofthem.
BecauseDefnetoldmethatallSuperGrandmasterswouldskiptheOlympicsandgotothePasternak.
BecauseI’manidiot.
Averyrattledidiot,whohastodealwithherrattlednessthroughsecurityandboarding.I’mnottheself-conscioustype,butIfeelliketheoddmanoutwiththesethree.They’rewarm(exceptforNolan,who’shisusualinscrutableself)andtrytoinvolvemeinconversation(exceptforNolan,who’shisusualquietself),butit’sclearthatthey’vespentyearsmemorizingeachother.Theirinsidejokesareindecipherable,hiddenbehindathickbrambleofunparseablereferences.Theirdynamics,too,seemtobeawell-beatenpath—severalpaths,madeofshiftingalliancesandahealthydoseofroasting.
“Issheseriouslybuyingthat?”EmilaskswhenTanupicksupapackofWerther’sOriginal.“Howoldareyou?”
“Leaveheralone,”Nolanmurmurs,payingfortheWerther’sandpeanutM&M’swithablackcreditcard.“They’reoutofJell-Osalad.”
NotfiveminuteslatertwoseparategroupsrecognizeNolanas“thatchessguyinalltheTikToks.”Itleadstoselfies,autographs,andtwobeautifulwomenhastilywritingdowntheirphonenumbersonSbarronapkins,likehe’sJustinBieberorsomething.TanuandEmilpretendtostandinline,audiblyasking,“Sir,I’myourbiggestfan.Ilovethewayyoualwayscastleonyourfourthmove.Willyoupleasesignmyunderwear?”(Nolanissurprisinglygood-naturedthroughallofthis;healsoimmediatelythrowsawaythenapkins.)
Then,whilewaitingfortakeoff,EmilstartsplayingCandyCrushonhisphone.“Areyouforreal?”Tanuasks.She’shalfleaningbackagainstNolan’schest,hisarmcasuallywrappedaroundherwaist.I’vebeenavoidinglookingatthem,tellingmyselfthatIdon’tcarewhatthey’vebeenmurmuringaboutinhushed,intimatetones.“WearescholarsofthemostsophisticatedgameintheworldandyouplayCandyCrush?Nolan,saysomething.”
Heshrugs.“Seemsunfairtokickhimwhenhe’ssoclearlydown.”
“CandyCrushisactuallyahighlyintelligentgame,”Emilinsists.“There’sstrategyinvolved.”
Tanugroans.“OhmyGod.Excuseme,Mallory,canweswitchseats?IneedtotellEmilhowwrongheis.Ineeditrightnow.”
WhichishowIfindmyselfinthewindowseatnexttoNolan,TanuandEmilarguingloudlyoverjellybeancolorsontheothersideoftheaisle.Istudyhisprofile,suddenlyintimidated.ThenIrememberthatheoncecameovertoshootmymom’smeatloafuphisveinsandaskedSabrinawhetherJugheadwas“afirstorlastname.”
“So,what’sthedealhere?”
Heturnstome,puzzled.
“Arethethreeofyouinsomepolyamorousrelationship?”
“DidyoujustaskifI’msleepingwithbothourteammates?”Heliftsoneeyebrow.“I’mgoingtoFIDE’sHR.”
“What?No—don’tgotoHR.”
“You’reoverstepping,Mal.”
“Youcametomyhouseandatemanyofmyicecreamsandwiches.”
“Right.”Hecluckshistongue.“Unforgivable.Doreportme.”
Irollmyeyes.“Whatever.So,who’sdatingwhom?”
“Noone’sdatinganyone.Notanymore,atleast.”
IglanceatTanuandEmil.Shestolehisphoneandisscowlingatit,tonguepeekingoutfrombetweenherteethasshematchesSwedishfish.Emilstaresather,surprisinglysomber.
“Wasitthem?”
Nolannodssilently.“Thentheywenttodifferentschools—Tanu’stakingtheweekoff,butshe’satStanford.Emil’satNYU.”
“Isee.Haveyouknownthemforlong?”
“Forever.Wetrainedtogetherwith…”Hestops.“Untiltheydecidedprochesswasn’tforthem.”
“Whenwasthat?”
“ThreeyearsagoforEmil.Tanu,beforethat.”
IwonderiftheyarehisEaston.AndbecauseI’vebeenhearingfromEastonlessandless,aboutstuffthatseemsmoreandmoretrivial,thequestionslipsout:
“Doesitfeelweird?Thattheywenttocollege,andyoudidn’t?”
Helooksthoughtfulforamoment.“Sometimes.Sometimesitfeelslikethey’reontheirwaytohavelivesIcanneverunderstand.SometimesI’mjustgladIdon’thavetoreadGreatExpectationsorstudyforatrigonometryfinal.”
Ismile.“Prettysuretrig’sinhighschool.”
“Itis?”
“Yup.Youdidn’ttakeit?”
HeopenshisM&M’s,offeringthemtome.“Iwashomeschooled.”
“Becauseofchess?”
“Formanyreasons.AndIhavenoideawhatacosineis.”HepopsayellowM&Minhismouth.Whenheswallows,histhroatbobs,astrong,mesmerizingmovementthatInoticebecause…I’mgoingbananapants?
“You’lllive.SoEmilandTanubrokeupbecauseofdistance,butthey’restillintoeachother?”
“Andrefusetodoanythingaboutit.”
“Lotsofpining,Ibet.”
“Idogetseveralangstylate-nightphonecallsaskingwhyTanujustlikedtheshirtlesspictureofsomeStanfordswimmeronInstagram,orwho’stheskankwhokeepsduetingEmilonTikTok.”
“Ibetyou’regreatattalkingpeopleofftheledge.”
“I’dbebetteratitifIknewwhatthehellaTikTokduetis.”
Ilaugh.EmilandTanuglanceatme,thenexchangeaglanceIcannotdecipher.“Wereyoujealouswhentheyfirstgottogether?”
“Jealous?”Heseemstofindthequestionsurprising.
“Yeah.Imean,youguysseemclose.Andthey’rebothreallyattractive…”Mycheeksheat.Ithinkhenoticesbecausethecornerofhismouthtwitches.
“Iwasn’tjealous.Icouldn’tunderstandhowsomeonecouldbesoenthralledbytheideaofbeingaloneinaroomwithanotherpersonwithoutachessboard.”
“Butnowyoucan?”
Hegivesmealonglookthroughhissunglasses.“NowIcan.”Heturnsaway.“Butifyouareinterestedineitherofthem—”
“That’snotwhyIasked,”Iblurtout.“Besides,Idon’thookupwithpeopleIworkwith.Itmakesthingsmessy.”Actually,Idon’thookupatall,lately.It’sbeenasurprisinglydrycoupleofmonths.Maybechesskillsmylibido?
“Messy?”
“Yeah.”
“How’sthat?”
“Toomuchproximity.Peoplegetideas.TheythinkI’minterestedingivingthemmytime.Mymentalenergy.”
Hestudiesme.“Andyou’retoobusytakingcareofyourfamilyforthat.”
“Howdoyouknowthat?”
Hedoesn’treply,juststudiesmethroughthosedarklensesforseveralseconds,untilIcan’tstandthestretchingsilenceanymoreandask,“Whyareyouhere,anyway?Aren’tyougoingtothatinvitationalnextweek?”
“Curiousaboutmyplans?”
Theobviousansweris:yes.“Theydidn’tinviteyou,didthey?Theyknowyou’llhurlachessboardatanarbiterandnoinsuranceagencywouldletthemhaveyou.”
“IleaveforMoscowfromToronto.OnFriday.”
“You’redoingbothtournaments?”
HegivesmehisbestWhat,likeit’shard?shrug.
“Defnesaidthatdoingtwobigtournamentssoclosetogetherwouldmakeanyonebraindead.Andthatmostbigplayersdon’tseethepointintheOlympics…”Athoughtoccurstome.“You’renotherebecauseI…?”
You’renotherebecauseI’mhere,areyou?
Comeon,Mal.He’snotherebecausehe’sstillintothatideaofplayingagainstyou.Noway.Hewantstohangoutwithhisfriends.MaybeheliedandheisintoTanu.OrEmil.Orboth.Notmybusiness.Whocares—
“Yes,”hesays.
Myinternalmonologuehalts.“What?”
“Thereasonyou’rethinking.”Hisstupid,deepvoice.Argh.“That’swhyI’mhere.”
“Youdon’tknowwhatI’mthinking.”
Hesmiles.“True.”
“No,really.Youdon’t.”
“Okay.”
“Stopsayingthat.Stoppretendingyoucanreadmymindand—”
Theflightattendantrollshercart,askingusifwewantadrink.Afterthatwe’requiet—Nolanstaringahead,andmesullenlynursingmySunkist,thinkingthatno.
Hecannotknow.ChapterThirteen
TherearetwomaindistinctionsbetweentheOlympicsandaregulartournament:wegetdoping-tested(yup:itinvolvespeeinginacup),andwecompeteasateam.Westillplayallourmatchesindividually,butourpointswillbeaddedtogether.Asthestrongestamongus,Nolanisfirstboard.ButthenI,theleastexperiencedplayer,amchosenforsecond.(IaskEmilrepeatedlyifit’sagoodidea.Hegivesmeawide-eyedlookandhuffs,“Comeon,Greenleaf.”)
Itfeelsdifferent,knowingthatwhatevervictoryImanagetobringhomewillbeforus—nomatterhowtemporaryandabstractthisusmightbe.It’snicewhenEmilhigh-fivesmeafterIwinontimeagainsttheEstonianplayer,orTanukissesmyforeheadbecauseInarrowlyavoidedadrawwithSingapore.Idon’tevenmindNolan’slong,thoughtful,lingeringlooks.Healwaysdefeatshisopponentquickly.Thenhefindssomethingwarmtodrinkfortherestoftheteam,setsitbyourboards,andcomestostandsomewherebehindmyopponent.Hiseyesalternatebetweenmeandmygame,darkandfocusedandgreedyinawayIdon’tfullyunderstand.
Hedoesn’tfist-pumpwhenIwin.Hedoesn’teventellmethatIdidgood.Hejustnodsonce,likeeverysingleoneofmyvictoriesisexpectedandhisfaithinmeisassolidasaboulder.Asthoughhecouldn’tmarvelatmeplayingwellanymorethanatthesunsettingatnight.
Thepressurethatcomeswithitshouldbeirritating.ButIfindtheunwaveringconfidencefromaplayerofhiscaliberflattering,whichirritatesmeevenmore.SoIdowhatI’mbestat:Iavoidthinkingaboutit.
Andit’snothard.Torontoisbeautiful,andthetournamentatmosphereisfun:backpacks,playerssittingonthefloorandunwrappinghomemadesandwiches,peoplewhohaven’tseeneachotherinyearshuggingitoutbetweenrounds.It’syouthfulandlowpressure,likeaschooltripwithexcellentchessinsteadofmuseums.Iwearjeansandanoversizedsweaterwithoutfeelingunderdressed.
“Don’tgetcocky,though.We’vebeenluckysofar,”Emiltellsmewhilewalkingbacktothehotelattheendofthefirstday.NolanisgivingTanuapiggybackride,becauseIreallywantone,Nolan.“Wehaven’tmetanyofthestrongestteams.”
“Whichare?”
“China,India,Russia.And,like,twelvemore.”
“Who’sthecurrentchampion,bytheway?”
“Germany.Buttheywon’tbestrongthisyear,withKochalreadyinMoscow.”
“That’swhytheNorthAmericancontinentfeltsomuchmorepleasantthanusual,”Nolanmutters.
“IsyourmanagerstillpissedaboutyoucomingtotheOlympics?”Emilasks.
“Can’tsay,sinceIstoppedtakinghercalls.”Heshrugs.
IthasTanugigglingonhisshouldersandasking,“Rememberyearsago,whenyoupushedKochandmanhandledhimabitandhestartedcallingforhismom?”
“Oneofmymosttreasuredmemories.”
“Thetears.Thepanic.TotallyworththatfineFIDEslappedyouwith.”
“Whydidyoupunchhim?”Iask,thoughIcanimagineamillionreasons.
“Can’treallyrecall,”Nolanmurmurs,almosttoocasually.
“Hewastalkingaboutyourgrandfather,”Tanusays.“Asusual.”
“Ah,yes.”Hisjawtightens.“Hedoesenjoyrunninghismouthaboutshithedoesn’tknow.”
We’restayinginahostel,fourseparatebedroomsthatconvergeintoasharedlivingspaceandbathroom.LastnightIwonderedhowNolan,Mr.FiftyThousandDollarsIsNothingtoMe,feltaboutit,butifhefindstheaccommodationsubpar,hehasn’tmentionedit.Iwenttobedearly,andthenspenthourslisteningtothesoft,intimatetonesoftheotherschatting,feelingvaguelyjealous.ItextedEaston(How’slife?Areyoupukingyourheartoutinatoiletbowl?)andscrolledthroughherTikTokwaitingforareplythatnevercame.
She’sbusy.It’sfine.
AfterthefirstdayIconkoutonthecouchbeforedinner,beforeIcanevencallhome.It’sadreamless,exhausted,happykindofsleep,vagueimpressionsofbishopsandrooksglidingsoftlyacrossalargeboard.Iwakeuptuckedinmybed,stillwearingyesterday’sclothes.Someonetookoffmyshoes,connectedmyphonetothecharger,putaglassofwateronmybedside.Someonetookcareofme
Idon’taskwho.
Daytwoismoreofthesame.Inthemorning,wewinallofourmatches—withtheexceptionofEmil,wholosesagainstSierraLeone.
“Waytokillourstreak,asshole,”Nolantellshimmildlyoversomelunchpoutine,duckingtoavoidthefryEmilthrowsathim.
Tanunods.“Toldyouweshouldhavebroughtalongsomeonewhoknowshowtocastle.”Unfortunately,sheduckstooslowly.
Nolangesturesatmewithhischin.“It’syourturn,Mallory.”
“Myturn?”
“TotearintoEmil.It’stradition.”
“Right.”Iswallowacheesecurd.Scratchmynose.“Emil,thatwas,um…badlydone?”
Nolanshakeshishead.“Pitiful.”
“Really,Mal?”Tanuchides.“Isthisthebestyoucando?”
“ClearlyMal’sasgoodattrash-talkingasIwasatplayingagainstSierraLeone.”
“Shehasothertalents,”Nolansays,lockingeyeswithmine.“Likedrawingguineapigs.”
Ihidemysmileinmyhand,butI’mfeelingmorecomfortablewiththesethree.NolanismoreapproachablewhenconsumedthroughtheBritafilterofhisfriends,evenifthere’sstillsomethingintimidatingabouthisunignorable,oftenquietpresence.Somethingthatkeepsmeonedge.
Asouropponentsgetstronger,weaccumulatemorelossesanddraws,mostlyfromTanuandEmil.Iliketowin—Ilovetowin—butmyteammates’defeatsdon’tbothermeasmuch,andNolanseemstobethesame.Onthesecondmatchofthethirdday,JakubSzymańskifromPolandblunderstenmovesin,andIpulloffavictoryinrecordtime.Iblinkawaythesoupyfeelingofemergingfromagame,stretchalittle,thencometostandrightbehindNolan
It’sthefirsttimeI’vefinishedbeforehim—thefirsttimeIgettowatchhimplay.It’shisturntomove,andhesitsbackinthechair,neckslightlybent,armsonhischest.Thenhemoveshisrook,largehandsincongruouslygraceful,andpressestheclock.
Ihaveyettostudyhisgames.DefnechooseswhatplaysIanalyze,andI’vefoundnoneofNolan’sinmylist.Still,it’simpossibletoknowanythingaboutchesswithouthavingsometheoreticalnotionsabouthimasaplayer:heisfamouslycunning,aggressive,versatile.Active.Alwaysdoingsomethingriskytoraisethepressure.Hisstrategiesmightseemimpulsive,spontaneous,buttheyarelong-sightedandconvoluted,nearlyimpossibletothwart.Herelentlesslyexploitseveryadvantage,position,distraction.Irememberreadingaboutaqualityofchessplayerscallednettlesomeness:theabilitytonotjustplaywellbutalsotrickothersintoplayingpoorly.Nolan,byallaccounts,hasitinheaps.Andwhentheadversaryhasblunderedtheirwayintothemiddlegame,hesinkshisteethintothemanddrawsblood.
TheKingkiller,indeed.
Iwatchhimatworkasheadvances,surroundsthecenter,moveshisknightandbishopintandem,takeseverythingonhispath,and…
Ifeelbreathless.Light-headed.Confused.That’showbeautifulhismovesare.Cruelandunstoppable.Iwonagainsthimonce,butIalsoknowImightnotwinagain—he’sthatgood.Andthere’smore:I’mapracticalplayer,alwaysfocusedonfinishingoffmyopponentasquicklyaspossibleratherthanontheartandeleganceofthegame.ButNolan’splayisstunning.Infivethousandyearsarchaeologistswillcryatitsgrace.Thoughifwedon’tstopcarbonemissions,theworldwilljustbeapileofashes,somaybeweshouldputitinatimecapsule.Senditintospaceonanalienprobe.Sharewiththerestoftheuniverse—
“Youokay?”Tanuasks.
“I—yes.”Ihadn’tnoticedher.Eventhoughshe’srightbesideme.
“Youlooked…entranced.”
“No.Iwasjust…”
“Yeah,Nolan’splaywilldothat.Nolan,ingeneral.”Shelaughssoftly.“Iusedtobesoinlovewithhim,I’dthoughtI’ddieifwedidn’tgetmarriedandhavefourchubbykidsnamedafteropeninggambitsnooneusesanymore.”Myeyeswiden.“Oh,don’tworry.Iwas,like,twelve?Andhecouldn’thavecaredlessaboutthatstuff.”Sheshrugs.“Ithoughthewasincapableofcaringatallbefore…well.Onpaper,heshouldhavetonsofgame,butinrealityhehasverylittle.”Shesmilesreassuringly.IwanttoaskherwhysheassumesthatI’dworry,orwhatbeforemeans,butNolanburieshisfangsintothePolishkingandTanuistoobusycheering.
I’minagoodmooduntilthelastmatchoftheday—Serbia.Becausesomechessdivinityhatesme,theirsecondboardissomeoneIrememberfromKoch’screwbackatPhillyOpen—Dordevic,thenametaginformsme,andIsuddenlyrecallwhatheaskedmethatnight.
Whatdidyoudobeforethegame?Ineedthatkindofluck.
“Greenleaf,”hesays,hissneeraclearsignofKochaffiliation.
Ivowtomyselftodestroyhim.AndI’mtruetomywordforthefirstfortyminutesorso,easilyblockinghisattacksandgainingcontrolofthecenter.UntilhetakesapagefromKoch’sLittleBitchManual,andaccusesmeofmakinganillegalmove.
“It’snot,”Itellhim.
“Ifyoupreviouslymovedtherook—”
“ButIdidn’t.”
“Arbiter!”
Irollmyeyesbutlethimflagtheclosestofficial—ablondwomanwhonodsandwalksovertous.
Irecognizeherimmediately.Mystomachflips,thenfreezesintoablockofconcretethatshoulddragmethroughthefloor.Instead,snippetsofafour-year-oldconversationswarmmyhead.
Whowasshe?
Noone.
Butyouwere—
Noone,Mal.
“Yes?”sheasksDordevic,andthere’sapoundingroarinmyears.Iknoweverythingabouther—name,age,evenheraddress.Oratleast,afewyearsago’s.It’spossiblethatshemoved.Thatshedoesn’tworkatthebankanymore,thatshedoesn’texerciseatPureBarre,that—
“It’snotillegal,”shetellsDordevic,whostartsgesticulatinghisdisagreement.Myentirebodyisshaking,andIcan’ttunein.
“Areyouokay?”avoiceasksinmyear.Nolan.Hejustfinishedhisgame.“Mal?”
IthrustatremblinghandouttoDordevic.“Draw?”Ioffer.It’sthefirsttime.
Hisexpressionshiftsfromconfused,todistrustful,torelievedwhenheaccepts.Webothknowthatifwe’dcontinued,I’dhavewon,but—Ican’t.Notnow.
“Notsuchagoodtalent,afterall?”Hesniggers.I’malreadyrunningtothebathroomwhenIhearNolancallinghimashithead.
Iwashmyface,shuddering.Iremindmyselfthatit’sfine,becausenothinghappened.Itwasyearsago.Nothinghappened.Nothinghappened.Nothing—
“What’swrong?”NolanasksthesecondIstepoutofthebathroom.He’sbeenwaitingforme,andInearlyface-plantintohischest.
“I…Sorryaboutthedraw.”
“Idon’tcare.Whowasthatarbiter?”
Shit.Henoticed.“Noone.Ijust…”Isteparoundhim,butonehandclosesaroundmyupperarm.
“Mallory.You’renotokay.Whatjusthappened?”Histoneisfirm.
Butsoismine.“Ineedaminute,Nolan.Canyouplease—”
“Mr.Sawyer?”Agroupofplayersapproachesus.“We’rehugefans.Anychancewecouldgetanautograph—”
IseizetheopportunityandslipawayfromNolan,fromHeatherTurcotte,fromchess.Atthehostel,Ilockmyselfintomyroom,liedown,takedeepbreathstoclearmymind.
Maybe,ifyou’dmindedyourownbusiness,noneofthiswouldhave—
No.
Iemptymymindagain,thistimeforgood,andslowlyfallintoadreamless,blessedsleep.
Iwakeupinthemiddleofthenight,feelingmorelikemyself.WhenIsneakouttousethebathroom,Ifindabrownbagoutsidemydoor.Insideareasandwich,aFanta,andapackofTwizzlers.ChapterFourteen
Thelastdayistheperfectcombinationofchallengingchess,highstakes,andteamwork.Wealreadyknowwedon’thaveenoughpointsforthegold,butifweplayourcardsright,wecanstillmakethepodium.
Andwedo.Imaketheexecutivedecisiontoputtheeventsofthepreviousdayoutofmymindandfocusontheplay.MyopponenttriestheMuzioGambit.I’mbrieflyconfused,thenremembergoingoveritwithDefneandknowexactlywhattodo.Wedon’tquitekickRussia’sass,butwespankitalittlebit.Atthemedalceremony,weallsqueezeontotheloweststepofthepodium,thenationalanthemmixingwiththecameraclicksinmyears.Tanupullsmetoher,Emilshouts,“It’swhatwedo!”andNolangivesusahalf-pleased,half-reproachfullook.Ifeelpartofsomething.LikeIhaven’tinalong,longtime.
It’sastupidchesstournament.IsworeIwouldn’tcare,andyetIfeelhappy.Inthecrowd,IspotEleniGatakifromtheBBCgivingmethethumbs-up,andwavebackather,bemused.IguessI’mstartingtoknowpeopleinthechessworld.
“Come,Mal—thepresswantstointerviewus,”Tanucallsafterward.
“Oh…Actually,I’drathernot.”
“Why?It’sCNN!ThisishowAndersonCooperbecomesmybestie!”
“IthinkhealreadyhasAndyCohen.”
“Youhavetocome,”sheinsists.“You’rethereasonwewon.Oh,lowerthateyebrow,Emil,youknowit’strue!”
“Really,I’mfine.”
“But—”
“Shedoesn’twantto,”Nolansays,tonecalmbutfinal.Isendhimagratefullook.Hestaresbacklikeeitherhedidn’tnoticeorhedoesn’tcareaboutmygratitude.I’mponderingmyfrustrating,utterinabilitytoreadhim,whensomeonetapsmyshoulder.
“Ms.Greenleaf.”It’sanoldermaninagraysuit.Hisbeardisgarden-gnome-long,hisaccentfromsomewhereIcannotplace.“MayIcongratulateyouonyourvictory?”
“Oh…sure.”Isearchforanon-rudewaytoaskhimwhoheisandfindnone.“Itwasateameffort.”
Henods.“Butyouwerebyfarthemostimpressiveplayerontheteam.”
“NomorethanNolan.”
Themanlaughs.Hisgaze,however,issharp.“It’shardtobeimpressedbySawyerthesedays.Hehasaccustomedustoacertainlevelofperformance.Somepeopleevensaythathehasruinedchess.”
Ifrown,thinkingaboutthepeoplewhohaverecognizedhiminthelastfewdays,tellinghimthattheytookupchessafterseeinghimplay.“Idon’tthinkit’strue.”AmIfeelingdefensiveonbehalfofNolanSawyer?It’llstartrainingfrogsanyminute.“He’smadechessvisibleandpopular.”
“Certainly.Buthealwayswins.Hehasn’thadarivalinyears,andpeoplerarelygetinvestedinasportwhoseoutcomeisaforegoneconclusion.Iwouldknow.IorganizetheChallengerstournament.”
“Oh.”Itsoundsfamiliar,butIdon’tknowwhyandIdon’tcare.Thisman,hishawkishgaze,andtheoddthingshesaysaboutNolanaremakingmeuncomfortable.
“I’msorry.”Igesturesomewherebehindme.“Ineedtomeetupwithmyteammates.”
“I’vebeenhearinglotsaboutyou,Ms.Greenleaf.Ibelievedtherumorswereexaggerated,andyet…”Hislookislongandassessing.Iwanttohugmyself.“Runalong.Youfriendswillbewaitingforyou.Whoevertheyare.”
Yikes.
Iwanderaway,checkingmyphonetolookbusy.IfindatextfromDefne(Youdonegood,kid.)andmillionsfromDarcy—apparently,theybothspentthepastfourdaysrefreshingChessWorld.com.
DARCYBUTT:BRONZE!!!!!!!!
DARCYBUTT:YouandNolangotthemostpointsinthewholeOlympics.Youguysshouldgetmarriedandhaveachild.She’dbesogoodatchess.
DARCYBUTT:Orshe’dsuck.She’dtrudgethroughlifesaddledbycrushingdisappointment.Resentyouwellintoyouroldage.Takeawayyourcarkeysandputyouinahomethesecondyouletyourguarddown.Okay,abortplan.
DARCYBUTT:You’llbehometomorrownight,right?Imissyou.Sabrinaonlytalkstometosay“Ew.”
MALLORY:ofc.andwhenshesaysewsheactuallymeansiloveyou.orsomething.
MALLORY:whatpresentdoyouwantfromcanada?
DARCYBUTT:AmateforGoliath.
Isigh.Andthentheairrushesoutofmylungs,becauseTanuishuggingmeagain;acloudoflavendersurroundsme.“LastnightinToronto!Youknowwhatthatmeans,right?”
“Iwasthinkingofmaybetakingawalkdowntown—”
“Oh,no.Noway.”Shepullsbackandtakesmyfacebetweenherhands.Hereyesarenightstarsburstingwithexcitement.“Tonight,Mallory,weplaySkittles!”
Skittlesislikechess.
Actually:skittlesischess—withoutaclockorscorecard,surroundedbyhalf-emptybeercansandSalt-N-Pepasongsthatareolderthanus,underthelightofastarry-skyLEDprojectorthatsomegirlfromBelgiumbroughtasa“hotelroom–warmingpresent.”
It’samulticulturalfratparty,withchessinsteadofspinthebottle.ForreasonsthatImustattributetoTanuandEmil’sevent-planningskillsandNolan’sreputation,takingplacerightinoursharedarea.Peoplehavebeencomingandgoinginasteadystreamforhours,bringingtheirsetsandplayingblitz,rapid,FischerRandom.
Stripchess.
“Drinkingage’snineteen,Mal,”TanusayswhenIdeclineafruitydrinkforthesecondtime.Shelostabishopandhersocksabouttenminutesago.“It’slegal!Likeenpassantcapture!Orqueening!Orcastlingsho—Crap,I’msosorry!”ShespillsherglassontotheItalianguyNolandefeatedyesterdayandpromptlymovestopaintwhiskersonacuteJapaneseguy,forgettingallabouteighteen-year-oldme.
IgobacktofocusingonmyrapidgameagainstaSriLankangirlIbondedwithafternoticingherDragonAgeSolaspin.She’sverypretty,andagreatplayertoboot,anda-couple-of-months-ago-Mallorywouldbemakingamoveonher.IsworetoSaturnandbackthatIwouldn’tplayforfun.Yes,it’sexactlywhatI’mdoing.Nope,Iwouldnotliketotalkaboutit.
“—thattimeNolanstoleablackknightfromKaporani’sboardatGE’stournamentandallmatchesweredelayedbytwentyminutesbecauseofthesearch?”
“ThatwasafterGibraltar,whenKaporaniswitchedmywaterwithdistilledvinegar.”
“We’dalreadygottenrevengeforthatwiththeglitterbomb.Hesparkledformonths.”
Peoplelaugh.EmilandNolanareonthecouch,playingtacticalteam,surroundedbyamixofoldfriendsandfans.There’sagirl,forinstance,who’salmostasblondasme,curledupnexttoNolan.Hardtotellhowhefeelsaboutit,sincehe’ssofocusedonhisgame.Hemusthaverunahandthroughhishair,becauseit’svaguelymussed,unbearablyattractive.
SomethingelseI’drathernottalkabout.
“Mustbecooltoplaywithhim,”theSriLankangirlsays,followingmygaze.
Ilookaway.“Hecanbekindofadick,”Isay,thoughhehasn’treallybeenonetome.
Shechuckles,lowandsmoky.She’sreallymytype.“Allgeniusesare.IheardhehasanIQof190.Maybehigher,buttestscannotmeasureit.”
“Hedoesn’teatmeatloaflikesomeonewitha190IQ,”Imutter,resentful.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.Um,checkmate,bytheway.”Istand,wipingmypalmsovermyleggingsandabandoningmyhalf-heartedseductionplans.Myheart’snotreallyinit,ormaybeI’mtootiredtogetlaid.“Itwasgreattomeetyou.I’vegotanearlymorningand—”
“Whereareyougoing,Mal?”Tanuappearsoutofnowhere.“It’slike,notevenmidnight!”
“Oh,youdon’thavetokeepitdownforme.Ijustneedtobuypresentsformysisterstomorrowmorning,so—”
“Butdon’tgonow!Don’tyouwantpizza?”
“Pizza?”
“Yes,let’sgogetpizza!”
“I’mkindoftired,and—”
“Thenwe’regettingitandbringingitback!”Sheturnsaroundandbellowsdrunkenly,“Whowantstocomegetmidnightpizza?”
MightbebecauseTanuisthelifeoftheparty,orbecausepizzaishandsdownthebestfoodintheworld,butinhalfaminutethemusicisturnedoffandoursharedareaemptiesoutofeveryonebutme.
MaybeI’meightyyearsoldinside,but:Blessed.Quiet.
“You’renotcoming?”theblondwomanwhowaswithNolanearlierasksfromthedoor.Heraccentisverypretty.Butwe’veneverreallytalked,soI’mconfusedwhyshe’dwanttoknowwhetherI—
“No.”
Istartleandturnaround.Nolan—shewastalkingtoNolan.Who’sstillonthecouch.
“Yousure?”
Hebarelysparesheraglance.“Very.”Heprobablyhatespizza.OnlyeatsauthenticSiciliancalzonemadewithtomatoesgrownaroundthemouthofMountEtna.
Whatever.I’mgoingtobed.“Nolan,whenTanucomesback,willyoutellherthatIwenttosleep?”Iwavepastthechairs,thechesssets,thecouch.“Haveagood—”
Hishandsnatchesmywrist.I’mtoosurprisedtowiggleout.“Let’splayabit,Mallory.”
Ifreeze.Istiffen.AndthistimeIdowiggleout.“Itoldyou,Idon’t—”
“—playoutsideoftrainingandtournaments.Yes.Butyou’vebeenplayingallnight,outsideoftrainingandtournaments.Withfivedifferentpeople.”
Iscoff.“Didyoucount?”
“Yes.”Helooksupatme.Starsdanceoccasionallyacrossthelineofhisjaw,hischeekbones.“Iwassureyou’dendthenightinBandara’sroom.”
“Bandara?”
“RuhiBandara.Youtwowerejustplaying.”
ItakeastepbackandrefusetoadmitthatIentertainedthesamethought.InsteadIsay,“Idon’twanttoplayagainstyou.”
“Aproblem,sinceIreallywanttoplayagainstyou.”
Ishiver,becauseitfeelslikehe’ssayingsomethingelse.Like…
Idon’tknow.
“Youalreadyhave.”
“Once.”
“Oncewasenough.”
“Oncewasnothing.Ineedmore.”
“I’msurethereareplentyofpeoplewho’dlovetoplay.Who’dprobablypayjusttositacrossfromyou.”
“ButIwantyou,Mallory.”
Iswallowheavily,thenlookaway.He’sright—Ialreadybrokeallmyno-chess-outside-workrules.SowhyamIresistingthissohard?
Maybeit’sbecauseI’veseenhimplay.I’veseenhimbebrilliant,readpositionswithaglance,dothingsIcan’tevenunderstand.Ifweplayed,I’dlose.Andyes,Ihatelosing,butthisishardlyafairmatch.Sothenumberoneplayerintheworldisbetterthanthisyear’sreluctantZugzwangfellow.Bigdeal.AsnewsworthyasbeingslowerthanMichaelPhelpsinthe200mbutterfly.
Maybesomethingelsebothersme,then.NotthatI’lllose,butthathe’llknowthatIlost.
Yes.This…interest,obsession,fascinationheseemstohavewithmecamebecauseIbeathim.Once.I’minnatelygoodatchess,butI’mnotbetterthansomeonewho’sjustasinnatelygoodandhashaddecadesofprofessionaltraining.We’dplay,he’dwin,andthenI’dbejustlikeeveryoneelse:someoneNolanSawyerdefeated.
Hiscaptivationwithmewouldinstantlywane,and—
Thatwouldbeagoodthing,wouldn’tit?Idon’tlikeNolanSawyershowinguptomyhouseandtalkingRiverdalewithmysisters,doI?Ishouldagreetoplay,andendwhateverthisis.
Andyet.
“No,”Ihearmyselfsay.
Hisjawworks.“Right,then.”Herelaxesandreachesacrosstheglassbottles,chesspieces,half-eatenbagsofchips,grabbingapencilandaGermanChessFederationflier.“Sitdown.”
“Itoldyou,I—”
“Please,”hesays,andsomethinginhistonestopsme.ItrytorememberthelasttimeIheardhimsayit.Asimpleword,please.Isn’tit?
“Fine.”Isit—acrossfromhim,asdistantaspossible.ThisiswhatIgetforrefusingpizza.“ButI’mnotgoingtoplay,so—”
“Chess.”
“What?”
“Yousaidyouwouldn’tplaychess.Youdidn’tmentionanythingelse,so…”Heturnsthefliertome.Hehasdrawnathree-by-threegrid,putanXthroughaspace,and…
Ilaugh.“Tic-tac-toe?Really?”
“UnlessyouhaveUnohandy?Checkers?Operation?”
“ThisisworsethanCandyCrush.”
Hesmiles.Lopsided.“Don’ttellTanuorshe’llputanotherpushpinundermypillow.”
“Another?”Ishakemyhead,amused.“Youcan’treallywanttoplaytic-tac-toe.”
HeshrugsandtakesalongswigofhisIPA.“Wecouldraisethestakes.Makeitfun.”
“I’mnotgoingtoplayformoney.”
“Idon’twantyourmoney.Whataboutquestions?”
“Questions?”
“IfIwin,Igettoaskyouaquestion,anyquestion,andyouanswer.Andviceversa.”
“Whatcouldyoupossiblywanttoaskmethat—”
“Deal?”
Itseemslikeabadidea,butIcan’tpinpointwhy,soInod.“Deal.Fiveminutes.ThenI’mturningin.”IpluckthepencilfromhisfingersandwritedownmyO.
Thefirstthreegamesaredraws.Thefourthgoestome,andIsmileferociously.Idolovetowin.“SoIgetaquestion?”
“Ifyouwant.”
I’mnotsurewhattoask,butIdon’twanttoforfeitmyprize.Iwrackmybrainforamoment,thensettleon,“What’stheChallengerstournament?”
Hisarchesaneyebrow.“Yourquestiontomeissomethingyoucouldeasilygoogle?”Ifeelslightlyembarrassed,buthecontinues.“It’sthetournamentthatdetermineswhichplayerwillfacethecurrentworldchesschampion.”
“Whichwouldbeyou?”
“Atthemoment.”
Isnortsoftly.“Andforthepastsixyears.”
“Andforthepastsixyears.”Thereisnoboastinhisvoice.Nopride.ButitoccurstomeforthefirsttimethathebecameworldchampionatthesameageIleftchessforgood.AndthatifI’donlystuckaroundacoupleofyearslonger,we’dhavemetmuchearlier.Incompletelydifferentcircumstances.“TheChallengershastenplayers,whoqualifybywinningothersuper-tournamentsorareselectedbecauseoftheirhighFIDEratings.Theycompeteagainsteachother.Then,acoupleofmonthslater,thewinnercompetesfortheWorldChampionshiptitle.”
“Theonewhoseprizeistwomilliondollars?”
“Three,thisyear.”
Myheartskipsabeat.Icannotevenconceivewhatthatmoneywoulddoformyfamily.NotthatI’dwinagainstNolaninamultidaymatch.OrthatI’dendupattheChallengers,sinceI’mnotinvitedtosuper-tournamentsandmyratingiscurrentlyhangingoutwithapieceofgumunderthesoleofmyshoe.
Igripthepenalittletooforcefullyanddrawanothergrid.Mymindmuststillbeonthemoney,becauseNolanwinsthefollowinggame.
Irollmyeyes.“Iwasdistracted.Youdon’treallydeserve—”
“Whydidyouquitchess?”
Itense.“Excuseme.”
“InSeptember,afterPhilly,yousaidyourfather’sdeathwasn’tthereasonyouquitchess.Whatisit,then?”
“Weneveragreedthatquestionswouldbeabout—”
“Weagreedtoanyquestion.”Heholdsmyeyes,ahintofachallengeinhistone.“Ofcourse,youcanalwaysbackoutofthegame.”
It’sexactlywhatIshoulddo.GetoutandleaveNolanalonewithhisstupid,invasivequestion.ButIcan’tmakemyself,andafterafewsecondsoflipbitingandaburningdesiretocarvemynextOintohisskin,Isay,“MydadandIbecameestrangedawhile”—threeyears,oneweek,andtwodays—“beforehedied.Istoppedplayingthen.”
“Whydidyoubecomeestranged?”
“That’stwoquestions.Andifyouwinagain,nofollow-upquestionsareallowed.”
Hefrowns.“Whywouldn’ttheybe?”
“BecauseIsayso,”Ibiteout.Heisquietforasecond,buthereadsmytonewell,becausehenods.
Afterthat,wedrawafewgames.Asin:twenty-threegames.ItbecomesclearthatneitherofuswantstobeinthepositionofbeingaskedthenextquestionwhenIwinthetwenty-fourthgame,andNolanchannelshismosttraditionalselfbyslappinghispalmonthetable.Honestly,itfeelsnice.
IwastedmyChallengersquestion,soIthinkhardaboutwhatI’dliketoknowabouthim.SomethingabouthisrelationshipwithKoch,maybe?TheBaudelairestory?Hisgrandfather?There’ssomethingI’vebeenwonderingforweeks,butitseemsliketoomuch.
Ontheotherhand,hedidaskaboutDad,andIamfeelingvengeful.Maybeevenvicious.
“Atmyhouse,whenSabrinaaskedyouwhoyouhavesexwith,yousaid…conflictingthings,and…”Itrailoff.
“What’sthequestion?WhodoIhavesexwith?”
Inodquickly.Mycheeksareonfire.I’malreadyregrettingthis.
“Noone.”
Uh?“Excuseme?”
“Idon’thavesex.Oratleast,Ineverhave.”
Ittakesafewmomentsforthewordstopenetrate.Forittoreallysinkin:NolanSawyer,theKingkiller,blithelyadmittingthathe’savirginattheageoftwenty.Notthatthere’sanythingwrongwiththat.But.
No.Imisunderstood.WhatabouttheBaudelairething?
“You’veneverhadsex,”Irepeat.
“Nope,”hesays,confident,calm,likehehasnothingtoprovetoanyone,likehedoesn’tcaretobeanyonebuthimself,fullyhimself.Atleasthere,tonight,withme.
“Oh.”IfeellikeIshouldtreadcarefully.“Soyou…?Imean,areyouhappywiththat,ordoyouwishthat…?”Iflushharder.Hetakespity.
“DoIwishIwerehavingsex?”
Inodagain.Jesus,Icanspeak.Iambetterthanthis.
“No.”Hedoesn’teventhinkaboutit.“Notuntilrecently.”
“What…whatchangedrecently?”
Hestaresforalongmoment.“Nofollow-upquestions,Iwastold.”Thecornerofhisliptwitchesintoasmile.“Besides,Ihearyouhaveenoughsexforthebothofus.”
Igroan.“I’vebarelybeen—YoushouldneverbelieveanythingDarcysays.”
“It’snotlikeit’sabadthing.”Hedrawsanothergrid.I’mstillflustered,andhewinsimmediately.“Whatareyougoingtodoattheendofyourfellowship?”
“Whatdoyouknowaboutmyfellowship?”
“Noansweringquestionswithotherquestions.”
Irollmyeyes.“I’mgoingtolookforauto-mechanicsjobs.Anyleads?”
“Whataboutchess?Areyougoingtojuststopplaying?”
“Yeah.”Istealthepenfromhishand.“There’snofutureformeinchess.”
Hesnorts.“Youcan’tjust—”
“Questionanswered.Nextround.”Hegivesanannoyed,stubbornlook,andimmediatelywins.How?He’sdrinkingandI’mnot,butI’mtheoneslipping.“Whatever.”Irollmyeyes.“Nofollow-upquestions.”
Heleanstowardmeoverthetable,darkeyesearnest,starstravelingonhisskin.“Doyouknowhowincredibleyouare?”
Icannotbreathe.Temporarily.SoIforcemyselftolaugh.“Really?You’rewastingyourquestiononthis?”
“Iamserious.Doyourealizehowexceptionalyouare,Mallory?”
“Whatareyou—”
“Ihaveneverseenanythinglikewhatyoudowithchess.Never.”
“I—Youaretentimesbetterthanme.Ibeatyouonce,whileplayingWhite,andyouwereprobablyexpectinganeasygame.”
“Youhaven’tansweredmyquestion.”Heleansinevenfarther.Hesmellslikesoapandbeerandsomethinggoodanddark.“Doyouknowhowfuckinggoodyouare?”
Myeyesholdhis.“Yes,Iknow.”Italmosthurtstoadmittoit.TothisboundlesstalentIhave,forsomethingthatIsworetomyselfIwouldn’tpursue—apromiseIfullyintendtokeep.“Doesitbotheryou,thatI’mthatgood?”
“No.”He’snotlying.Doesheeverlie?“Maybeitshould.But.”Heletsthatbutdanglemysteriously.
“Why?”
Hecluckshistongue.“Youhaven’tearnedaquestion.”Newgrid.Newgame.NewvictoryforNolan.It’smyturntoslammyfistonthetable.Nolan’sbottle,nowempty,clinksagainstthecheapplastic,andirritationbubblesupmythroat.Screwthisgame.
“Areyoucheating?”Iask,acid.Angry.
“No.Butit’sfascinatinghowyourperformancesufferswhenyouloseyourcomposure.Youmightwanttoworkonthat.”
“I’mnotlosingmycomposure,andmytic-tac-toeperformanceishardly—”
“Question,”heinterrupts,anewedgetohisvoice.“Whydoyoupretendyoudon’twantthis?”
“This?”
Hegesturesaroundhimself.Butthenhesays,“Chess.Whydoyoupretendyoudon’twanttoplayit?”
“Youdon’tknowme,”Ibristle.“Ijustdon’tlikechessthatmuch.”
Heshakeshisheadwithasmallsmileanddrawsanothergrid—thenwinseasilywhenIfumble.Myhandsareshaking,andI’msodonewith—
“Youfeelit,too,don’tyou,Mallory?”Histoneispressing.Low.“Whenyouplay,youfeelthesamethingIfeel.”
Igritmyteeth.“Ihavenoideawhatyoufeel.Chessisastupidboardgame,and—”
“Itisastupidboardgame,butit’syours.Iseethewayyoulookatthepieces.It’syourworld,isn’tit?Theoneyouchooseforyourself,wellwithinyourboundaries.Youcanbethequeeninit.Theking.Theknight.Whateveryouwant.Therearerules,andifyoulearnthemwellenough,thenyou’llbeabletocontrolit.You’llbeabletorescuethepiecesyoucareabout.Sounlikereallife,huh?”
Howdareheactlikeheknowsme,likehe—
Ihatehim.
Idon’trememberthelasttimeI’vebeenthisangry.There’sbilechurninginmystomach.Iteartheflierfromhishandandmakeanothergrid,almostrippingthepaperintheprocess.Ittakesseventries,butIfinallywin.
“Whatthehelldoyouwantfromme?”Isnap,leaningcloserwithaglare.
Heliftsoneeyebrow.
“BecauseIdon’tunderstand,”Inearlyyell.“Whyareyouherewhenyouhaveatournamentnextweek?Whydoyoupresumetoknowanythingaboutme?Whydoyouevencareaboutmythoughtsonchess—”Iendwithanangry,beastlynoise.
IfNolanisaffected,hedoesn’tshowit.“Ithoughtyouwerestartingtogetanidea.”
“I’mnot.Justtellmewhatyouwantand—”
Aloudsound.
Iturntothedoor.Tanuandtheothersarewalkinginside,holdingastackoftake-outpizzas,yellingsomethingaboutpepperoniandanchovydiscounts.IrealizehowcloseIamtoNolanandpullback.Hekeepsstaringatme,theghostofasadsmileonhislips.
“Iguessthegameisover,”hesays,gettingtohisfeettohelpTanu.“Goodnight,Mallory.Andgoodluck.”ChapterFifteen
DarcylovestheguineapighoodieIboughther(“thoughit’sacop-out,asGoliathwillnotwanttocopulatewitha2Dpiggy”)andevenSabrinaisimpressedwithhernewmapleleafskatesthatIalmostmissedmyplanetobuyandnearlycouldn’tfitintomyluggage.
Butherloveformecomesandgoes.“You’rethebest!”shetellsmeonWednesday,afterIgiveheraridetoMcKenzie’s.ButonThursday,whenIfindhercryinginthelivingroomoversomethingMcKenziepostedonsocialmedia,it’s“Whydoyouhavetobesonosy?Whycan’tyouevermindyourownbusiness?”
“Iftheyfindmycorpseinaditch,”IsaytoMom,“tellthepolicenottolookintoher.Sheprobablydidit,butIdon’twanthertospendherlifeinprison.”
“It’snotjustyou.She’smadattheentireworld.”
“WasIthisintenseatfourteen?”It’ssucharidiculousquestion.I’mstilleighteen,butIfeelasancientastheladyfromTitanic.ExceptwhenIcomparemyselfwithEastonandfeelstuckinsomepubescentstage.
“Ionceaskedyoutostopleavingthepeanutbutterjaropen,andyoucalledmeadictator.”
Igroan.“WillDarcybelikethis,too?”
“Yup.”Shepatsmyshoulder.“Thoughshe’llleavetheNutellaopen.”
Allinall,though,Icomebackfrommytriptothepuzzlingrevelationthatnolife-threateningemergenciesoccurred,andthatwithoutme,myfamily…didjustfine.I’mhalfshocked,halfrelieved.
OzandDefneareatthePasternak,whichmeansthatI’mmostlyunsupervised.IshouldusetheextratimetocatchupontheGarcíaMárquezreadathonIsignedupforonGoodreads,memorizetheworldcapitals,dyemyhairvomitgreen.Anything,really.Instead,IstudyNolan’sgames.
ThefuryofourlastnightinTorontohassettledintocoldresentment.Nolansaidlotsofthingsaboutme,someofwhichwerecorrect—bypurecoincidence.Brokenclock,twiceaday.Still,hehadnoright.Hisquestiongamewasstupid.Ihopetoneverseehimagain.Probablywon’t.
ButIdowanttostudytheaggravatingmasterpiecesthatarehisgames,andmyhandsitchtopullthemuponthechessengine.Irevelinhisdeliciousabilitytoweardownhisopponents,deprivethemofactiveplay,andthenstrikelikeatiger.I’mdevelopingamore-than-mildobsession,andthat’sprobablywhyI’mthinkingofhimwhenImatchupwithaguynamedAlexonanapponSundaynight
ALEX:Hey!
MAL:lovethedoginyourprofilepic,isheapitbull?
Myphoneimmediatelypingswithareply,butforseveralminutesI’mtoodistractedwithlyingbackonthecouchandanalyzingtheSawyervariationfortheBerlinDefensetocheckit.
ALEX:Yup.Howhaveyoubeen?
HowhaveIbeen?That’skindofaweirdquestion.Iscrollbacktohisprofilepic,thinkingthathelooksabitfamiliar.He’scute.Darkhair.Darkeyes.Notthatdark,though.Notasdarkas…
MAL:havewemetbefore?
ALEX:Areyoukidding?
Nope.Notkidding.Thankfully,heremindsmebeforeIhavetoadmitit.
ALEX:Wewenttoschooltogether.Iwasayearaheadofyou.Iaskedyoutojuniorprom.
Oh.ThatAlex—except,nowhehasfacialhair.Idoremember.He’dbeenso…bland.ProbablywhyIhaven’treallythoughtabouthimsince.
MAL:sorry,ididn’trecognizeyourpic.how’veyoubeen?
ALEX:Good!I’matRutgers.Whataboutyou?
MAL:i’mnotinschool
ALEX:Takingayearoff?Itsuitsyou,fromyourprofilepic.Youwerealwaysreallyhot,butnow…
Thenexttextisthreefireemojis.GiventhereasonI’monthisapp,Ishouldprobablyfinditflatteringinsteadof…blah.
Instead,IwonderhowNolanwoulddothis.Beonline.Hookup.Poorly,probably.Isn’theavirgin?Uselessinthesack.
Butit’ssohardtopicturehimdoinganythingpoorly.Withhisdark,attentiveeyes;theprecise,purposefulwayhislargehandsclosearoundthechesspieces;hisvoice,alwayssocareful;hisbeautiful,brilliantstrategies.He’dmurmurindiscerniblewordsunderhisbreathattheOlympics,whenhemadeamistakeorregrettedamove.Sometimesthehairsatthenapeofmyneckwouldrise,anditshouldn’thavebeenpleasant,butI—
MyphonepingsagainandIlookatit,startled.Iforgotitwasinmyhand.
ALEX:Doyouwanttomeetsometimesoon,catchup?
Hookup,hemeans.Thoughhe’sbeingappropriatelysubtleaboutit.IbetNolanwouldn’tbenearlyaslow-key.Ibethe’dsaysomethinglike“tohavesexualintercourse”and—
OhGod.
OhGod
MAL:actually,probablybetternot.i’mwaytoobusywithwork,shouldn’tevenbeonline.sosorrytowasteyourtime.
Isilencemyphone,andwhenitvibrateswithAlex’sresponse,Idon’tbothercheckingit.WhythehellamIthinkingaboutNolanrightnow,whilesettingupameetingwithanotherperson?Whyisheinmyhead?
That’sit.I’mdone.Thisisupsetting.Confusing.Stupid.Unprecedented.NomoreNolangames.NomoreNolan.Ineedto—Ican’tkeepthinkingabouthim.
Startingtomorrow,ItellmyselfasIwaitfortheshowerjettowarmupenough.Iwon’tlookathisgamesanymore.I’llpurgehim.Startingtomorrow
Iactuallybelieveit.Untiltomorrowhappens.
ThepieceisinVanityFair.
Whichisaprobleminandofitself,asI’moutoffreearticlesforthemonth.ItmeansthatwhenEastontextsittome(Areyouhookingupwithhim?GoodtoknowIhavetofindoutaboutmyBFF’slifefromVanityFair!!!),Icanseethetitle(SawyerplacessecondatPasternakinvitational,drawstoKochinvolatilefinalmatch)andnothingelse.
Ijustwokeupaftertossingandturningallnight.Outsideit’sstilldark,theglowfrommyphonepiercesmyblearyeyes,andGoliathisproudlylickinghisbuttholesomewherebymyleftear.
Ireallydohatemylife.
MALLORY:don’thaveaccesstothearticle.tl;dr?
MALLORY:howareyou,bytheway?didasasquatchcaptureyouandmakeyouherbride?
BOULDEREASTONELLIS:YouWANTtoreadthis.
MALLORY:impoorandihatejeffbezos.
BOULDEREASTONELLIS:That’stheWashingtonPostandUSEINCOGNITOMODEjeezwhat’swrongwithyou.Boomer.
Incognitomodeworks,andhowdidInotknowaboutthat?I’mwonderinghowtoexploitthisnewfoundknowledgewhenthefirstparagraphofthearticlecatchesmyeyes.
…thatSawyerseemeduncharacteristicallyoutofshape.Ofcourse,outofshapefortheworld’sNo.1isstillbetterthanmostSuperGMs,butmanyweresurprisedwhenheplacedsecondatoneofthemostimportanttournamentsoftheyear—anddidnotattendtheawardsceremony.
“Heseemedtired,”AndreasAntonov,theGeorgianGM,saidinaninterview.“Whichisn’tsurprising,consideringthathecameonared-eyestraightfromTorontoandplayedhisfirstmatchonehourafterlanding.”Sawyer’sdecisiontoparticipateintheOlympicswasatopicofmuchdiscussioninthechesscommunity.Hewastheonlytop-20playerwhochosetodoso.
“That’swhathappenswhenyouputchessafteryourgirlfriend,”Koch,Pasternak’swinner,saidtoChessWorld.com.“TheSawyereraofchessisover.NextmonthI’lltriumphattheChallengers,andthenI’lltaketheWorldChampionship.”
AlthoughSawyerhasn’tspokenpubliclyabouthispersonallife,itseemslikelythatKochwasreferringtoMalloryGreenleaf,atalentedplayerwhohasdrawnsomeattentionsincethePhiladelphiaOpen.Greenleafiscurrentlyrated1,892butisrapidlyclimbingtherankings.AttheOlympics,GreenleafandSawyerwerepartoftheUSteamwithTanuGoel(ranking:#295)andEmilKareem(ranking:#84)andplacedthird.Theywerealsospottedtogetheroutsidethetournament(seethispicture)…
Iclickonthelink,whichbringsmetoPageFuckingSix.It’saphotoofNolanandmeonourlastnightinToronto,playingtic-tac-toeinasemi-darkroom.Myheadisbent,pencilinhand.He’sstaringatme,anoddlysoftexpressiononhisusuallyunreadableface.
Whotookthis?When?Why?
…Sawyer,who’sabonafiderockstar,isrumoredtobedatingfellowchessplayerMalloryGreenleaf.Thetwowerecaughthavinganintimatemomentlateon…
Oh,fuck.Nonono.Oh,fuckityfuckfuck.
Ispringoutofbed.Thisisbad.Badderthanbad.BaddestWhatdoIdo?HowdoIaskforaretractionfromVanityFair?DotheyhaveamanagerIcanpullaKarenwith?
Nolan.Nolanwillknow.He’llwanttofixthis,too.Ineedtogetintouchwithhim,buthow?Idon’thavehisnumber.DoIsummonhimwithapentagrammadeofrooks,or—Emil!
Itexthim,thenrememberhisschedulebackinToronto:notamorningperson.Whoknowswhenhe’llwakeup,andIcan’twaitthatlongwhensomeoneiswrongaboutmeontheinternet.SoIrunahandthroughmyhairanddowhatanyoneelsewould:IgoogleNolan.Ihavetocombthroughmoreresultsthananyonewho’sbarelytwentyyearsoldshouldhave,includingaTumblrofhimasacat,andexpliciteroticfanfictionofhimandPercyJacksonsixty-niningonahippocampus.Thenfindsomethinguseful:anarticleaboutNolanemancipatinghimselffromhisfamilyandmovingintoaTribecapenthouse.
Andbecausetheinternetisascaryplacethatdoesn’tbelieveinboundaries,thereisanaddress.
ApparentlyIdon’tbelieveinboundaries,either:I’mgoingtheretotalktoNolan.It’lltakeoveranhour.BythenEmilwillhavereplied,andI’lltextNolanthatI’minthearea.Let’sgetStarbuckstotalkaboutchessandapossibledefamationlawsuittoamajornewsoutlet!Coffee’sonme!Perfectplan.
MadeonlyslightlylessperfectbythefactthatIfindmyselfinthelobbyofNolan’sbuilding,andEmilstillwon’treplyortakemycalls.Becausehe’sstillasleep.ThedoormantakesalookattheoversizedsweaterIthrewovermymostbohodressandisreadytoejectmefromthebuilding.
Ismileshakily.“I’mheretoseeMr.Sawyer.”
Thedoorman’sexpressionclearlysays,Iknowyouchessgroupies,andIwon’thesitatetobotherthepolicewiththis.Itmakesmewanttodieabit.
“Please?”
“I’munderinstructionnottoletupunexpectedvisitors.”
“ButI…”Anideaoccurstome.Itmakesmewanttodiealot.“HejustcamebackfromRussiaandIwantedtosurprisehim,becauseI’mhis…”Don’tgag.ShowthegooddoormanthePageSixarticle.“Girlfriend.See?”Seethispicthat’sontheinternetandmustthereforebetrue?
TwominuteslaterI’monthefourthfloor,thinkingNolanneedswaybettersecurity,whenheopensthedoor.
Ifullyexpectedtoword-vomitathimanddemandthatheaskhis…publicist?Pressteam?Masseuse?Thatheasksomeonetofixthisshitshow.Butwhenhe’sstandinginfrontofme,hairwild,skinpastywhite,whiteteeandplaidpajamapantsrumpledfromthemattress,Icannothelpbutsay…
“Youlooklikedeath.”
“Mallory?”Herubstheheelofhispalminhiseye.Hisvoiceishoarsewithsleepandsomethingelse.“Anotherdream,huh?”
“Nolan—areyouokay?”
“Youshouldcometobed.Thisisastupidsetup.Ilikeitmuchbetterwhenwe—”
“Nolan,areyousick?”
Heblinks.Hisexpressionclears.“Areyoureallyhere?”
“Yes.What’swrongwithyou?”
Hescratcheshisnapeandsinksintothedoorjamb,likeorthostaticbalanceisnotsomethinghehasfullymastered.“Notsure,”hemumbles.“Eithereverythingornothing.”
Nolan’sapartmentisaduplexthreetimeslargerthanmyhouse,agiantexpanseofunclutteredspaces,widewindows,hardwoodfloors,andbookshelves.Inthemiddleofthehallwaythere’sanopensuitcase,abandoned;onanearbytable,astackofbooksthatincludeEmilyDickinson,DonnaTartt,andamonographontheMacedonianphalanx;allover,thedeep,complexscentI’vecometoassociatewithNolan—butbetter.Stronger.Deconstructedinitsseparatelayers.
Ifollowhimasheleadssomewhereheforgottosay,tryingnottobenosyabouthisspace,nottostareatthecottonclingingtohiswideshoulders.It’sodd,beinghere.LikethepeculiaratmospherethateveryroomexudesassoonasNolanSawyersentersithasbeendistilled,condensed,pouredoverthewallsandthefloors.
Thisimpromptutripmightnothavebeenawisedecision.
“Doyouhaveafever?”Iaskinthekitchen.
“Impossibletotell.”
Iarchmyeyebrow.“Letmetellyouaboutthermometertechnology.”
“Ah,yeah.Iforgot.”Thingis,Idon’teventhinkhe’sbeingasmart-ass.Iwatchhimgrabtworegular-sizedmugsthatlookalmostcomicallysmallinhishands(onesaysEmil’s#1LittleBitch),aboxofFrootLoops,ahalf-drunkgallonofmilkthat’svisiblycurdled.Heoffersmethenon-Emilmuglikeit’sawhiskeyshot.
“Nolan,you—”Ipushupmytoestoreachhisforehead.He’sburning.Thisclose,hesmellslikesleepandfreshsweat.Notunpleasant.
“Yourhandissocool,”hesays,closinghiseyesinrelief.
Imaketotakeitaway,buthetrapsitunderhis.“Stay.”Heleansintome,breathwarm,chappedlipsagainstmytemple.“Youneverstay.”
“Nolan,you’reill.Wehavetodosomethingaboutit.”
“Right.Yes.”Hestraightensawayfromme.“Breakfast.Willbelikenewafter.”
“Afterthis?Youneednutrients,notfoodcoloringinmicro-donutshape.”
“It’sallIhave.”
“Seriously?”
Heshrugs.“Iwasgonesomewhere.Canada?”
“YouwereinRussia.Also,youhaveastackofbowlsinthatcredenza—whohascerealinamug?”
“Oh.”Henods.Thencollapsesslowly,untilhisforeheadrestsonthekitchenisland.“Who’sCredence?”
Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.I’magoodperson.IpickupMrs.Abebe’sgarbagecanwhenthewindtipsitover,smileatthedogsatthepark,nevermakefunofpeoplewhosayirregardless.Idon’tdeservethis.Andyet.“Listen,stayhere.Don’teatthat.I’llberightback.”
Ihalfcarryhimtothecouch,hissolidmusclesheavyandscorchinghotagainstme.Inlessthantenminutes,Irundownstairs,spendasmallEuropeancountry’sGDPatthecornerbodega,andcomebackuptofindhimsleeping.
I’mMotherTeresa.Reincarnated.Ineedahaloformytrouble.
“Takethis.”Nolan’scouchisagiantsectionalbutstilltooshortforhim.Ridiculous.
“Isitpoison?”
“Rapid-releaseibuprofen.”
“What’sthatsmell?”
“Yourarmpits.”
“No,thegoodone.”
“I’mcooking.”
Hiseyesspringopen.“You’remakingchickensoup.”
“Whichyoudonotdeserve.”
“Fromscratch?”
“It’sreallyeasy,andcannedstufftasteslikeleadpoisoninganddespair.Bytheway,youowemeforty-threedollars.Yes,I’mchargingyoufortheemotional-supportSnickersbarIboughtformyself—youcanVenmo,butpleasedon’twriteForDrugsinthememoline.Just…takeanap.I’llbeback.”
Hedoesn’t,though.Takeanap.Hesitsatthekitchenislandandwatchesmeinaglazed-over,pleasedwayasImovearoundquietly.Itdoesn’tbotherme,really.Hiseyesonmeusuallydostrange,uncomfortablethings,buttoday…maybeIjustlovethiskitchen.It’slargeandcozyandmodern,andIwanttouseiteveryday.Iwanttocommon-lawmarryitandadoptanentirepackofincontinentshar-peiswithit.
“Whyareyouhere?”heaskstwentyminuteslater.Withthemedskickingin,heseemsalittlelessoutofit.
“ThereisthisarticleinVanityFair,”Iexplainabsentmindedlywhilechoppingcarrots.NowthatI’mhere,takingcareofNolaninhiswarmapartmentthatsmellslikehimandcomfortfood,it’shardtoscroungeupthelevelofindignationIfeltonehourago.“AboutyoulosingtoKoch.”
“IdrewwithKoch.ButIdidlosetoLiu,whointurnwontoOblonsky,andItiedwithAntonov,soIplacedsecondatthetournament—”
“Yes,I’msureyourdickislongerthanKoch’s,butlet’sfocusonthematterathand,whichisthatKochtoldVanityFairthatyouandIaredating,andPageSixpublishedpicsofusinToronto,andnowwhateversmallnerdypercentageoftheworldcaresaboutchessthinksthatwehaveathing.”
“Andwedon’t?”
Iturntoglareathim.“Youdon’thavethings.Youtoldmeso.”
“Ialsosaid‘untilrecently.’?”
Myheartskipsabeat.“Youshouldbewaymoreupsetaboutthis.Sinceyou’reonyourdeathbed,I’llletthatslide,butwe’llhavetosettherecordstraight.”
“Sure.Feelfree.”
“Whatdoesthatmean?Together.We’lldoittogether.Wecanreleaseapressstatement.Investinskywriting.Something.”
“Iwon’t.Butyoucan.”
Iscowl.“Whatdoyoumean,youwon’t?Mysister,myfriends,they’llreadthearticleandthinkit’strue.”
“I’mhappytotextyourfriends,orFaceTimethem,orskywriteatthemtoexplainthesituation.ButIwon’ttalkaboutmypersonallifetothepress.”
“Why?”
“Mal,Iunderstandthatthisisupsetting,butit’snotthefirsttimethishashappenedtome.There’snowaytofightthepresswhenthey’rewrong.Youcanonlyignoreit.FirstruleofChessClub:nevergoogleyourself.”
Icoverthesoupwithalidandleanagainstthecounter,armscrossed.“PrettysurethefirstruleofChessClubisWhitemovesfirst.AndIunderstandyouwereburnedbytheBaudelairerumor,but—”
“Iwasreferringtotheshittheyprintedaboutmygrandfather.”Hegivesmeavacuouslook.“What’stheBaudelairerumor?”
Ilookaway.Embarrassing,thatIknowofitandhedoesn’t.MakesitsoundlikeIcaremoreabouthislovelifethanhedoes.“Just…peoplesaidyoudatedaBaudelaire?”
“Oh,yeah.Thesisters,right?Emiltoldmeaboutit.”
“Isittrue?”
Hiseyebrowlifts.“Youknowitisn’t.”
Right.Ido.“Howdidtherumorstart,then?”
“Oneofthemwasatsomepartymymanagermademegoto,backwhenIstilllistenedtoher.Thatwasprobablyenough.”
Ileanmyelbowsontheisland,hatinghowinterestedIam.“WhichBaudelaire?”
“NamestartedwithaJ,Ithink?”
Isigh.TheyallhaveJnames.“So,whathappened?Youweretalkingandyoudidn’twantto…youknow.”
“Wouldyou?”
“Ifitwereme?Hellyeah.”
Hetiltshishead.“Whywouldyou?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Whatwouldyougetoutofit?”
Ishrug.“Ilikesex.It’sfun.Itfeelsgood—reallygood,sometimes.Especiallywhenyou’reinthemoodandyoudoitwithattractiveorinterestingpeople.I’mnotashamedofit.”
“Youshouldn’tbe,”hesays,butIcantellthathedoesn’tcompletelygetit.Thatsex,desire,aresomethinghe’sstillwrappinghisheadaround.“Whataboutfeelingclosertosomeone?Makingaconnection?”
“Maybe.I’msuresexmeansdifferentthingstodifferentpeople,andthey’reallvalid.”IswatthememoryoflastnightandAlexaway,likeit’safruitfly.“Butthehumanconnectionpart…that’snotwhyIdoit.It’srisky.”
“Risky?How?”
Ishrug,notabouttoexplain.“Idon’tneedthatstuff.I’mbusyenough.”
Henodslikeheknows.“Takingcareofyourfamily,right?”
Iarchaneyebrow.“Weren’twetalkingaboutyourBaudelaireaffair?”
“Idon’treallyrememberwhathappened.We—Wait.”
“What?”Ileancloser,wideeyed.
“Kasparovwasthere.”
“Theformerworldchampion?”
“Yes.Hewantedtoplaywithme.”
“And?”
“Whatdoyoumean,and?Iwenttoplay.”
“Letmegetthisstraight.Youchoseplayingchesswithanoldmanovergettinglaid?”
Helooksatmelikehe’sacloisterednunandI’mexplainingBitcointohim.“DidyougetthatitwasKasparov?”
Ilaugh.ThenIlaughagain.ThenIlaughsomemore,foreheadagainstmypalms,thinkingthatwhenhe’snotatotaldick,Nolanisactuallykindofcute.WhenIlookup,hehastakenastrandofmyhairandisrubbingitbetweenhisfingertipslikeit’smulberrysilk.Hiseyesarestillabitglassy,soIlethim.
“Wasitatleastthebestgameofyourlife?”Iask.
Hestaresintomyeyes.“No.Itwasn’t.”
“Whichonewas,then?”
Morestaring.Astrayshivertravelsupmyspine,comingfromwhoknowswhere.Thenthekitchentimerrings,andwebothglanceaway.
IputthesoupinhisEmil’sLittleBitchmugbecauseit’samentalimageIdeservetohave.
“Thisisgood,”hesaysafterthefirstspoonful,soundingoffensivelysurprised.“Notasgoodasyourmom’smeatloaf,but—”
Ipinchhimonthebiceps,wherethere’salmostnoyieldbecausehismusclesstrainthesleevesofhisT-shirt,andhislopsidedsmileappears.Hehasfourhelpings,whichheeatsboyishlywhileImunchonmySnickersandpretendnottobeflattered.Myadrenalinehighiscomingdown,andmybodyisstartingtorememberthatIhavegivenitfewerthanfivehoursofsleepandnocaffeine.
“Doyoucook?”Iaskdistractedly.
“Rarely.Andmediocrely.”
“Andyet,youhavethebestkitchenI’veeverseen.”Ishakemyhead.“Themoneyonecanearnfromtournamentsisabitobscene.”
“Itis,butIwasatrust-fundbaby.I’llletyoudecideifthat’smoreorlessmorallyvile.”
“Niceofyourparents.”
“Mygrandfather,”hecorrects.“Heusedtoownthisapartment.”
“Oh.”Ibitemylip,thinkingwhetherIwanttoask.“Wasthatyourgrandfatherwho…”
“Yup.WhoplayedchessandwentcrazyandalmostgotmekilledwhenIwasthirteen.”Hissmileissmall,notasbitterasI’dhaveexpected.Iwinceanyway.
“Notthebestwaytotalkaboutmentalhealth,”Isayneutrally.
“Right.Mygrandfather,whowasdiagnosedwithrapid-declinebehavioralvariantfrontotemporaldementia.Doesthatsoundbetter?”Idon’treply.Thenheadds,“Thereisafamilialvariantoffrontotemporaldementia,didyouknow?”
Iopenmymouth,thenIcloseit.There’safarawayfeelingtohimthatseemstohavelittletodowithhisfever.Ishouldtreadcarefully.
NolanSawyer,needingcare.Soundsfake.But.
“Areyouafraidit’llhappentoyou?”
Hehuffsoutahumorlesslaugh.“Youknowwhat’sfunny?Iusedtobeterrifiedofit,butIknowitwon’t.BecauseIgotgenetictestingassoonasIemancipated.Butmyfather,asfarasIknow,didnotgettested,anduntilIstoppedtakinghiscalls,hetoldmeeveryday,everysingleday,thatifIkeptplayingchess,I’denduplikemygrandfather.Asthoughthat’swhathisproblemwas:heplayedtoomuchchess.”
“Thatseems…foolish.”
“Yeah,well.Foolishpeoplewillsayfoolishthings.”
He’snotmeetingmyeyes.Hestaresdownintohisemptymug,elbowsonthemarblecounter,andIfeelmyselfleaningcloser.Nolanseemsraw,andIdon’twanttorisktouchinghim,butI’dliketobehere.Withhim.
It’ssomethingIdowithEaston,whenshe’sfeelingdown.Darcy.Sabrina,whensheletsme.Getalittlecloserthanispolite.Sharethesameair.Letourscentsmixtogether.Idoitformysistersandmyfriend,andnowforthisstupidovergrownworldchesschampionthatI’mapparentlynursingbacktohealth.
Weirdos,bothofus.
“Thisapartmentheleftyou…It’sbigforoneperson,”Imurmur.
“Wanttomovein?”Histonematchesmine,intimate.
“Sure.I’llsellmypancreas.Itshouldcoverthefirstthreemonthsofrent.”
“Youdon’thavetopayrent.Justpickaroom.”
“AndI’llpayyoubackincompany?Saveyoufromhavingdinneraloneatyourcandelabra-litfifty-footcherrywoodtable,likeBruceWayne?”
“Iusuallyhavedinnerstandingupinfrontofthatchessboardoverthere.”
“I’msurprisedyouhavedinneratall.Anddon’tjustsustainyourselfonthetearsofyourrivals.”
Hesmilesagain,andGod.
Heisoffensively,uniquely,devastatinglyhandsome.
Itakeastepback,reachingformypurse,throwingawaytheSnickerswrapper.“Leftoversoup’sinthefridge.Takeibuprofenagaininfivehours.Andhavesomeonecomeoversoifyoupassout,they’llnoticebeforetheratseatyourintestines.”
“You’rehere.”
“Iwashere.I’mleavingnow.”
Nolandeflatesvisibly,andsomethinglikecompassionbitesintome.
“Where’sEmil?”Iask.
“I’mnotgoingtocallEmilbecauseIhavethesniffles.He’sbusywithmidtermsandspendingthreehoursadaypiningafterTanu.”
“Someoneelse,then.”
Heshakeshishead.“I’llbefine.”
“Youwon’t.YouwerehalfdeadwhenIgothere.”
“Thenstay.”
“I’malreadylateforZugzwang.I…”
He’sstaringatmewiththosedark,cleareyes,andIjustcan’tgo.Ican’tleavehim.Whatifhegetsdehydratedanddies?Willthatbeonme,then?I’mnotgivinghisghostthesatisfactionofhauntingseveralgenerationsofGreenleafwomen.I’mkeepingthisjerkalive.
“Sincebothourjobsconsistofplayingchess,weshouldplayagame,”hesayswhileItextDefnethatsomethingurgenthascomeup.“Justtobeproductivemembersofthiscapitalisticsociety.”
“Nicetry.”
“Diditwork?”
“No.Nolan,youstilllooklikedeath.JustgonapwhileIwastemydaywatchingDragonAgeplaythroughsonyourWi-Fi.”
“Dragonwhat?”
Andthat’showIfindmyselfonNolan’sleathercouch,tellinghimaboutelvesandeggheadsandtheendoftheworld,soothedbythevideoandbyNolan’spresence.
“IlikethisbetterthantheJugheadshow,”hesaystenminutesin.Iyawn,quitepleased.
Then,anothertenminuteslater,I’monlyfastasleep.
Theearlyafternoonsunlightisbright,butIdon’tcare.Igettoignoreitbecausethemostdeliciousblanketiswrappedaroundme.Flawless,A+,12/10,five-starAmazonreview.Itkeepsmetoastyandpressesmeintothebackofthecouch,solidandheavy,theperfectmixofhardandsoft.Mostlyhard,butinagoodway.Itevenslippedalegrightbetweenmine,anditsarmsareloopedaroundmyribcage.Itmakesitnearlyimpossibleformetomove,butIdon’tmind,becauseIfeelprotectedfromattacksfromallsides.Likethekingduringgoodchess.
I’mnotleavingthisplace,ever.Iliveherenow,inheaven.Iopenmyeyestosurveymynewkingdomand—
Nolanisrighthere.Lookingatme.AndsomethingwithinmetellsmeIshouldpanic,butallIcandoissay:
“Hey.”
“Hey,”hesaysback,andInearlyfeelthegravelofhisvoiceagainstmylips.Hesmellsofsomethingineffablyrichandgood.
“Hey,”Isayagain,stupidly,andwe’rebothsmiling,andtheairbetweenusissweet,andhiseyes,hisnose,hislipsaresuddenlycloser,and—
SomethingbuzzesandIsplashbackintoreality.IwiggleinsideofNolan’sgrip,shootinguptoasittingposition.
“Ignoreit,”heorders,butIignorehim
Whatjusthappened?OhGod.I’veneversleptwithsomeoneelse.Never.Notlikethis.Not…what’shappening?
Andthebuzz,it’sstillgoingon.“Ithink—myphone—”Hereitis.Howdoyoupickup?Red?No,green.“Hello.”
“Mal?Youokay?”Defne.
“Yes.Sorryaboutnotcomingin,I—”
“Haveyouseenthepaper?”
Oh,shit.Thearticle.“I…Don’tworryaboutit.It’salie,I’mnotsleepingwithNolan.”Nolan’seyebrowlifts.Hisarmsarestillloopedaroundmywaist,andIdieinside.“Imeant,we’renot—”
“ThishasnothingtodowithNolan.”
“Oh.”Phew.“Whatthen?”
“It’stheChallengers,Mal.Theychoseyouasoneofthisyear’sparticipants.”ChapterSixteen
“—chessdramaisusuallyboring,butthisonemightactuallybejuicy.Couldyouexplaintoouraudiencewhat’sgoingonintheWorldChampionship?”
“Hereisthedeal,Mark:outofthetenpeoplewhomakeitintotheChallengerstournament,nineareselectedbecauseofratings,orbecausetheywinqualificationtournaments.Thetenth—thewildcard—ischosenbyFIDE.It’susuallyawaytoincludeatop-tenplayerwhoforsomereasondidn’tmakeitin.Thisyear,everyonethoughtthatthewildcardwouldbeAntonov.OrZemaitis.OrPanya,thoughhe’sduetohaveababyinFebruary,whenthechampionshipwillbeon,andprobablywouldhavedeclined.Instead,lastweekthecommitteeselectedalow-rated,inexperiencedplayer.Now,tobefair,Greenleafisatalentedplayerwithgreatpromise.Butshe’sonlyplayedprofessionallyforacoupleofmonths,andisstillunproven.HerperformanceattheOlympicswasremarkable,butchoosingherfortheChallengersisakintoaskingathirdgradertoplayanNFLgame.ThetournamentishappeningtheweekafterThanksgivinginLasVegas,andmanydoubtthatshecanholdherownagainstotherstratosphericplayers.”
“Somesayshewaschosenbecauseshe’sawoman?”
“Therehasbeenlotsofconversationoverthelackoffemalerepresentationinprofessionalchess,andGreenleaf’sinvitationcouldbearesponsetothat.Buttherearemanywomenwithhigherrankingsandmoreexperiencewhoearnedthatspot.Whichhadsomepeoplespeculatingthatit’snotbecausesheisawoman,butbecauseshe’sthewomanofaparticularchessplayer.”
“Juicy!”
“Yup.NolanSawyer—You’veheardofSawyer,right?”
“Ofcourse.”
“He’schessroyalty,abonafiderockstar.Soinfluentialinthesport,hemighthavepressuredFIDEintochoosingaspecificplayerfortheChallengers.AndhehasbeenphotographedwithGreenleafinpositionsthatare…”
“Iseewhatyoumean.”
“Ibetyoudo!Sopeoplearewonderingif—”
“Youshouldstoptorturingyourself,Mal.”
IlookupfrommyiMactofindDefneleaningagainstthedoorframe,silverseptumringgleamingasshegivesmeaworriedlook.
“Andifyoudecidetocontinuetorturingyourself,couldyouuseyourheadphones?”Ozglaresatmefromhisdesk.“SomeofusarenotunlearnedprodigiesmistakenlyassumedtobeNolanSawyer’snewconcubine.Someofushavetoactuallypracticechess.”
“Ijust…”Imassagemytemple.“Why’stheTodayshowtalkingaboutchess?Shouldn’ttheycoverimportantstuff?Fracking,orthesustainableterraformingofMars,orMalala’sbookclub?”
Ozblinks.“Haveyouliterallyeverwatchedcabletelevision?”
Igroanandhead-desk.
IknowI’mbeingSabrina-levelsullen,butIearnedtheright,becauseNovemberhasbeensucking:everyonethinksI’msomeNolangroupiewhosleptherwayintochess.EastonlovesColoradotoomuchtocomehomeforThanksgiving—ascaryellipsisattheendofthedanglingsentencethat’sourfriendship.AndsomeoneIwenttomiddleschoolwithtextedtoaskifI’m“reallyaprofessionalsoftballplayernow,pregnantwithaDutchunderwearmodel’striplets?”Agameoftelephone,butstillaclearsignthatmyname’sgoingaroundtoomuch,andthatMomorSabrinamightcomeacrossmysecretcareeranyday.
So,yeah.Sullenisnowmydefiningpersonalitytrait.I’mmoresulkthanwoman,readytobroodwithrecklessabandonatamoment’snotice.
“Ishouldhaverefusedtheinvitation,”Imumbleagainstthepolishedwood.
“Theprizeisonehundredthousanddollars,”Ozremindsmeacidly.“We’vebeenoverthetaxwithholdingsandthenetearningsandtheamountsofmortgagepaymentsyou’llbeabletoaffordwhenyouweremopingalloveryourselflastweek.Ididnotwhipoutthecalculatorappforyoutostepbacknow.”
“It’sjust…mortifying.PeoplearesayingonnationaltelevisionthatI’mtooweaktosurvivethewinter.”
“PeoplehavesaidonthesamenationaltelevisionthattheCaliforniawildfireswerestartedbyspacelasers.”Ozrollshiseyes.“Listen,it’snotthatIdon’twanttoprovidescaffoldingforyourdelicatenerves,butasImentionedbefore,I’dratherdieimpaledbyaharpoonwhilefarmingbeetsthanengagewiththefungusofhumanemotions—”
“Oz,”Defneinterrupts,“couldyouleaveusforafewminutes?”
“What?”
“MalloryandIneedsomeprivacy.Totalkaboutmushroomsandsuch.”
“Butallmystuffishere.WhatamIsupposedtodo?”
“Idon’tknow.Gofarmbeets?Findaharpoon?Comebackinhalfanhour.Chopchop.”
Defne’smyboss,butshe’sneverfeltlikemybosssomuchasshedoesnow,roundingmydeskwithaseriousexpression,sittingonitwithanagilehop,acloudofmerrilyjinglingearringsandcitrusandtobacco.Shestareslikewe’reabouttohaveasolemntalk,anditoccurstomethatthemiseryofthepastfewdayscouldbeexponentiallymorepukeworthyifIweretobefired.
Crap.
“IknowI’vebeenwhining,butIpromise—”
“They’reright,Mal.”
“Whoisright?”
“FIDEdidchooseyoubecauseyouareawoman.”Shepauses,lettingherwordsland.“TheNolanthingisbullshit,ofcourse.Hedoesn’thavenearlyasmuchswayonFIDE,andFIDEmusthavemadethedecisionbeforethosepicscameout.Idon’tknowwhat’shappeningbetweenyoutwo—”
“Nothing!”
It’strueenough.Ihaven’tseenNolansinceIranoutofhisapartmentthreeweeksagoinaninternet-inducedpanic,thoughhedidgetmynumber(fromEmil,Iassume)becausehe’sbeentextingme.InitiallystufflikeRanawayagain,didyou?andMallory.Areyouokay?andIjustwanttotalktoyouThen,afewdayslater,whileIwaswateringDarcy’schiaporcupine,CormenzanaalwaysopenswiththeRuyLopez.Itwasfollowedbymanysimilarmessages,withlittleadvice(Kotovvs.Pachman,1950)andbig(Makesureyouhydrate).
Idon’treply.Ineverreply,because…
BecauseIdon’twantto.
Becausewe’renotfriends.
BecauseIwokeuponhiscouchandmyfirstinstinctwastoburrowintohim.Ahorrorstoryinfifteenwords.
Idon’treply,butIdoread.Andinbetweenboutsofsulking,Idowhatherecommends,becauseit’sirritatinglygoodadvice.Itellmyselfthathe’shelpingmeonlybecausehehatesKoch,butIdon’tbothertryingtobelieveit.
It’snotlikeI’mgoingtowintheChallengersanyway.Afterall,theyonlychosemebecause…
“DidyousayFIDEdidchoosemebecauseI’mawoman?”
Defnenods.Thenamends,“Notonly.Butitplayedabigrole.”
“Why?Tonsofwomenplay.”
“Whatdoyouknowaboutwomeninchess?”
“Notmuch.”IrememberKoch’ssneerinPhilly.Ilikeitbetterwhenwomensticktotheirowntournaments.“Justthatthereareseparatetournaments,onlyforwomen.”
“Biggerthanthat—thereareseparateleagues,separaterankings.It’sacontroversialtopic:somesaytheseleaguesshouldn’texist,becausetheyholdwomenbackandimplythattheycannotholdtheirownagainstmaleplayers.Othersdisagree,andwanttopreserveaspaceinwhichwe’renotharassedormadetofeellikewe’reless.”
“Whatdoyouthink?”
Shesighs.“Ithinkit’sdamnedifyoudo,damnedifyoudon’t.There’snowinninghere,andthat’spartofwhyIstoppedplayingcompetitivelyandchosetofocuson…stillchess,butthepartofitthatdoesn’tmakemewanttostabadownpillowwithacutleryknife.Thatstuff’sexpensive.”
I’mnostrangertoovertandcovertsexism—Iusedtoworkinagarage,forBob—anddudeswithmoronictakeshavebeenaconstantinmylife,so—
Exceptthat,no.Theyhaven’t
“Idon’trememberitbeinglikethatwhenIplayedasakid,”ItellDefne.“MaybebecauseIwasunrated,ormydadshieldedmefromit,butchesswasn’talwaysamale-dominatedsport.”
Shenods.“Whenyouwereyoung,everyonewasfascinatedwithchessandnoonereallycommentedongender,right?”
“Yes.”
“Youprobablynarrowlymissedtheinterestingpart.Whenkidsgrowup,startlookinguptothegreats,andfindoutthatKasparov,theirfave,oncesaidthatnowomancouldeversustainaprolongedbattle.”
Istiffen.“Areyouserious?”
“Once,afteratournament,Iwenttodinnerwithotherplayers.SomeonepulledupaYouTubevideo—anoldinterviewofFischersayingthatwomenarestupidandbadatchess.Everyonethoughtitwashilarious.”Defnelooksdownathershoes,uncharacteristicallysubdued.“Iwasseventeen.AndaGM.Andtheonlywomanatthetable.”
“I—Screwthat,Defne.”Istand,livid.ShewasyoungerthanIamnow.Alonewithdickheads.“Fischerwasaragingantisemiteanyway.Hedoesn’tgetto—”
“Thehurtfulpartwasn’tFischer,buttheguysinmyagegroupwhothoughtthatwearingaFemalechessplayerisanoxymoronshirtmightbeafunjoke.ThehurtfulpartwasFIDEnotdoinganythingaboutit.AndI’mthere,goingtotournaments,losingmoreandmore,oftentothesechessbroswhojokeabouthowfemalebrainsaretoofoldedtoreallycomprehendkingsafety,andIstartwonderingifthey’reright.FemaleGMsarewhat,onepercent?That’snothing.Maybewereallyareless.Maybewedoneedourspecialleague.”
“Doyou…”Iblinkather,betrayed.“Doyoureallythinkthat?”
“Idid.Forawhile.AndthemoreIdid,themoreIlost.Itookachessbreak,actually.Wenttocollege,gotmyMBA—didyouknowIhaveanMBA?Nowyoudo,pleasedon’ttellanyone,it’smymostshamefulsecret.Anyway,IthoughtIwasdonewithchess.Then,oneday,Ireadaboutastudy.
“SomescientistinEuropetookabunchofwomenandhadthemplayonlinechessagainstmaleopponentsintheirsameratingbracket.Whenthefemaleplayersdidn’tknowthegenderoftheiropponent,theywonfiftypercentofthegames.Whenthefemaleplayerswereledtobelievethattheiropponentwasawoman,theywonfiftypercentofthegames.Whentheyweretoldthattheywereplayingagainstmen,theirperformancedropped.Butintruth,theiropponentswerealwaysthesame.”Sheshrugs.Herearringsjingleagain,despondent.“Ifyou’reawoman,thissystemtearsyoudown.Makesyoudoubtyourselfanddropoutofthechessclubtoleaveroomfortheoneswhoareactuallytalented.Oz,Emil,Nolan…eventhegoodones,theydon’tknowhowitfeels.Theydon’tknowwhatit’slike,beingtoldthatyou’reinherentlydestinedtobesecondbest.”Suddenly,Defne’sexpressionshiftsintoanimpishsmile.“Butit’snottrue.Andonceweknowit,theycannottakeitawayfromus.ThedayafterIreadaboutthestudy,Iwenttogetthis.”Sheslipsherarmoutofthesleeveofhercardigan.Thechessboardtattoocurvesagainstherbiceps.
“Whatisit?”
“Moscow,2002.ThefinalpositionofthegameJudithPolgarwonagainstGarryKasparov.Despitethatpeskythingheoncereferredtoasher‘imperfectfemininepsyche.’?”
Ilaugh.Ilaugh,andIdon’tstopforagoodminute.“Thisis—thisisamazing.”
“Iknow.”Defnelaughs,too.Thenherfacegrowsserious,andshetakesmyhand.“Mallory,Igrewupinthisworld,andIknowhowtheseassholesthink.Therehasbeenareckoning.TheoldfartsatFIDErealizethattheycan’tkeepwomenoutofchess,andtheysawyouasanopportunity.Anoutsiderwhomadeabigsplashathigh-profileevents.Unlikewithotherwomenwho’vebeenaroundforyears,theycanjustifytheirchoicebysayingthatyourscoreisonlylowbecauseyou’renew—butthatyou’realsopromisingenoughtoinvite.Theycanuseyoutovirtue-signal.ButIknowthem.Iknowthattheyalsothinkthatyoucan’tbethatgood.Thatyourvictorieswereprobablyafluke,andthatyouwon’twintheChallengers.”
Somethingtightenslowinmygut.Isn’titthesamethingI’vebeentellingmyselfforweeks?ThatIcannotcompete.ThatI’munprepared.ThatI’mnotasgood.I’mnotgoingtowinhasbeenthedefaultstatusinmybrain.Because…I’minexperienced.BecauseIdon’twantitordeserveit.BecauseI’mawoman?
Doyouknowhowincredibleyouare?NolanaskedmeinToronto.Itoldhimyes,whilestillbelievingdeepdownthatIwasn’tanythingspecialafterall.Whichoneisit,then?
IlookDefneintheeye.Shehasalwaysencouragedme.Alwaysbeenhonest.Norelentless,toxicpositivitywithher.
“DoyouthinkIcanwintheChallengers?”Iaskher,tremblingalittleattheprospectoftheanswer.
Shetakesmyotherhand,andIfeelheld.Ifeelcomforted.Ifeelstronger.“Mallory.IthinkyoucanwintheWorldChampionship.”ChapterSeventeen
AsedanpicksusupfromtheLasVegasairportandbringsustotheWestgate.Intheelevator,abusinesslikeFIDEemployeetellsmeaboutthepressconferenceroom,theVIPlounges,andadailymealexpenseallowancethatthoroughlyhumiliatestheGreenleafmonthlygrocerybudget.Thereisablackembossedletteronmypillow:aninvitationforanopeninggala—Nevadagovernorinattendance.TheUSambassadortoAzerbaijan,too,sincehe’sscheduledtomaketheceremonialopeningmove.
That’showbigofadealtheChallengersis.Sobig,Ihavetowonderifthecurrentworldchampionispresent.Thenpromptlyslapmyselfforit.
SincethinkingaboutNolanhasonlybeenasourceofproblems.
“Areyousurethereisn’tadresscode?”IaskDefneacrossourneighboringbalconies.IwishDarcyandSabrinawerehere.Mom,too,wouldlovemakingfunoftheridiculousextravagance.Butthey’rebackhome,nursingthelieI’veleftthemwith(“visitingEastoninBoulder”).Mom’srelievedthatIgettohangoutwithheragain.SabrinahatesmebecauseIam“moreself-centeredthanadartboard.”DarcyisgooglingmehardenoughtomakeSiliconValleystocksrisetwohundredpoints.
AndI’mherealone.Well—almost.
“Nodresscode,”Defnesays.“Thoughit’llprobablybeablazer-over-button-downparade.Lotsofgrays.”
“ShouldIbuyablackpencilskirt?”
“Ifyouwant.ButI’dmissseeingyouonstageinyourprimarycolorscroptop.”
Igrin,feelingasuddensurgeofaffection.“Luckyforyou,Ipackedit.”
Forthegala,IputonasheathdressEastonboughtmeatGoodwillforsevendollars.BecausemylifeisashitMcMuffin,andbecauseI’vegivenuponanyattemptnottoeatit,I’mnotsurprisedwhenthefirstpersonImeetisKoch.
“Well,well,well,”hesays,likeapoorlywrittenAustinPowersvillain.“LookwhatSawyer’sdickandFIDE’spitytowardthelessfortunatedraggedin.”
“Isitveryexpensive,Malte?”Iask,pluckingachocolate-coveredstrawberryfromatray.
“What?”
“Thevintagesexismyouwearallthetime.”
Hiseyesnarrowandhestepscloser.“Youdon’tbelonghere,Greenleaf.You’retheonlyplayerwhodidn’tearnherplaceintheChallengers.You’renobody.”
Iwanttopushhimaway.Iwanttopunchhim.Iwanttostuffthestrawberryinhisnose.Buttheroomisfullofpress.IspotPBScameras,cableTVmics.ChessWorld.comisgoingtomilktheshitoutofthisevent,probablylivestreamtheplayerspluckingtheireyebrows.Thereisnomarginoferror.
SoIsmilesweetly.“Andyet,thelasttimeyouandthisnobodyplayed,thisnobodywon.Foodforthought,huh?”
Iwhirlaroundandlookforanalcohol-freedrink,cherishingtheimageofKoch’seyebrowtwitching.Ican’tfindDefne,oranyoneelseIknow,butI’llgetacquaintedwiththeotherplayerssoonenough:thetournamentisroundrobin,onegameperday.Alivelypianosongplays,andIdrifttothetable,eagertostuffmyface,wheresomeonehugsmefrombehind.
“Hiiiii!”
“Tanu!”
“Thisdress,”shetellsme,lookingatthebrightgreenembroidery.“Daddylikey.”
“Tanu,we’vebeenoverthis.”Behindher,Emilshakeshisheadandleansintohugme.“Icannottakeheranywhere,Greenleaf.Idon’tknowwhyIpersevere.”
“Guys,whatareyoudoinghere?Shouldn’tyoubeatschool?”
“School,shmool.”Tanuwavesherhand.“Welivefreely.We’renotchainedbytheobligationsofmodernmundanity.”
“Winterbreak,”Emilexplains.
“Ah.”
“We’reheretostudy.ForwhenNolanprepsfortheWorldChampionship.”
“Oh.IsNolanhere?”
“Mal,we’dlovetohelpyou,too,”Tanusays.Notansweringme.
“Helpme?”
“Mostplayersareherewithateamofseconds.YouonlyhaveDefne,right?”
Secondsareplayers’assistantswhohelpthemtrainanddebrief,analyzeoldgames,comeupwithnewattackanddefensivestrategies.“Defne,yeah.And…”AndNolan.Nolan’stexts.WhichseemtoanswermyquestionsbeforeIaskthem.NotthatI’lladmitit.“OzNothombsaidhe’dbeavailabletotalkstrategy.”
“Thenletushelp.Wecouldmeetinthemornings.Gooveryouropponent’sweaknessesandstrengths.Someopenings.Mal,you’resotalented,andthisstuff—itcouldmakeadifference.”
“DidNolanputyouuptothis?”
Theyexchangeashortlook.“Listen,”Emilsays,“Nolanmightwantyoutowin,butsodowe.”Hepoutslikeachild.“DidthatpoutinewesharedinTorontomeannothingtoyou?”
Andthat’showIfindmyselfwalkingintoanIHOPwithDefneatseventhefollowingmorning.TanuandEmilarealreadysharingacustard-filledFrenchtoast,andifDefneneedsanintroduction…shedoesn’t.ShehugsthemtightandasksTanuhowStanfordistreatingher,whenshegotbangs,andwhatabouthercat?I’mconsideringdemandingadrawnschematicofhoweveryoneknowseveryoneelsewhenEmilwhipsoutaboardandsays,eyesNFL-coachsharp:“Thagard-Vork.Danish.Thirty-six.Excellentpositionalplayer,thoughwellpasthisprime.Helovesopeningwithd4andc4.”
“Butsometimeshedoessomeweirdqueenstuff,e4,c5,qh5.Yougottaseethis,Mal.It’snuts.”
Itisnuts.Andthreehourslater,whenhedoessomeweirdqueenstuffandIknowexactlyhowtoanswer,it’sevenmorenuts.
Myname,andtheUSflagnexttoit,areeverywhere.Nottapedpiecesofpaper,butembossedonthesideofthetable,thepanels,thechair,likesomeonespentawholelotofmoneyatKinko’s.Therearefivetablesonthestageandfivehundreddeadlysilentpeopleintheaudience.Live-streamscreensareeverywhere,andominousgraphicsrunduringidlemoments.
10players.
9days.
45matches.
1winner
Zumzumzuuuum.
Thepresscrowdseverycorner,butinarespectful,distancedway,asthoughtheplayersarenottobedisturbed.IglanceatthemonitorwhileThagard-Vorkeyesmyknight.Alltheplayerslookthesame,littlesoldiersinneutralcolorsfrowningdownatlittleboardsinneutralcolors.Exceptforthegirlatthefourthtable,whosticksoutlikeasorethumbwithmywhite-blondhairandtealsweater.
Ismile,closemyeyes,andwinwithouteverbeinginjeopardy.Ittakesmeeighteenmoves.
“Shewasamillionmilesaheadofme,”Thagard-Vorksaysatthepost-gameanalysispressconference.Myfirstinterview.Itriedtoskip,butoneofthedirectorsshowedmehisfancybadgeandsaid,“It’smandatory.”“Whenshesacrificedherknight…”Heshakeshishead,lookingatthereplayscreen.Inoticeaweirdcowlickonmyforehead.“Shewasamillionmilesahead,”herepeats.
“Itwasachallenginggame,”Ilietothehost.
Idon’tfullyrelaxuntilI’maloneintheelevator,awayfromallthecameras
Chesscomputersaresopowerfulthesedays,soquicktofindtheperfectmovethatelectronicdevicesandevenwatches—hell,evenlipbalm—aren’tallowedinthetournamenttopreventcheating.Whichmeansthatmyphoneischargingatmybedsidetable,fullofnotifications.WhenIgetbacktomyroom,IopenDarcy’sfirst.
DARCYBUTT:Howcantheentiretyofyourhairbeasstraightasalimpnoodleexceptforonesinglecurlsmackinthemiddleofyourforehead?
Ilaugh.
Eightgamestogo.
Iwinthefollowinggame(Kawamura;US;#8)thankstoahalf-openfile,andtheoneafter(Davies;UK;#13),althoughittakesmefivehours.
BytheendofdaythreeI’mnumberoneinthetournament,tiedwithKochandSabir.Allotherplayershaveeithersufferedalossorsettledfordraws.That’swhenthepressdecidesthatrespectfuldistancewon’tcutit,andstartscirclingaroundtheloungearea,whereI’msittingwithDefneeatingpistachioOreos
Theylookthirsty.Sharky.
“Maybeyoushouldgiveaninterview.BeforetheycorneryouattheIHOPwithTanil,”shemuses.
“Tanil?”
“TanuandEmil.It’stheirshipname.Anyway,theotherplayershavebeengivinginterviews.Youshoulddothesame.”
“Ialreadydothepost-gameanalyses.”
“Youdon’tgetit.Theydon’twanttoknowaboutyourchess.Theywanttoknowaboutyou.”
Andthat’showIfindmyselfwithaCNNmichoveringaninchfrommymouth.Itsmellslikeburntplasticandcologne.Ormaybeit’sthejournalist.
“Howisit,beingthedarkhorseoftheChallengers?”
What’sadarkhorseagain?“It’s…great.”
“Isitodd,beingtheonlywoman?”
“It’soddthattherearesofewwomeninchess.ButIdon’tfeelodd.”
“You’rethedaughterofaGM.Whatwouldhesayifhewerehere?”
Breakingnews:Iofficiallyhategivinginterviews.“Idon’tknow,becausehe’snothere.”Darcybetterneverseethis.
“WhataboutNolanSawyer?HowwouldhefeelifyouendedupbecomingtheChallenger,givenyourrelationship?”
Thereisnorelationship.“Goodquestion.Youshouldaskhim.”
“AlotofpeoplethinkthatitmightcomedowntoyouandKoch.Whatdoyousayaboutthat?”
I’mnotsurewhyIchoosethatmomenttolookatthecamera.AndI’mnotsurewhyIleanabitintothemic,whichreallydoessmellfoul.“I’mnotafraidofKoch,”Isay.“I’vedefeatedhimonce,afterall.”
“Wemighthavetoworkonyourinterviewingskills,”DefnetellsmethefollowingmorningattheIHOPwithTanil(it’sgrowingonme).Theyhavetakentobringingalistofopeningsandpositionsthattheywanttoshowme.Thelisthasthreedifferenthandwritingsonit,butIpretendnottonotice.Theiranalysesaresharp,onpoint,brilliant,brilliantpastwhatI’dexpectfromtwotalentedplayerswhoneverquitegottothetop.Ipretendnottonoticethat,either.
Myfirstdrawisonthefourthday,againstPetek(Hungary;#4).ThegameisamessofNajdorfSicilian,whichIknewhe’dplay,longpocketsofmind-numbingboredom,andmeattemptingtosurprisehimintoaretreatDefneoncetaughtmewhenwewerelookingintoPacoVallejo’sgames.Icomethisclosetowinning—thisclose—butaftersixhours,whenheholdshishandtomeandoffersadraw,Itakeit.
“It’sforthebest,”Defnetellsmethefollowingday.“Tomorrowyou’dhavebeenexhaustedotherwise.”ButIdrawonmyfifthgame,too,andthenonmysixthandseventh,andI’mexhaustedanyway,exhaustedfromworryingandsecond-guessingmyselfandhatingtheopportunitiesI’mmissing.I’mnotgood,afterall.I’mamediocreplayer.Defnewaswrong.Nolanwaswrong.Dadwaswrong.CNNissuddenlylessinterestedininterviewingme.Ileavethepost-gameanalysiswithmyheaddown,andIcanbarelythankElenifromtheBBCwhenshesmilesandtellsmethatshe’srootingforme.MaybeifIpullaLindsayLohanandtrashmyroomI’llfeelbetter?
DARCYBUTT:Kochhasonemorewin,buthealsohasalossagainstSabir.You’renotoutoftherunning.Atall.
DARCYBUTT:ThoughitwouldhelpifyoubeatSabirtomorrow.
MALLORY:bbdoyouevenknowhowtoplaychess?
DARCYBUTT:Idon’tneedtoknowhowthelittlepriestmovestounderstandascoresystem
I’vebeenstarfishinginbedandwoe-is-me-ingforonehourwhensomeonesendsabowlofnoodlesoupandthreeSnickersbarsuptomyroom.IrefusetothinkaboutitsoriginsasIdevourallofit,andthen,withmystomachfullandmyskinwarmandthesweettasteofchocolatelingeringinmymouth,Ifallintoadeep,dreamlesssleep.
ThefollowingdayIwakeuprestedandwinagainstSabirwiththeTrompowsky.
ItdoescomedowntoKochandme.
Sabirtrailsapointbehind,butwithonlyonegameleft,hemightaswellbefrackingonJupiter.SomeoverworkedinternfromtheITdepartmentwhipsupnewgraphics:themonitorsarenowpicturesofKochandmefrompreviousgames.Ibitedownonmylip;Kochlooksattheceiling.Hesqueezeshiseyesshut;Inibbleonmythumbnail.
Ididn’tevenknowthatIdothat.ButI’velookedatmyselfoncameramoreinthepastweekthaninthepreviousdecade.EverytimeIseemyselfplaywiththetipsofmyhair,Iwanttoshankmyselfandflipthemonitortable.InsteadIsmilepolitelyandtellthepost-gameanalysishost,“There,Iwasconsideringknighte5.ButthenIwentford4.Morepressure,Ifigured.”
GoodMorningAmerica,Defnetellsme,didashortpieceonme.NPRrequestedaninterview—TerryGross.I’vebeenaskedforatleasttwentyautographs—which,Irealizearoundtheseventh,arethesamesignaturesIuseatthebankandputmeatsignificantriskforidentitytheft.AnEtsystoresellsT-shirts,sweaters,onesies,withmystylizedfaceonthem.ElenifromtheBBCwearsone.
Peoplemustbeunhinged.Ican’treallycomprehendit.Imightbedissociating,butfocusingonKoch’soldgamesmakesitbetter.Momcallsatnight,askinghowIlikethemountains,andIwanttotellher,IwanttotellhersobadthatmygutsaretwistedandIfeellikecryingandtearingapartthisentirehotelandpeopleneedtostop,stop,stoplookingatmeandaskingmehowmyformisandIwishshewashere,IwishDadwashere,IwishIdidn’tfeelsoalone.
InsteadwetalkaboutSabrina’sbirthdaynextweek,howthebackpackIorderedforhershouldarriveanydayandMomshouldinterceptthepackage.
“I’mafraidthatIalwaysforgettotellyou,”Momsaysintheend,“butIloveyou.AndIcouldn’tbeprouderofyou.”Iwanttosayitback,howmuchIloveherandmissher,notonlyhavinghernear,but…beingsomeone’sdaughter,takencareof,protected.Havingsomeonestandingbetweenmeandtheworld.ButitseemswrongtoaddthatbitoftruthtoalltheliesI’vebeensaying,soIhangupandsitontheedgeofthemattress,headinmypalmslikesometorturedactionherofromaninetiesmovie,thinkingthatIwillhavetotellher.Aboutthechess.ThesecondIgetbackhome,Iwill.Ifshedoesn’tcatchsightofmeonGoodMorningFuckingAmerica.
Idrymyeyesandshuffledownstairstostealasandwichfromtheloungearea.Someoftheotherchallengersaresittingthere,eatinganddrinkingandlaughing.They’reallgoingtobeplayingtomorrow,butthestakesarelowforthem.Theirtournamentisover.
Davies,theBritishguyIbeatondaytwo,noticesmeandbeckonsmecloser.Mypreviousinformalinteractionswithotherchessplayershavetaughtmetojustnot,butIcan’tbelievablypretendIdidn’tseehim.Igotohim,clutchingmycapresepanini,fullyexpectingsomeversionofShedoesn’tevengohere.Thegroupquiets.“Greenleaf,weneedtoaskyousomething.”
Ibracemyself.“Yeah?”
“Afavor.Notaquestion.”
Thebracingintensifies.“What’sthat?”
“CouldyoupleasemassacreKochtomorrow?”
Everyonelaughs.Atme?With?“Excuseme?”
“We’dbereallygratefulifyoucouldhumiliatetheshitoutofhim,”someoneadds.
“Everytimeheloses,adragonshitsagoldbrick.”
“Sexisgood,buthaveyoueverheardKoch’slittlewhinewhenhe’scheckmated?”
“Basically,”Daviescutsthroughtheothers,“wedespisehimasahumanbeingandwe’drevelinanyunhappinessyoucouldprovideforhim.”
“Please,Greenleaf,don’tdoodleonthescoresheet.”
Thistimewheneveryonelaughs,Ijoinin.“Wow.AndthereIwas,thinkingIwasaloneinmyrevulsion.”
“Noway.He’sbeenatotaldickheadtoeverysingleoneofus.”
“Andhisstupidtricks.Whenhetrash-talksduringagamewhileyou’retryingtofocus.”
“Orwhenhestartswalkingincirclesaroundthechessboard.I’mthinkingaboutthenextmoveandhe’smakingmedizzy!”
“You’veonlybeendealingwithhimforafewmonths—wehadtoputupwithhiscolognephase.”
“SauvagebyChristianDior.Jesus.”
“Hebathedinit.”
“I’mprettysurehedrankit.”
Ishakemyhead,laughing.“I’dlovetowin.Ijustdon’tknowifIcan.”
“Youareanalchemist,”Thagard-Vorksayskindly.“Youcandoanythingyouwant,Greenleaf.”Ifeelmyselfflush.
“Hey,Greenleaf.”Kawamura.“AreyouonDiscord?”
“Discord?”
“Themessagingapp.Wehaveaserverwithmostofthetop-twentyplayers.Wetalkchess,gossipaboutFIDE,theusual.I’dlovetosendyouaninvite.”
“Oh.”Iscratchmyneck,lookingaround.Theseguysrangefrommyagetolatethirties.WouldIevenfitin?“I’mnotinthetoptwenty.”
Theylaugh.Someonesays,“Yet,”andtheylaughharder.
“Kochisn’tinit,bytheway.Whichisgreat,sincewehaveawholechanneldedicatedtohim.”
“Andwe’drathercrapglasstwiceadaythanvoluntarilyinteractwithhim.”
“Ourlovelanguageisanti-Kochmemes.”Morelaughter.
“Nolan’salsonotinit.”
“Butwedidinvitehim.Hedeclined.”
“Yeah,wedon’thateSawyer.Thoughhedidusedtobealittleshit,”Peteksays.
“Hejustusedtobeateenager,”Kawamurasays.Morelaughter.Themixofaccentsandintonationsisalmostmusical,anditmakesmefeelalittleuncultured.IbarelyspeakEnglish.Idon’treallyknowthedifferencebetweenlayandlie,andIkeepforgettingwhentostickanapostropheinyour
“ButSawyerisnotimportant,yousee,”Daviesexplains.“Wecan’tbeathim—noonecan,exceptforyou.Soweliketopretendhedoesn’texist.”
Petekclearshisthroatandturnstomeconspiratorially,voicepitchedlow.“Pleasedon’ttellSawyerIsaidthatheusedtobealittleshit.He’sreallyfit,andIhaveawifeandtwobeautifuldaughtersbackhomewhowouldreallymissme.I’mteachingthemtoplaychess,andtheywererootingforyouduringourgame.Theywouldn’tmindanautograph,actually.”
“WhywouldItell…Oh.Oh.No,NolanandI…we’renotreallydating.We’rebarelyfriends.Don’tbelievethepress.”
“Iusuallydon’t.ButIthoughtthatmightbetrue,sinceheshowedupfortheChallengers.Heusuallydoesn’t.Myapologies.Wouldyouliketoseeaphotoofmyfamily?”
Likeit’sbecomingahabitofmine,Ileanforwardtoseethepicture,andpretendIdidn’theartherest.ChapterEighteen
ThematchbetweenKochandmeisdelayed,becausethelive-streamingdemandsarerecordhighandsomethingneedstobedonetoadjustFIDE’swebsite’scapacity.Ittakesabouttwentyminutestofixit,whichIspendinthelounge,eyesclosed.Itrytothinkaboutnothing,butflashesofcriticalpositionspopupbehindmyeyelids,snatchesofearwormsIcannotpurge.
KochandIarealoneonthestage.I’mwearingthelong-sleevedwhitemaxidressthatDarcyandSabrinacall“myCorpseBrideoutfit,”purelybecauseit’sMom’sfavorite.
IthinkIneedahug.
ButIalsothinkImightbeabletowinthis,ifImanagenottogoallBobRossovermyscoresheet.
IdowhatTanil(God,it’scatchy)recommendedandopenwiththeRuyLopez.It’stheopeningKochhastheworsttrackrecordwith,andI’mhappytobeplayingWhite.HeanswerswiththeBerlinvariation,andIreplywiththeanti-Berlin.Acouplemoremoves,andKochcastlesshort.
That’swhentheproblemsstart.
“Touch-move.Bishop,”hesayswhenI’mintheprocesstomovemyknight.
Ilookup.Itis,Irealize,thefirsttimeI’velookedathimsincethegamestarted.Mycontemptforhimisalmostphysical.“Excuseme?”
“Touch-move.Ifyoutouchapiece,youhavetomoveit.Iknowyou’renotfamiliarwithchessrules,but—”
“Ibarelybrushedagainstthebishopwiththebackofmyfinger.”
“That’stouching,isn’tit?”
Theaudiencecannothearus,buttheycanseeustalk,andtherearecuriousmurmurscreepinguptothestage.Kochiswellawarethatthisisastupidmomenttocalltouch-take,butIcanseeexactlywhathewantsmetodo:turntothetournamentdirectorandkickupafuss.SinceI’llbetheonehavingtodefendmyself,he’shopingthatwhateverhappensnextwillupsetmeenoughtodestabilizetherestofmygame.
I’mnotsayinghe’stheworsthumanbeingintheworld.I’msurethereareworseoneshangingouton8chanorontheboardofdirectorsofBritishPetroleum.ButMalteKochis,quitefrankly,theshittiestpersonI’veevermet.
Iexhaleandlookatmybishop.Ididn’tplantomoveit,but…
But.
Defneisafanofattackingthekingwiththebishoppair.Shejustlovesthatstuff,tothepointthatI’vestudiedabunchofgameswithit.Whichmeansthat
Ipressmylipstogetherandadvancemybishop.
“Here,”Ismilesweetly,activatinghisclock.Hiseyeswideninshock,anditfeelsgood.
Igaintheupperhandquickly.Nochancetofinalizethegame,butminutesgoby,thenhours,andI’mtheoneshowingthemostinitiative,dominatingthecenter,buildingattacksonthesides.Kochis,andithurtsmybrainandmyhearttoadmitit,anexcellentpositionalplayer,abletofendoffthelittlelocksIlayout,thethreatsIprepare,thecombinationsIorchestrate.Hedoesn’t,however,thinkasfaraheadasIdo,andit’sjustamatteroftimebeforeIhavehim.
Hemightknowit,too.He’sstartingtogetnervous,judgingbyhowmuchhestandstopacearound.He’safidgetyplayer,butthisisalot,evenforhim.
Ifeelanoptimistic,voracioussortofhopebloominsideme.I’mgoingtodothis.Icandothis.IamgoingtotheWorldChampionship.I’llplayagainst…
Nolan.
It’sincandescent,theblendofjoyandexcitementthatseizesme.Somethingutterlynewandrecklessfinallyallowedthroughthefloodgates.Asimpossibleasitsounds,Ihaven’tletmyselfthinkaboutit,ordreamofit.Ihaven’tadmittedittomyselfbeforenow,howmuchIwanttositacrossfromNolan,achessboardbetweenus.HowmuchIwanttolookhimintheeyeashedoestheastounding,magicalthingsonlyheiscapableof.Iwanttobehisadversary.Iwanttotearhisstrategyapart,Iwanttofieldhisattacksandterrorizehimwithmyown,Iwanttochipateverylittletacticalchoice,tillhelooksatmeandsaysagain,“Doyouknowhowincredibleyouare?”Hewillsmelllikehedidonhiscouch,soapandleatherandsleepandthatuniquescentofhim.Hewillsmile,small,lopsided,andI’llsmilebackathim,andneitherofuswillholdback,anditwillbetheperfectgameto—
Kochsitsbackinhischair,moveshisqueen,startsmyclock.Idropbackintomybrainfromwhateverthatwas.
Ifrown.I’dfiguredhe’dgoformyrook,orbreakafile.ButhemovedhisqueentoapositionIdidnotexpect,soIstudytheboard.Icould—no.He’dcheckmeintwomoves.ButIstillneedtobackmyknight.IfIdon’t…amess.Adisaster.No.Icouldcounterwithmyotherbishop—thoughhewouldeasilyblockthediagonal.Andthere’sthefacthe’llbequeeninginthreemoves.Itwasn’treallyaproblembefore,butnowthathisqueenisthere,itchangeseverything.Icannotreallyfightbackthere.
ButIcanelsewhere,I’msure.
Istartscanningtheboardagain,deconstructingeveryposition,everymove,everycombination,listinglong-rangethreats,analyzingpossibilities,scouringfortheonechoicethatwillendupsavingmyuselessking,surethatit’llbecomeapparentanymomentnow.
Anysecond.
WhenIcomeupforair,fifty-sevenminuteshavepassedontheclock,andIhavenotfoundawayoutofthispin.
Becausethereisnone.
Mymouthisdry.Mythroatstings.IfIweretomoveapiece,myhandwouldshake.
BecauseifIweretomoveapiece,I’dbedoomingmyselftodefeat.
IlookuptoKoch,andIseeitinhiseyes,inhisknowing,cruelsmile:hewasjustwaitingformetocometotherealizationthatit’sover.Iwasrunningincirclesallalong,andhewaswatchingfromthesideline.Triumphant.Entertained.
Iturntotheoverflowingaudience.AseaoffacesI’llneverknow,andmyeyesstumbleonDefne’sfamiliarhair.Shestreakeditpink—sopretty.Iwonderwhatshe’lltellmewhenallofthisisdone.I’msureshehastherightwords.I’mjustsorryshe’llhavetousethem.
Itakealong,deepbreath.ThenIforcemyselftolookbackatKoch,andIforcemyselftosaywhatImust.
“Iresign.”ChapterNineteen
IwonderifthewaitressattheIHOPfindsitweirdthatwe’reshowinguptwelvehourslaterthanourusualtime.Shedepositsourcoffeemugsonthetable,anddoesn’tbataneyeathowobviouslyshell-shockedweallare,orthetightwayI’msandwichedbetweenDefneandTanuinthebooth.Thenshedisappearsintothebowelsofthekitchen,nevertobeseenagain.
Weshouldtipherathousandpercent.
“Impossible.”Acrossfromme,Emilshakeshishead.Hisboardisout,arrangedonthefinalpositionofmymatch.Verytactful,Emil.Whatatriumphofempathyyouare.Consideracareerincounseling,Tanutoldhimwhenhestartedsettingitup,butIshookmyheadandshefellsilent.Theimageisscorchedinmybrainanyway.
“Itwastheperfectmove.”Emil’svoiceishalfreverential,two-thirdshorrified.“Ittiedupyourpieces.Ithadstaggeringlong-rangeimplications.Itpinnedyouractiveandinactivepieces.It’s…I’veneverseenanythinglikethis.DefinitelynotfromKoch.”
Ihatehisname.IhatehowitremindsmeofhissoullessgrinwhenIresigned,ofhisgloatingduringtheendlessmandatorypressconference,ofthedisappointedexpressiononthefacesoftheothercandidates,thewomenintheaudience,evensomeofthereporters.Iknewyou’dshowyourbelly,hewhisperedinmyear.TellSawyerhe’snext.
“Youdidn’tdoanythingwrong,”Defnetellsme.“Youdidn’tmakeanymistakes.Notuntil…Youplayedbeautifully,Mal.”
“Doesitmatter,though?”Iask.Notbitter.Justcurious.
Shesighs.Notreallyistheclearanswer.“Thesecond-placeprizeisstillfiftythousand.Andit’syours.”
Inod.Earningmoneyformyfamilywasalwaysthegoal.Financialsecuritywasthedestination—chess,justthemeanstogetthere,likeanold,beat-upcarIwantednothingtodowithbuthadtorideonmyyellow-brickedquest.InthelasthalfanhourI’vemadeenoughtosolveallourfinancialproblemsandthensome.Ishouldbecelebrating,notsittinginanIHOP,tryingnottoburstintotearsovermystupidhunkofjunkcroaking.
Andyet.
IfeellikeI’mfalling.LikeI’llnevermeetthegroundagain.
“Ifitmakesyoufeelbetter,theentireVIPloungegaspedwhenyouresigned.”Tanusoundsconcerned.IshouldreassureherthatI’mfine,butIcan’ttearmyeyesfromtheblackqueen.“NooneexpectedthisfromKoch.Iswear,theyall…”Shetrailsoff.Atallshadeappearsontheboard,andsomeoneslidesintothebooth,nexttoEmil.
Iglanceupandletoutashakylaugh.Nolaniswearinghisusualjeans-and-shirtcombo.Hishairisstartingtogrowlong,andlikeeverytimeIseehimafterawhileapart,I’msurprisedbyhowmuchroomhetakesup—atthetableandinmyhead.
“Youasshole,”Isaywithoutheat.
Heliftsoneeyebrow.“Uncalled-for.”
“Finallyrevealingyourself.”
“YouknewIwashere.”
UntiltenminutesagoI’dhavedeniedit,butyes.AndIlikedtheidea,thoughI’mnotgoingtoadmitittohimortomyself.There’sbeenenoughsoul-searchingfortoday.Timetoengageinsomesoulditching.
“Wedidn’ttellher,”Tanuhurriestosay.
“Sheknewanyway.”Nolandoesn’tlookather.Hedoesn’tlookatanyonebutme,andIfeelbloodinmycheeks.
“Idid.Itwasthatfishysmell.”
Helaughs,lowanddeep,andafterasecondI’mlaughing,too,andtheotherslookatuslikewe’rebananas.Whichwemightbe.
“ThoughtsonKoch?”Defneaskshimwhenwe’redone.She,too,seemsunsurprisedbyhispresence.
“Ihopehesitsonhisballs,”hesays.“Asidefromthat,none.”
“Really?Nothoughtsaboutthismanyouflewcross-countrytocreepat?”
“NotwhyIcametoVegas.”Heshrugs.“Koch’sthehumanequivalentofadirtytoiletbrush,andhasn’tchangedinthetenyearsI’veknownhim.Wouldyoulikemorehottakes?”
PartofmeissurprisedtohearNolanandDefnebickerlikethey’vebeenacquaintedtheirentirelife.Butitdoesn’tgettoaskfollow-upquestionsbecauseoftheotherpartofme,whichistoobusywallowing.
“Butwhatdidyouthinkofthegame?”Defneinsists,andsomethingshiftsinNolan’seyes,somethingthatmightbedisappointment,displeasure,disenchantment.Thefeelingoffallingmorphsintoanuglier,colderone.
“ThatI’dliketotalkaboutwithMalloryalone.Couldwehavesomeprivacy?”
Defnesnorts.“I’mnotleavingyoualonewithher.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Notananswer.”
“She’smyresponsibility.”
“Shecanspeakforherself.Andyourealizewe’vebeenalonetogetherbefore,right?Onmultipleoccasions.”
“Notlikethat,”Ihastentosay.“Notalonelikethat.”Everyoneisgivingmeweirdlooks,andIdon’tknowwhyI’mblushing.Nolanshouldbetheflusteredone.That’shisjob.
Defnelooksatme.“DoyouwanttotalktoNolan,Mal?Justthetwoofyou?”
No.Yes.No.“Yes.”
“I’llwalkherbacktothehotel,”hesays.“Noneedtostickaround.”
Ittakessomeshuffling,butweendupaloneatthebooth—us,Emil’sboard,andsixdifferentflavorsofwafflesyrup.Ilookattheblackqueenagainandwaitforhimtospeak.
Maybehe’llsaythathewaswrongaboutme,thatIwasneverincredible,thathewon’tbetextingmeadviceanymore.I’mtemptedtojustifymyself,toapologize,tosaythatIdidmybest,andifit’snotenough,well.ThismightnotbethefirsttimethatI’mnotenough,butithurtsjustlikealltheothers.
Buthesaysnothing.Hishandtravelsacrossthetable,andIthinkhe’llcoverthebackofminewithhispalm.Instead,hetwinesourfingerstogether.
Asimple,loosetouch.Barelyatouch,really,butitwarmsmeandgroundsme,justenoughtolookupathimwhenhesays,“Bemysecond.”
“I…what?”
“Bemysecond.”
“Nolan.”Ishakemyhead,confused.“Youhaveamillionseconds,youcan’twantmeto—”
“Ihavefive.AndIwantyou.”
Mytemplesthrob.“Why?”
“TheWorldChampionshipisinFebruary.IneedtotraintodefeatKoch.Ineedyou.”
“No.”KochisnotNolan’srival,he’shisenemy.Iletdownbothofusbylosing.“Youdon’tneedme.Youprobablydon’tevenneedtoprepagainstKoch.Ijustlosttohim,soI’mthelastpersonyoushould—”
“Ididn’tseeit,either.”
Mybreathcatches.
“Thequeen.Iwatchedthegame,andIwasasdefenselessasyou,Mallory.I…”Heswallows.“Ididn’tseeitcoming,andthenIdidn’tseeawayoutofit.Iwouldhaveresigned,too.”
Iexhale.“Howisitpossible?Youbeathimafewmonthsago.”
“Idon’tknow.It’snotunheard-offorplayerstoimproveyearsintotheirtrainingandmakebigjumps.Butthis…thiswasachess-engine-levelmove.Perfectlydesignedtodisrupteverysingleaction,everysingleinitiativeyouhadgoingon—andyouwereplayingsomefuckinggreatchess.Itwassomethingacomputerwouldcomeupwith.”Nolanisdistressed.Ialwaysthoughtofhimasahothead,butit’sthefirsttimesincewemetthatheseemsgenuinelyupsetaboutsomething.Genuinelyinsecure.“Mallory,ifthat’sthelevelheplaysat,he’sgoingtowintheWorldChampionship.”
Hisfingersarestillsolid,stillwarmagainstmine.
“ButIdidn’tmakeit,either.”
“Iknow.Butlet’sfigureitouttogether.”Heleansforward,eyesburningintomine.“Bemysecond.Helpmetakethatpieceofshitdown.”
“I…ifIbecomeyoursecond,won’tIbetrainingwithyouallthetime?I’llknoweverything.I’llbesofamiliarwithyourstyle,you’llhaveahardtimetakingmebysurpriseagain.IfIbecomeyoursecond,I’llknowyou.”
Thereisabeautiful,indecipherablehalfsmileonhislips.“YouthinkIdon’twantyoutoknowme?”
“Nolan…”
Ioverturnourhandsandlookdownathispalm.It’ssomuchlargerthanmine.Thelinesandgrooves,sodeep.Soeasytotracewithmyfingertips,tofollowtothesource.
I…Ijustdon’tknow.Ifit’sabadidea.IfI’mgoodenough.Whatthisis,thisluminous,tetheringthingthatalwaysseemstopullmeclosertoNolan.Idon’tknowifIcanstandtobenearhim,andIdon’tknowifIcanstandnottobe.
Idon’tknowanything,butthere’ssomethingIneedtoask.
“Nolan?”
“Hmm?”
“WhydidyoucometoVegas?”
Hisfingerstightenaroundmine.Myheartcartwheels.
“Mallory.Icamebecauseyoudid.”ChapterTwenty
“—ifyougorookg5—”
“—thenthebishop—”
“—butthatpawn—”
“—ing7—”
“—no,ifyouwanttokeepyourkingsafe—”
“—there’sthisthingcalledcastlingthat—”
“Um…hey,guys?”
NolanandIturntoTanuwithtwoaggressive,annoyed,simultaneous,“What?”
Sheleansin,handsonthedoorframe,moreskepticalthanintimidated.Herhairisupinamessybun,andanoversizedkoalaonesiehangsfromhertallframe.She’swearingglasses,whichmeansshetookouthercontactsfortheday,whichmeansthat…
“It’selevenforty.You’vebeeninthesamepositionsincetwoandseemtobedoinggreat,butincaseyoudecidethattheheroicfeatsofamidcenturyUkrainianGrandmasterarenotnourishingenough,there’schickenpotpieinthefridge.”
Nolanscowls.“Whydidn’tyouguyscallusfordinner?”
“Wedid.Threetimes.Eachtime,youbothjustgrunted.IrecordeditandmixeditwithDragosteaforTikTok.Wannaseeit?”
“Goodnight,Tanu,”hesays.Sheknowshimwellenoughtoscurryawaywhenhestands.“Let’seat.”
“Wait.”Istophimwithatugofhisshirt.“Weneedtofinishthis—”
“Youneedtoeat.Comeon.”
WhenItoldDarcythatI’dbespendingpartofDecemberandJanuaryatNolan’shouseinupstateNewYork(yes,heownsone;yes,Ididmutter“Eattherich”whenheinformedme),shegavemeaskepticallookandasked,“Isitwise,togotoacabininthewoodswiththeKingkiller?”It’sbeenweeks,andI’mstillnotsurewhattheansweris.IsitonthekitchencounterandobserveNolanasheeatsstandingup,businesslike,brisk,asthoughshovelingcoalintoafurnace,mindclearlystillonthegamewewereanalyzing.
It’saweinspiring,hisdiscipline.
Hewakesupearlier,fallsasleeplater,worksharderthananyoneI’veeverseen.Therigorsheputshimselfthrough,thesingle-minded,indefatigablestubbornnessashestaresattheengines,dissecting,retracing,combining,projecting.He’stireless,unshakable.Driveninanindomitable,near-obsessiveway.Thisiron-hardtenacityofhisisanoddlyattractivequality.
Notthatheneedsmoreofthose.
Hehasfiveotherseconds:TanuandEmil,whoarestayingatthehouse,andthreeothermaleGMsintheirthirties,expertsonopeningsandpawnstructure,whocomeandgoafewtimesaweek.Nolantrainswithallofus—problemstosolve,Kochgamestoanalyze,hisownoldgamestorunthroughsoftwareandmineforweaknesses—buthistimewiththeothersseemsalmostlikeanafterthought.Briefinterludesintheseaofhisdays,whicharespentwithme.
It’sbecausetherearethingstheydon’tsee.CombinationsandtacticsthateludethemandseemtoclickonlyinmyandNolan’sheads.“Let’sjustgowatchDoomPatrolwhilethegrown-upswork,”Emilsaidonenight,afteritbecameclearthatnoonecouldkeepupwithus.
Butthere’ssomethingelse,too.Ipadbarefootacrossthehardwoodfloorfirstthinginthemorning,knowingI’llfindhiminthebreakfastnook,readytotellhimaboutwhateverrevelationIhadduringmysleep;hiseyesscaneveryroomheenters,quietonlywhentheysettleonme,andsometimesIhavetheurgetoleanforwardtoflattenthecurlsgrowingonthenapeofhisneck.
Westilldon’tplayagainsteachother.Westudy,analyze,dissect,reenactotherpeople’schess,butweneverplayamatchthat’sours.Andyet…Somethingishappening,butIdon’tknowwhat.Thisthingbetweenusislayered,complicated,fracturedunlikeanythingI’veexperiencedbefore.Itlacksthecozinessofafriendship,theeaseofahookup,thedistanceofeverythingelse.
MaybeNolanshouldjustbesomeguy:notarival,notafriend,notmorethanafriend,justsomeguywhoplaysgoodchess.Someguywho’sinmyheadandactsasthoughIliveinhisown.
“CanIborrowyourcartomorrow?”Iask.We’reaboutonehourfromPaterson.I’vebeenvisitinghomeonceaweekorso.Christmas,NewYear’s.WheneverMomneedsme—which,withthenewmedswe’vebeenabletoafford,isnotalot.ShethinksI’mmakinggoodmoneyandsparingmyselfthecommutebytakingnightshiftsattheseniorcenter,and…well.Themoneypart,atleast,istrue.Nolanpayshissecondswell.
“Sure.Whereareyougoing?”
“Homefortheday.Darcy’sbirthday.”
Hereachesforadinnerroll.“CanIcome?”
“Don’tyouhaveto,like,analyzeCapablanca’sfirst-grademacaroniart?”
Heshrugs.“It’smyfreeday.”
“Andyouwanttospenditatathirteen-year-old’sbirthdaydinner.”
“Willtherebemeatloaf?”
“I’msureMomcanscroungeupsome.”Iscanhisface.Hishandsome,ever-so-familiarface.“Don’tyouwanttospendyourfreedaywithTanil?”
Helookspained.“Notyou,too,withtheshipname.Besides,myroomisnexttotheirs.Theywon’tmissmeatall.”
EmilandTanuareonagain—asallnon-hearing-impairedindividualsontheEastCoastnodoubtknowbynow.“Theyareloud.”
“That,ortheyhavesextowhalenoises.”
Ilaugh.“Still.Youcould…goskiing?Wearcufflinks?Bepositivelyaghast?Whateveritisthatyourichpeoplewithvacationhomesdo.”
Hegivesmeadirtylook,buthedoescomeover,andmysistersareashappytoseehimasthey’dbeJungkook.IthinkabouttheinterviewIsawofhimyearsago,howsternandguardedheseemed,andIcanbarelyrecognizetheopen-smiledboywhogivesDarcyaPetSmartgiftcard,letsSabrinashowhimtwohoursofrollerderbyvideos,raisesoneeyebrowattheMayochuponourtable.
“How’sEaston?”MomaskswhileIcleanthekitchen.
“Great,”Ilie.Myheartcurlsintoitselfalittle.Truthis,Ihavenoidea.ShespenttheholidaysinDelawarewithhergrandparents,andIhaven’tseenherorheardhervoiceinoverfourmonths.BasedonmyInstagramstalking,Isuspectshe’sdatingsomeonenamedKim-ly.Icouldask,butitfeelslikeadmittinghowapartwe’vefallen,sinceonceuponabettertimesheusedtotextmepicturesofallhermeals.
“He’sgoodwiththem,”shesays,lookingatNolanfixingSabrina’sbrokenPolaroidinthelivingroom.“Mustbethecaregivingexperienceattheseniorcenter.Ibethe’sgreatatreadingromancenovelstotheelderly,withthatvoice.”
Ofcourse,Ichickenedoutoftellingherthetruth.I’mnotgoingtotheWorldChampionship,whichmeansthatmediainterestinmehasmeltedlikesugarinhotwater.I’mnobody.Nobodiesdon’tneedtohurtpeoplewithuncomfortabletruths.
“Yeah.Hereallybringsturgidmanhoodstolife.”
Momlaughssoftly.“Youguysstillnottogether?”
“Nope.”
“Yousure?”
Iturntofaceher.“Ofcourse.”Idon’thavecommittedrelationshipexperience,butIdoknowthatit’snotacontinuum.Eitheryou’reinone,oryou’renot.Andifyouare,youknowyouare.Howcouldone—
“Excuseus.”Warmhandsclosearoundmywaistandshiftmeaninchtomakeroominthekitchendoor.“Darcyisgoingtoteachmehowtomakeacupcake.”
“Mugcake,”Darcycorrectshimwithapatientsigh.“Mom,dowehaveanysugar?”
Mom’seyesdiptoNolan’shand,stillpressedagainstmylowerback,thenliftuptomeetmine.ShetellsDarcy,“Inthecupboardnexttothefridge,”hersmileknowingandvery,veryannoying.
Sabrinadoesn’ttalktomeonce,butImanagetocornerherinherroomjustbeforeleaving.“Everythingokay?”Iask.Asearlyasweeksago,thepictureabovehernightstandwasofmegivingherapiggybackrideinapumpkinpatch.Nowit’sacollage:herderbyteam,someschoolfriends,evenaPolaroidofMomandDarcymakingfaces.
I’vebeendeleted.
“I’msorryIhaven’tbeenaround.ButI’mearningreallygoodmoneywiththisovernightthing.”
“Goodforyou,”shesaysdistractedly,rummaginginherdrawer,lookingforaderbyT-shirtshepromisedNolansinceit’stoobigonmeanyway.
“HowhasMombeen?”
“Fine.”
“Right.AndDarcy?”
“Good.She’sactuallyalmostbearablewhenyouaren’taround.Youmustbeabadinfluence.”
Istifleaneyeroll.“Andyou?”
“Fine.”
Isigh.“Sabrina,canIhaveyourattentionforsixtyseconds?”
Shefinallylooksup.Annoyed.“Mom’sfine.Darcy’sfine.I’mfine.Theentiredamnworldisfine.”
“I’mserious.IrelyonyoutomanthefortandtellmeifI’mneeded,so—”
“Oh,nowyoucare?”Herblueeyesshinewithtears.Forasecond,Iseegenuinehurtinthem,andmyheartlurchesinmychest.Butit’sallgoneinablink,andherexpressionsuddenlyturnshalfuncaring,halfhard.MaybeIimaginedalltherest
“Excuseme?”Iask.
Shewalkstome.Istillhaveacoupleofinchesonher.Willshegrowmore?God,she’sfifteen.“We’refine,Mal.Wecanfunctionwithoutyou.”
“Well,lasttimeIleft,youseemedprettyupset,so—”
“We’refine.Youcanputyourpowertripaway.Nooneneedsto‘manthefort.’Mom,Darcy,andIarepeopleandcantakecareofourselves.We’renotpetsyouneedtofeedandwalk.”Shestepspastme,T-shirtinhand.Asurgeofirritationcoursesthroughme—seriously?Seriously?DoIdeservethis?—andIslapthedoorframe.Itonlygetsmeasplinterstuckinmypalm.
Whenweleave,theywaveatusfromtheporch.“Comebacksoon,Nolan,”Darcyyells.
“Anddon’tfeellikeyouneedtobringMallorywithyou,”Sabrinaaddsarchly
“What’supwiththat?”Nolanasksoncewe’reontheroad.
“Youmean,withthewaymysisterwouldlovetodrownmeinabarrelofmead?”
Hismouthtwitches.“Ididsensesomeanimosity.”
“I’mnotsure.”Isigh.“I’mdoingmybestwithher.Imakesureshehaseverythingsheneedsandnothingtoworryabout.”
“Maybethat’stheproblem.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Whenyou’rewithyoursisters,youactlikethey’reyourresponsibility.Likeyou’retheirparent,almost.ItworkswithDarcy,butSabrinamightfinditinfantilizing.”Heshrugs.“Maybeshejustwantsyoutobehersister.”
“Whatdoyouevenknowaboutsisters?”
“Nothing.Whatdoyouknowaboutdefensiveness?”
Icannothelplaughing,andthenwefallquietforawhile.Nolandriveslikeheplays,steadyandfocused,andforonceIdon’tfeelantsyfornotbeingatthewheel.Iletmyeyeswanderoverthehaloofthestreetlights,thesnowweighingdownthepinetrees,hisfirmhandasheshiftsgears,likehe’smovingabishopacrosstheboard.
He’sthinkingaboutchess.He’sthinkingabouttheKochgameweanalyzedthismorning,theonewiththeQueen’sGambitthathelosttoDaviesthreeyearsago.Iknowit.NotsurehowIknowwhat’sinNolan’shead,orwhenitstarted,buthereIam.Knowing.
“Knighte5wasastupidmove,”Isay.
Hedoesn’tskipabeat.“Koch’sattacksbackfirealot.Well.”Heshrugs.“Backfired.Beforeheatespinachandgotanupgrade.”
“Itmightbeagoodstrategy,luringhimintobecomingaggressive.”
“Yeah.”
IthinkwistfullyaboutthetacticsI’duseagainstNolanifIwerethechallenger.He’ssuchanunpredictableplayer,alwaysthinkingoflong-termadvantages,ofseeminglysilentmovestoexploitlater,unexpectedly.I’veheardcommentatorssaythatourstylesaresimilar,butIthinkwe’reoceansapart.Iliketostranglemyopponent,wearthemdownslowly,drainthemofactiveplayandattackpossibilitiesonebyone,untilit’sjustus—meandtheirking.
ButNolanwouldknowhowtodealwithme.Whattobeonthelookoutfor.Tobeathim,I’dhavetolearntoletgoofminutepositionaladvantagesandtakemoreovertrisks,earlieron.Iwatchhimstretchhisneck,strongmusclestensingunderhisskin,andthinkthatmaybeitwouldwork,seducinghimintoablunder.Maybeitwouldn’t,butitwouldkeephimonhistoes.He’dgivemeoneofthoselong,knowinglooks.Smile,even.He’dsmileatme,andI’dgettosmilebackasItookhisking.
Itsoundslikeadream.Athingimagined.
“Darcypulledmeintoyourroom,”hesays,“andconspiratoriallywhisperedthatshe’s‘intheknow.’?”
“UnlikeMomandSabrina,shegoogles.Probablyhangsoutonthedarkweb.SignsupGoliathforPiggie-Tinder.”
“Sheaskedmetoteachhertoplaychess.”
“Darcy?”Iperkup.“Forreal?”
“Shesaidit’s…hotshitgirl?”
Ilaugh.“Hotgirlshit.Youshouldreallytrytobeonlinealittle.”Mostoftheothertop-tenplayershaveTwitchandYouTubechannels.Nolan:TwitterandInstagram—bothwithNOTDIRECTLYMANAGEDBYNOLANSAWYERwritteninallcapsinthebio.IbethissocialmediaguygotsickofpeopleDMinghimnudes.“Whyareyounotonline,anyway?”
“I’monlinewaytoomuch.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Therearepicturesofseven-year-oldmemininghisnoseforboogerswhileplayingNakamura.Throwingatantrumlikeawhinybratafteralossatfourteen.”
“Oh.”
“Weallhaveembarrassingphasesgrowingup,butminewereimmortalized.Whoever’sonlinelookingformealreadyhasplentytofind.”
IrememberEmil’swords:It’snoteasy,growingupasaprodigyinfrontofthecameras.“Doyoumindit?Your…troublemakerreputation.”
“Youmean,totalpieceofshit?”Helaughssoftly.“It’sdeserved.Iwasone.Icanonlytrytobedifferentinthefuture.”
He’ssucceeding,too.Itrytorecallrecentincidentsandcomeupempty.“Youstillgetmadatthepeoplewhobeatyou.”
“Isthatwhatyouthink?”Heshakeshishead.“Igetfuriousatmyself.Formakingmistakes.FornotbeingthebestIcanbe.Andeverytimeyoublunder,youfeelthesame.”
“Nottrue.I—”
Hegivesmeasidelook,andIfallquiet.Whatever.
“IshowedDarcyhowthepiecesmove,”hesaysquietly.
“How?”
“Shehadasetunderherbed.Pinkandpurple.”
Iclosemyeyes.Aknottightensinmybelly.“IthoughtI’dgottenridofthat.”
“Youshouldteachheryourself.”
“Whatdoessheneedtolearnfor?”
“Shewantsto.Sheidolizesyou.”
Isnort.“ShecallsmeMallopeeandconstantlymakesme‘LamestGreenleaf’graphicsinPhotoshop—whichIillegallydownloadedforher,bytheway.Ingrate.”
“Shewantstobelikeyou.”
“I’llneverteachher.”
“Why?”
Iturnaway.Theroadisdeserted,andthepinesarebecomingthicker.“Chessisabadidea.”
“Why?”
“Lookwhereitgotme.”
“Itgotyouhere.Tome.”
Bloodrushestomycheeks,buthistoneismatter-of-fact,notsuggestive.Hedoesn’tmeanitlikethat.Hemeans…Idon’tevenknow.
“Itwasyouwhosawhim,wasn’tit?”Nolanasks.Ilookbackathim,puzzled.
“What?”
“Yourfather.Somethinghappenedbetweenhimandthatwoman—thatarbiterattheOlympics.Youfoundout.Yourmomkickedhimout.I’massumingyouwereestrangedforafewyears.Andlaterhisaccidenthappened.”
Istraighten.Theseatbelttightensintomysweater.“How—howdoyouknow?Whendidyou—?”
“Ididn’t.ButIrememberedsomerumorsgoingaroundthetournamentcircuitatthetime.AboutArchieGreenleaf.Therest…Ijustguessed.”
“Youguessed?How?”
“Littlethings.YourreactionattheOlympics.Youobviouslylovechessbuttalkyourselfintothinkingthatit’saloathsomething.Youfeelresponsibleforyourfamily,notjustyoursistersbutyourmother,too.”Histoneiseven,idle,likehe’sreadingaboringtextbooktotherestoftheclass.“Youconstantlyactlikeyou’reguiltyofsomethingawful.Likeyoudeservenothingbutscrapsforyourself.”
Me.Theboringtextbook—it’sme
“BecauseIamguilty,”Iblurtout.Surprisingmyself.It’snotsomethingI’veverbalizedoutloudtoanyonebefore.ButifIhadn’ttoldMomaboutHeatherTurcotte,ifDadhadn’tlefthome,ifhehadn’thadareasontobedrivingdrunkat3:00a.m….If.If.
If.
“Didyouknow,”hesaysconversationally,“thatIwasthereasonmygrandfatherwasinstitutionalized?”
“Whatdoesthis…No.Ididn’t.”
“He’dbeenactingweirdforawhile.He’dsayanddoreallyinappropriatestuff,sometimesinpublic.Myparentshadgottenwindofit,butIthinktheyjustchalkedituptomygrandfatherbeingold.AndIwasstayingwithhimalotatthetime,soIcoveredforhimwhenIcould.Ihonestlythoughthejustneededtosleepmoreorsomeshitlikethat.Butthen…itwashisbirthday.Iwenttohisapartment,theoneyou’vebeento.Iwalkedupstairs—samedoormanasnow,hedoesn’tgiveashit—andletmyselfin.Ihadapresentforhim,achesssetI’dmade.Ninemonthsofwoodworking.”
Hesignalsrightandtakestheexit.Wemustbehome.Nearly.“We’dmetthedaybefore.Wemeteverysingleday,butthistimehedidn’trecognizeme.Orhedid,butthoughtIhadbadintentions.I’llneverknow,Ifigure.Hewasn’taviolentman,buthehadaknife.Isawhimtakeitoutoftheblockandthoughthewantedto…chopcelery?Ican’tfuckingremember.Butinsteadhestaredintomyeyes,ranatme,andthecutwasdeep.Ineededstitches,whichmeantgoingtothehospital,whichmeantfilingareport,andthatwasit.Myfatherhadtheammoheneededtolockhimup.Saiditwasforthebest,andmaybeitwas,butthat’snotwhyhewasdoingit.He’dalwayshatedhisfatherforcaringmoreaboutchessthanheeverdidabouthim.”
Hisvoiceisclinical.Likehe’sturnedthisstoryinhismindsomuch,toldittohimselfsooften,it’samemorizedthingbynow.Hethinksaboutiteveryday.Everyhour.Iknowthis,becauseI’minhishead.“I’mtheonewhogavemyfatherthatpower.Andmygrandfatherdiedinthatinstitution,medicatedtohiseyeballs.It’sthelastthinghewanted,andit’ssomethingIhavetolivewitheverysecondofeveryday.Sowhenyoutalkaboutguilt—”
“What—no.No.”Itwisttowardhim.Theseatbeltdigsintomybreast.“It’snotyourfault.Youdidwhatyoucould,consideringthatyouwere—Howoldwereyou?”
“Iwasfourteen.Howoldwereyou,whenyousawyourfather?”
Iclosemyeyes.Becauseit’snotthesame.Atall.Buthemakesitsoundlikeitmightbe,andIdonotdeservetobeletoffthehookand—
SuddenlyIamfurious.Explosively,incandescentlyfurious.
He—hemanipulatedme.Hepretendedtoself-disclose,andinsteadturnedmeinto…whateverthehellthisis.Hesacrificedhisqueentocheckmateme,andhowdarehe?HowdarehecomeintomyhomeandanalyzemyfamilyasthoughwewereaMorphygame?
“Fuckyou,Nolan.”
Hisexpressionisindecipherableandunsurprised.“DidIsaysomethinguntrue?”
“Fuckyou.Whatdoyouevenknowaboutfamilies?”
“Isthattheproblem?ThatwhatIsaidistrue?”
“Stoptryingto—totrapme.Tocheckmateme.Youmightwanttoplaychessagainstmemorethananything,butitdoesn’tgiveyoutherightto—”
“Notmorethananything,”hemurmurswithalingeringglance.Iignorehim,enraged.
“Isthatwhat’shappening?Youwanttowinagainstmesobadthatyou’llscorepointshoweveryoucan?Tic-tac-toe?Takingcheapshotsatmyfamily?”
“It’snot—”
“Nobodygotstabbedinmyfamily.Icouldhavekeptmymouthshut,andthingswouldhavebeenfine.Itcouldhavebeenmysecrettokeep,myburden,andnoonewouldhaveknownorsufferedforit.Momwouldhavehadhealthinsurance,andmysisterswouldhavehadthefamilytheydeserved,andDadwouldbealive—”Istop.Takeadeep,shudderingbreath.“Youdon’tknowme,ormysisters,ormymom,andyoumostcertainlydidnotknowmydad.Sodon’ttrytopretendyouandIaresimilarinanyway,orlikewhatIdidiscomparabletowhathappenedtoyou.”
“You’renotbeingfairtoeitherofus,”hesayscalmly.Maybehe’sright,butI’mpastcaring.
“Youknowwhat?”Theseatbeltcutsintomythroat.I’moverflowingwithangernow,angerat…atNolan.Let’ssayNolan.“Screwthisshit.We’regoingtoplay.Tonight.We’regoingtoplaythisstupidchessgame,andyou’llquitthearmchairpsychology.”
“I—”Hestops,registeringwhatIsaid.Histhroatworks.“You’renotserious.”
“Ifyou’renotinterested—”
“Iam.”Hesoundseager.Young.“Iam.”Thenhe’ssilent,asthoughhe’safraidtospookme,thatI’llchangemymind.Hebarelylooksatmeuntilafterthecarisparked,thepassengerdoorslammedclosed,ourcoatstossedinacornerofthelivingroom.Weusuallyworkacrossfromeachother,buthesetstheboardonthecoffeetable,andwesitsidebysideonthecouch.Becausethisisnotananalysisofsomeoneelse’sgame,anditneedstobeclear.
It’smidnight.Theheathasbeenoffforhours,butIdon’tfeelcold.“Okay?”heasks,serious,makingsurethisgameisconsensual.
Youknowwhatwasn’tconsensual?Thestuffyousaidaboutmydad.
“YoucanbeWhite,”Isay,cutting,expecting—wantinghimtobeoffended.
“Thankyou,”hereplieswithnotraceofirony.“I’mgoingtoneedthat.”
Itmakesmehatehimevenmore,andsodoeshisstupidopening—pawntoe4.IanswerwiththeSicilian.Irollmyeyesandputmyknightinc6,justtoderailhim,somenichelineIvaguelyrememberstudyingwithDefne—RossolimoVariation.
Lotsofpressure,veryfast,andhedoesn’tcare,doesn’thesitate,doesn’tevenblinkinthedimlights.Hisforeheadissmooth.Handssteady.Hiskneebrushesagainstmine,noteverymove,butsometimes.Hedoesn’tseemtonotice,andIhatehim.Ifeelclumsy,alumbering,unwieldy,brokenbeastnexttohim.Ifeelraw,see-through,brokenopen,likehecanreachinsidemyskullandplucksharp,painfulshardsofmypastandmakemebleedwiththem.
ThenIloseapawn,andIfeelstupid,too.
“Fuck,”Imutter.
“It’sjustapawn,”hemurmurswithoutlookingup.
“Shutup.”Iadvancemyknightwithshakyfingers,andthenit’snotjustapawn.Ileftmybishopuncovered,screwedupmycastlingopportunities.IwatchNolanunhurriedlytakemypieceandimmediatelyattackhimfromthesidewithmyrook—I’mgoingtomakehimhurt.Except,Iknockovertwopiecesandcompletelyoverlookthewayhisqueeninchestowardmykingandfuck,fuck,fuck—
“Mallory.”Hishandcoversmine,trappingitonmyknee.Ilookuptohishandsome,hatefulface.“I’msorryaboutwhatIsaid.Iwasoutofline.”
Idon’twanttohearit.“Let’sfinish.”
“Idon’tknowhowthingswentwithyourfather—”
“Let’s.Finish.”
Heshakeshishead.
Ilaugh,bitter.“You’vesupposedlybeenpiningforthisgameformonths—”
“That’snotwhatI’vebeenpiningfor,andyoucanstoplyingtoyourselfaboutit.Idon’twanttoplaywithyoulikethis.”
“Sonowyouneedperfectconditionstoplay?ShouldIrearrangethefurniture?Sagetheroom?Letmeknowwhatyouresteemedrequirementsare,whatyouwant,and—”
“YouknowwhatIfuckingwant,Mallory?”Heleansforward,suddenlyfurious.“Iwantyoutonotbehere.”
Igaspinoutrage.“Screwyou!Youaskedmetobeyoursecond—”
“Iwantyoutobeelsewhere.Trainingwithyourownsecondsinpreparationforme.SowecanplayarealmatchinItaly.Therealthing.”Hiseyesblaze.Hishandisstillflatonmine.Pressing.Warm.“Yourpresenceinthishousemightbewhatgetsmeupinthemorning,butwecanstoppretendingthissituationisanythinglikewhateitherofuswantsorneeds.”
Iclosemyeyes.Heisright.This…It’swrong.Allwrong.
“Itwasouronlychance,”Iwhisper.“AndIfuckeditup.”JustlikeIfuckupeverything.Friendships.Families.
“Therewillbeothertournaments.”Nolantakesadeep,calmingbreath.“Intwoyearsthere’llbeanotherWorldChampionship—”
“I’mnotgoingtobedoingthispastthesummer.”
Heswallows.“Okay.Well…Itiswhatitis.”Heglancesaway.Thenturnsbacktome,hisexpressionsofter.“Iamsorry.You’reright—Idon’tknowanythingaboutfamilies.Please,acceptmyapologysoyoucanstopplayingtheworstgameofyourlife.Let’sjust…let’sgotosleep.We’retired.”
Ilookdownattheboard.Black’spositionisanamateurish,recklessmess.“God,what’swrongwithme?”
“Transientglobalamnesia,onecanonlyimagine.”
Iletoutalaugh,andmyangermeltslikesnowinthesun.Helaughs,too,andIcanfeelthewarmthofhisbreathagainstmycheek.We’rethatclose.
“I’msorry.Forthisgame.”
Therearelittlespecksofgoldinhiseyes.Hehasfreckles,lightandscattered,justahandful,andtheylook…pretty.Yummy.“Youshouldbesorry.”
Ichuckle.Clearmythroat.“Youmightwanttomoveaway.Sincethereareotherpeopleinthishouse.”
Heseemsconfused.“And?”
“Theycouldcomein.Thinkwe’vebeenmakingoutorsomething.”
Hesmiles.“They’remorelikelytothinkwe’vebeenmurderingeachotheroveranenpassant—”
Mybrainshort-circuits.Maybeit’sthelatehour,orhowIjustdroppedmyknightlessthantenmovesintoamortifyinggame.Maybeit’sNolan’sclean,familiarsmell.AllIknowisthatonemomentI’mlookingathim,andthenextI’mnot—becauseI’veleanedforwardandpressedmymouthagainsthisina..
Akiss.
There’snowayaroundit.That’swhatit’scalled,thisclumsy,juvenilepeck.I’mkissingNolanSawyer,and—
Ijerkback,appalled.“I’msorry.I’msosorry,I—”Ishoottomyfeet.Mykneeknocksovertheboard,scatteringthepieces.Iliftmyfingerstomymouth,and—itfeelsweird.
Different.Changed.
“Mallory.”
“Idon’tknowwhyIdidthat.I’mjust—I’msososorry.”NolanstareslikeI’mthecenterofgravityoftheroom,likenothingelseeverexistedbutmeinallofspaceandtime.Itmakesmyheartbeatinmythroat,itmakesmewanttokisshimagain,itmakesmewanttorunthehellaway.“Sorry,I—”
“Touch-takerule,”hemurmurs.Hestands,too.EverystepbackItakeisoneforwardforhim.
“I—What?”
“Youtouchedme.Can’tstopnow.Touch-takerule.”
“I…Thisisnotchess.”Mybackhitsanobstacle.“Icanalwaysstop.”
“Thenjustdon’t.”Hishandscomeuptocupmyface.Hetowersoverme,cagesmeagainstthewall,andI…Idon’tmind.Whichscaresme.“Please,Mallory.”
“Thisis…Weshouldfinishthegame.Yousaidyouwantedtoplay.”
“IsaidtherewerethingsIwantedmore.”
Isqueezemyeyesshut,butNolanissohere—Icansmellhim,feelhimineveryporeofmybeing.“Weren’tyoutheonewhochoseKasparovovergettinglaid?”Isay,petulant,whiny.WhenIopenmyeyes,hissmileisfaint.
“Andyouthinkit’sbecauseIwanttoplayyoulessthanIdidKasparov?”
“Ofcourse.Whyelse—Oh.”Iclosemyeyesagain.“Oh.”
“CanIkissyou?”
“Butourgame—”
“Iresign.Youwin.CanIkissyou?”
“No!Imean…why?”
“BecauseIwantto.”He’sbeingpatient.WhyamIbeingatotalwreckwhileheisbeingpatient?“Youdon’t?”
“I…”
Ido?It’snotabigdeal.Nolan’seasilythemostattractiveguyI’veevermet,andI’mnotoneofthosekissingistoointimate,let’sdoitfrombehindTinderweirdos.I’vedonealotofthings,andregretnoneofit.Sowhat’sstoppingme?
Maybeit’sthatIwantittoomuch,Ithink.AndthenIhearmyselfsayitaloudasmytoespushup,andI’mdoingthatoddthingagain—thatlightpeckonhislipsthatmakesmefeellikeI’mthirteenandsneakingbehindthegym.ButthistimeIdon’thavetoslapmyselfforbeingatotalweirdo,becauseNolankissesmeback.
He’snotgoodatit.Notimmediately.Notbad,butthereisanairymomentofhesitance,ofsuspendeddisconnect,whenIthinkthekissjustwon’tworkout.Notmeanttobe.Twoshipspassinginthenight,goingtheirseparateways,anarrowmiss.
Butthenhedoessomething.Tiltshishead,maybe.Adjustshisgrip.Pressesmorefirmlyagainstme,anditallchanges.Hisshipcrashesintomineandmybackisflatagainstthewall,andoh,hewantsit.Hewantsitvery,verymuch.HewantsitasmuchasIdo.Icantellfromhislegslidingbetweenmineandpinningmetothewall,fromthewayhishandshiftstomyhip,assertivelikeonachessboard.Fromthegutturalsoundinthebackofhisthroat.
Heisgoodatit.Warmandforcefulandthorough,andhetastesgoodand—
Adooropenssomewhereinthehouse.Laughter.Footsteps.Thehallwaylightturnson.IpushonNolan’sshoulders,andwebreakapartjustintime.
“Oh,youguysareback.”Emil.Standingintheentrance,quicklytyinghisrobeclosed.“Whatareyoudoing?”
IglanceatNolan,thinkingthatEmil’shisfriend.Theburdenofcomingupwithaplausibleexcuseshouldfallonhim.Problemis,Nolanisstaringatme,pupilswide,lipsfulland…kissed?
“Um,wewerejust…”Iclearmythroat.SmiletentativelyatEmil.“TalkingaboutthatKochgamethat—”
“Saynomore,Greenleaf.”Heshufflestothefridge.“IcannotgetsidetrackedorTanuwillmurderme.Shesentmetoforage.”Hepilesleftoverpizzaandthreecupcakesinhisarms,thendisappearswithaswishofhisrobeandacareless“Goodnight.”
I’malonewithNolanagain.
Nolan,whohasn’tstoppedstaring.
“It’sgettinglate,”Isay,notmeetinghiseyes.Ifeelflustered.Becauseofakiss.Iamregressingtothirteen.“I’mtired.I…”
Henodsanddoessomethingweird:holdshishandouttome.Calmly.Quietly.Asthoughheexpectsmetotakeit.Andit’sexactlywhatIdo:Islidemyfingersintohis,andwhenheleadsmedownthehallway,stoppingtoturnoffthelight,Ifollowhimmeekly.WewalkpastTanu’sdoorwithoutreactingtothemuffledlaughterfrominside,pastEmil’semptyone,pastalltheothers,too—includingmine,untilwe’reinhisroom,whichsmellslikecleanskinandmind-bendinglygoodchessandhiscouchbackinthecity.
Henonchalantlytakesoffhisjeans,alllong,muscledlimbs.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Iblurtout.Hedoesn’tlookatme,justsmellshisshirt,decidingthatitbelongsinalaundryhamper.
“Gettingreadyforbed.”
“I…”Whatishappening?WhydidIfollowyou?What.Is.Happening?“Whyaren’tyounervous?”
“Aboutwhat?”
“About”—Igestureinchoatelybetweenus—“allofthis.”
Heglancesatme.“Idon’tknow.Itfeelsright.Besides,Idon’tgetnervousmuch.”
Darcyoncetoldmeaboutastudytheydid,monitoringtheheartrateoftopchessplayersduringimportantgames.Nolan’swasalwaystheslowest.Thesteadiest.Isthatwhyhe’sstandinginfrontofmeinboxerbriefsandaCoimbraChess2019T-shirtandI’mshakinglikealeaf?
“Doyounotwantthis?”heasks.
“No.Imean,yes.Imean,Idon’tnotwantthis.But…wejustkissedoutoftheblue,andyouseemsookaywithit,and…”
Heshrugs.“It’snotoutoftheblueforme.”
“Itisn’t?”
“Icametotermswiththismonthsago,Mallory.Thefirsttimeweplayed,maybe.”
Iswallow.“Idon’tunderstand.”
Hecomescloser.Intwostepshe’sinfrontofme,andforsomeindecipherablereasonI’mshaking.Asmall-scaleearthquake’shappeninginsideme,twentykingsarebeingtippedover,andNolanjustcupsmyfaceagain.
“I’vegotyou,Mallory.Nothingbadisgoingtohappen.Youcanletyourselfwantthis,becauseyoualreadyhaveit.Youhaveme.”
OhGod.OhGod,God,God.I’mshakingharder.
“I…Arewe…Arewegoingtofuck?”
I’mpurposelytryingtorattlehim.Andit’snotworking.
“No.We’regoingtosleep.”
Weliedown,andsomehowit’sasmooththing.I’mwearingleggingsandasoftshirtandnojewelry,andthat’swhyI’msocomfortable.Notbecausemyheadispillowedonhischestandhislegsaretangledwithmine,andIfeelhisslow,steadyheartlikeawarmclockundermyear.
“Ihaven’tevenwashedmyface,”Itellhim.I’mstilltrembling,albeitmorequietly.I’mamess.
“That’sokay.AntonovwonCoimbra2019.”
Ilaughshakily.“I…don’tthinkIcansleep.”
“Wantabedtimestory?”Hishandcombsgentlythroughthehairatmynape.“It’scalled‘PolgarVersusAnand,1999.’Itstartswithe4.c5.”
Igroan.ButI’msmilingwhenIask,“Andthen?”
“Knightf3.d6.d3.”
“Mmm.”
“Yup.”
“Andthen?”
“Knightxd4.Knightf6.Knightc3…”
Ifallasleepmid-game—forthesecondtimeinmylifeheldbysomeone,forthesecondtimeinmylifeheldbyNolanSawyer.ChapterTwenty-One
By3:00p.m.onthefollowingday,Nolanhasspokenfewerthanfifteenwordstome.
Whyknighta5?
Couldsacrificethequeen.
Andmypersonalfavorite:Gettingamuffin—wantone?
MaybeIhallucinatedthepreviousnight.Maybeourkisswasadream.MaybethewayIwokeupinhisemptyroom,amugofhotcoffeeonthebedsidetable—maybeIneedacheckupto—
“Whatdoyouthink,Mal?”Tanuasks.Fromhertone,notforthefirsttime.
“Aboutwhat?”
“Thisposition.Whatwouldyoudo?”Iglanceattheboard.We’reanalyzingaKochgamefromlastyear.Well,theyareanalyzing.I’mruminating.
“It’sweak.Theleftsidecouldbeexploited.”
“Yeah,that’swhatNolansaid,too.”
Ilookupathim,andinstantlyflush.Becausethat’sapparentlywhatIdonow—stressoverwhethersomedudeIdidn’tevensleepwithisn’tinterestedinmeanymorebecauseI’matotalmess,becauseItossandturnatnight,becausemymorningbreathsmellslikethedumpsterbehindafishrestaurant.
Thisisunchartedterritory.Anentirenewgalaxy.I’musedtocaringaboutwhatMom,Darcy,Sabrina,Eastonthinkofme.Ihaveroomfornooneelse,and—
“Wouldyouagree,Greenleaf?”Emilasks.
Shit.“Sorry,withwhat?”
“WithwhatNolansaid.”
Nolan’seyesareunreadable.“Hecastledtoolate,”herepeats.
Iglanceattheboard.“Orheshouldn’thavecastledatall,”Isay,pretendingI’mnotflustered.
“Koch’ssouneven.”Emilrubshistemples.“Howcanonegofromdisastrousblunderstonear-geniusmovesliketheoneagainstGreenleaf?He’sliketwocompletelydifferentplayers.”
“AndwhichonewillhebeinItaly?”Tanuasks.
Nooneanswers.Nolanstaresinthemid-distance,andIstareathimlikeatwerp.
WeanalyzeKoch’sendgamesuntillate.BythetimeNolanandEmilstandtomakedinner,thesunhasbeendownforhours.“You’restayingtilltheendofJanuary,right?”Tanuasksme,voicelow.Theothersarearguingoverwhetheroneshouldthrowthepastaintothewaterbeforeitboils.(Nolan:“Whocares?It’llbefaster.”Emil:“Youare—andIcannotstressthisenough—atastelesspeasant.”)
“That’stheplan.Youaren’t?”
“Onlyuntilthesemesterstarts.”
“Oh.”IthinkofNolanandmealoneinthishouse.“Oh.”
“Defnewillcomeupandhelp,ofcourse,”shecontinues.
Ifrown.DefneapprovedofmebecomingNolan’ssecondbecauseshesaidthatitwouldbegreattrainingforme,but…“Ididn’tthinktheywerethatclose.”
“Oh,they’resuperclose.TheybothtrainedwithNolan’sgrandfatherbefore…well.ButNolanstillneedsyou.Hedoesn’tshowit,butKoch’sunpredictabilityrattledhim.Heneedssomeonehecaresaboutwhoalsocaresabouthim.Likeyoudo,youknow?”
OhGod.“Tanu,NolanandI…”Ishakemyheadandshiftcloser,perchedontheedgeofmychair.“Iguesswearecloseinsomeways,butwe’renot…together.”
“Oh,Iknowrelationshipsareweird.”Hersmileisreassuring.“Imean,EmilandItechnicallyaren’ttogether,either,because…well.Notthathedeservesme,butmostly,thedistancesucks.ButNolanissointoyou.”
“It’s…”Ishakemyhead.“It’scomplicated.”
Shelaughs,amixofconfusionandamusement.“Well—Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingon,butI’veneverseenhimascalmandhappyaswhenyoustickaround,so—”
“Hey,doyouguyswanttoplaytwoversustwo?”Emilinterruptsme.“There’refourofus,sotwoteams.”
Iquicklyconsiderthepossiblepermutations.I’dbeeitheragainstNolan,or—
“I’llteamwithMallory,”hecallsfromthekitchen.
Tanuliftshereyebrowatme,andIclosemyeyes.They’restillclosedafewsecondslaterwhenNolanreturnsfromthekitchenand,insteadoftakingafreeseat,liftsonelegandslidesbetweenmeandthebackofmychair.
Inearlygasp.Hetakesupalotofroom,always,andthisisn’tgoingtowork.I’mgoingtofallover.
OrI’llbefine,hereinhislap.Thehandthat’snotbusyadjustingtheblackpiecestothecenteroftheirsquarescasuallyrestsagainstmyabdomen,spanningitswidth.It’sthesamehandaslastnight—confident,soothing.Thisfeelsnice.Smellsevenbetter.Tanu’seyebrowliftsamillimeterhigher,andEmilmoveshispawntod4,unbotheredbymesittingbetweenhisclosestfriend’sthighs.
“Wanttogofirst?”Nolanmurmurs,lipstotheshellofmyear.
Ishiver.ThenInod,andmyhairbrushesagainsthischin.Myskinheats,andI’mtooflusteredtothink,soIdothefirstthingthatcomestomind.
Knighttof6.
IrememberhowmuchNolanhatestheGrünfeldonlyafterhegroansandsinkshisteethintomyearlobe.
Weplayfivegames.NolanandIwinallexceptforone,andthat’smyblunder’sfault.Thehangingqueen.
“Thatwas…amove,”Tanusays,advancingherknight,andNolanmakesachokednoiseinthebackofhisthroatandhideshisfaceinthecurveofmyneck,asthoughunabletowitnessthemessImade.Iwanttohissthatifheweren’ttuckingmeintohimselfwithahandonmybelly,maybemybrainwouldn’tbeaslushie.Buthisbreathticklesmynape,andwhileeveryonethinkshardaboutthenextmoveandtheroomissilent,Icanfeelhisheartbeatwarmagainstmyback.
It’stheclosestI’veeverbeentosomeonewithoutsex.
TheclosestI’vebeentosomeonewithsex.
AndthemostdistractedI’veeverfeltinachessgame,inlife,andtheworstpartis,Idon’tbelieveNolan’stoyingwithme.Sometimeshischinrestsonmyshoulder,boyish,artless,andIknowthathe’sjustdoingwhatfeelsgood.Itjusthappenstodistractme.
He’sthefirsttosay,“I’mgoingtobed,”whenTanuofferstoputonamovie.Heloadsthedishwasher,headstohisroomwithanabsentmindedwave,andIamleftthere,stuckbetweenhisabsenceandEmil’sscathingtakedownofAronofsky’sfilmography.I’maballoon,blownlargerandtighterandfullerbythesecond,readytoexplode.
SoIbolt.IleavetheAronofskyconvobehindandmarchdownthehallway.Idon’tbotherknocking—justopenthedoorandletmyselfinNolan’sroom.Notmybestidea,sincehejusttookoffhisshirtandiswearingonlyhisjeans.
Ileanbackagainstthedoor.Shit.WhatamIdoing?
“Thathungqueen,”hesayswithasmallsmile,likemebarginginisasnaturalassundown.He’sfitandwellmuscled.Iwonderwhenhefindstimetoworkout,tolooklikethat.“ThoughI’msureTanuandEmilappreciatedthewin—”
“Canyoupleaseexplain?”
“Explain?”
“Lastnight”—Igestureconfusedly—“andthenthismorning,andthentoday,tonight,justnow.”
Hetiltshishead.“Yes.Thatishowtimeworks.”
“No,I—”Isqueezemyeyesshut.“Ihatethis.”
“Hatewhat?”
“ThatI’mhereaskingyou…thatyou’reinmyhead,andI—”Irunahanddownmyface.“No.Listen…Idon’tcare.I’mnotsupposedtocareaboutwhetheryou…I’mnotsupposedtobethinkingaboutyouatall—Ihaveafamilytotakecareof.Shittogetdone.Butyoukissme,thenignoremelikenothinghappened—”
“Right.”Hecrosseshisarms.“That’syourmove,isn’tit?”
“What?”
“You’retheonewhoignorespeople.Leavethembehindbeforetheyleaveyou,right?Spareyourselfthemortifyingordealofbeingknown.”
“That’sunfair.”Ipushawayfromthedoor.Beginpacinginsidetheroom.“It’sdifferent.Idon’tusually—Ihaveresponsibilities.Idon’thavetimetomoon,Nolan.Icannotbedistractedbypeoplewhodon’tneedme,butthenyou—you—”
Myeyescatchonsomethingonhisdesk,buriedunderapileofchessbooksthat’snotunlikesomethingDadwouldsetasidetomakeroomformeonthecouch.
It’stheGermanChessflier.FromToronto.Fromthenightwe…
“Thetic-tac-toesheet.”
“What?”Hecomestostandbehindme.“Oh,yeah.”
It’sonhisnightstand,preservedlikeatrophy.HebroughtitfromToronto,toMoscow,tohisapartmentinNewYork,tohere.Warmthspreadsinmystomach.
Iresistit.Bitetheinsideofmycheek.Thengivein,andask.“Whydidyoukeepit?”
“Itmademethinkofyou.”
Hisarmsclosearoundmyribcage,rightbelowmybreasts,andIclosemyeyes.“Whywouldyoukeepsomethingthatmakesyouthinkofme?”
Ifeelhimshrug.“BecauseIthinkofyouanyway,Mallory.”
Iturnaround.Breakcontact.Thisisunbearable.Thisclosenesswithhim.Thesetugstowardhim,deepinmystomach.It’swhatI’vebeenavoiding—somethingthatIknowcanonlyendinliesandbetrayal.I’veseenithappenbefore.
“Whatdoyouwantfromme,Nolan,and—willyoupleasestopsmiling.”
“I’mnot.”Hegrinswider.
“I’mserious,ifyoudon’tquitsmiling.”
“That’snotathreat.It’snotevenagrammaticallycorrectsentence.”
“Whatdoyouwantfromme?Whatarewe…”Iburymyfaceinmyhands.Thisistooraw.Toountraveled.Tooriskyandconfusing.“Idon’tunderstandwhyyou’reinmyhead.”
“You’reinmine,too.ButIknowwhy.”
Igroanandmakemyselflookathim.He’snotsmilinganymore.“Just…whatdoyouwantfromme?”
“Iwanteverything.”Histoneiscalm.Matter-of-fact.Naked,inawaythathasnothingtodowithhisclothes.“I’mallin.”Heslowlylowershisforeheaduntilittouchesmine.Hiseyesmergetogetherintoone,rightonhisnose.AllIcanhearisthesoundofourbreathing,andsomethinginsidemeclicksintoplace.“Whataboutyou,Mallory?”
Idon’tanswer.InsteadIdowhatIknow:Ipushmychinuptokisshim,anditworksjustaswell.
It’sevenbetterthanyesterday.Hisarmscagemeagainstthedresser,andminelooparoundhisneck.I’mwearingaT-shirt,andmyhandsmakecontactwiththevastexpanseofhisback,smoothandsunshine-hot.Iopenmymouth,andhelicksmylowerlipbeforehistongueslidesagainstmine,clumsyandhotandinsistentanddelicious.Thehelpless,eager,gutturalnoiseswe’rebothmakingaremaybeembarrassing,butit’sokay.
EvenifInevercatchmybreathagain.
“Slowdown,”Itellhim.“Let’sjust…”
“Ithinkaboutthiseverysecondofeveryday.”Hispalmslidesupmyback,andmybodyislikeapawninhishands.Heturnsusaroundandthenwe’reontheunmadebed,thetwistedsheetsdiggingintomyspine.“You’llbeplayingthemostbeautifulchessI’veeverseen,andIdreamabouthavingyouunderme.It’sfuckingconfusing.”
We’rebothwearingtoomanyclothes,andsuddenlyI’mimpatient.Iwantbare.Iwantskin—moreskin.Iwanthimcloser,inaseamless,stickyway.He’shardagainstmystomach,andthetwoofusfeelbothfamiliarandsoul-baringlyintimate,likenothinghasbeenbefore.
“Doyou…”Myhandslidesdownhisabs,meetsthewaistbandofhisjeans,andit’sfinallythere,ahintofthathesitation,thatwobblinessIexpectedfromhim.“No?”Iask.
Histhroatbobsasheswallows.Hisfulllipstrembleforthebarestsecond.“Areyoureal?”Theairbetweenusswells,overflows.“SometimesI’mscaredthatIimaginedyou.SometimesIthinkyou’reonlyinmyhead.”
“I’mhere,”Ibreatheout.I’mapoolofliquidheat.
“IhavenoideawhatI’mdoing,”hesays,bitingsoftlythehollowundermyear.
Ishiver.“Icanhelp,”Itellhim,evenifmyneuronsareboilingtomush.
“Yeah?”
“It’skindoflikechess.Idoonething…”Iundothefirstbuttonofhisjeans,slowly.Feel,morethanhear,thehitchofhisbreath.“Andyoudoanother.”
Heholdshimselfuponhisarmsandlooksdownatme,likehe’sinventorying,decidingwheretostart.Hisindexfingerhooksonthehemofmyshirtanddragsitupward,stoppingrightbelowmybra.Hestaresatmynavelforwhatfeelslikeminutes,thensays,“Iwantodds.Sinceit’smyfirsttime.”
“Youwantahandicap?”
“Iwanttwomoves.”
Ilaugh.Andthensoberwhenhepinsmyhandsabovemyhead,inawaythatsuggeststhathemightnotknowwhathe’sdoingbuthehasplans,fantasies,strategies,arichinteriorworldthatwillbeputtouse,and…
“Ihope,”Isay,serious,“thatyou’regoingtolikethisasmuchaschess.”
“Ithink,”hetellsmewithasmallsmile,“thatIalreadydo.”ChapterTwenty-Two
Wewakeupearlyinthemorning.Doabunchofslow,sleepystuffwithourhandsthatfeelsreallygoodandalsohappensnottorequireacondom.Ihadonlyone,leftinmybackpackfromwhoknowswhen;Nolanhadnone.Apparentlywereallyhadfooledourselvesintothinkingthatthiswouldn’thappen.Ifallasleeponhischest,hisarmsloopedaroundme,feelinghisrapidbreathingslowdowntosomethingcalmer,thenslideintosleepandpullmeunder.
ThebuzzofNolan’sphoneonthenightstandwakesusuponcethesunishigh.Heanswerswithahugeyawn.“Yeah?”Hisvoiceistooloud.Ormaybenot.Maybeit’sthewaywe’repretzeledtogetherskintoskin,legscoiled,hisfreehandtangledinmyhairandholdingmeintothecurveofhisshoulder.“That’sbecauseIwassleeping.Yup.Yeah.Sure.”Hesoundsunimpressed.Hesoundslikethedelicious,warmversionofNolanthatkeptorderingmetostopfidgetingat3:00a.m.Thisisnotreallife.“Uh-uh.”Ipullbacktowatchhisslitted,tiredeyesandhisswollenlips.Hesmellsfantastic.Iwanttosinkunderhisskin.Iwanttomovebetweenhislegsanddwellontheexpanseofhischest.I—
“Sure.She’shere.Letmeaskher.”
Nolanpresseshisphoneagainsthisshoulders.Myeyeswiden.“What?”Iwhisper.“Don’ttellthemI’mhere!They’llthinkthatI…”
Hegivesmeaconfusedlook.“Thatyou’rehere?”
Igroanandhidebackinhisneck.
“Thereisacharityevent.Someonewantsustoplaytogether,against…”Hepicksuphisphoneagain.“Whowouldwebeplayingagainst?”Ihearabriskfemalevoiceontheotherside.“Sometechindustryperson,”hetellsme,andthenintothespeakeragain,“IsitBillGatesagain?Elle,he’sbadatchess.Ican’tmakethegamelastlongerthanoneminuteagainst…Yeah.I’llcallyouback.”Hetossesthephonetothesideandpullsmecloser,coveringourheadswiththeblankets.
Theoutsideworlddisappears.
“Who’sElle?”Iask.
“Mymanager.”Hepushesmyhairbehindmyear.“WhatshouldItellher?”
“Whenisthishappening?”
“Notuntilthespring.”
“Whythetechindustry?”
“It’sfullofpeoplewhohaveahard-onforchess,apparently.”
Itmakesasurprisingamountofsense.“Whydoyouhaveamanager?”
“Allproplayersdo.You’llneedone,too.”
Iwon’tbeapro,Nolan.Youknowit.“WouldyourecommendElle?”
“Hellno.Saveyourself.”
Ilaugh.“CanI…thinkaboutit?Thecharitything.”
“Sure.”
Wefallquiet,cocoonedbythesoftcottonofsheets,impossiblyclose.Didlastnightreallyhappen?Iwonder,feelingstuckinadream.Didithappentoyoulikeithappenedtome?
Thenhemurmurs,“Goodmorning,”whilepressingakissonmyforehead,anditallstartstoseemwarm,andprecariouslygood,andtrue.
Nolanhasnopokerface.Noabilitytolie,ortrick,orhide.Nointentionto,either.
HetracksmymovementswithasmallsmilewheneverIstepawayfromthechessboardtograbaglassofwater.HekissesmeagainstthefridgewhilethethreeGMsaretalkingabouttheFrenchDefensefivefeetfromus.Hetakesmyhandandpullsmeoutforawalkinthesnowasthesunisabouttoset,likehealthyhabitsaresomethinghesuddenlycaresabout.
IwishIcouldsayIminded,butIloveeverysecondofit.
There’sacurious,painfullyhonestconfidenceabouthim.Lastnightwasgood,reallygood,butitwasalsohisfirsttime,ourfirsttime:messyandimperfect,fullofhushedquestionsandtrialsanderrors.Hishandsonmewerebold,butinexperiencedandtentative.Otherguyswouldbedrowningintheirfragilemasculinitytoday,butNolanjustseemsdeeply,genuinelyhappy.
Thenagain,rememberingthesoundsImade,thegasps…Iguesshegotglowingfeedback.
“Can’tbelieveheusedanEvansGambitthreeyearsago,”hesaysabouttheKochgamewejustanalyzed.Hisfootprintsinthesnowarealmosttwiceaslargeasmine.
“Yeah,well.Itwasabadchoice,sinceThagard-Vorkdestroyedhim.”
“Still.Ihaven’tseentheEvanssincetheweekIlearnedhowtoplay.”
Ismile.“Whenwasthat,bytheway?”
“What?”Hegivesmeacuriouslook.
“Whendidyoulearntoplaychess?”
“Idon’tremember.Prettysureit’sonWikipedia.”
“Yeah.Butunlikemysister,Irefusetoreadit.Boundariesandstuff.”Istophimwithatugonhiscoat.I’mwearinghisgloves,becauseit’sfreezingandIforgottobringmine.Theydwarfmyhands,andNolansmilesatthesight.“ButIstillwanttoknow.”
“Iwas…five?ButIdidn’treallyunderstand.NotuntilIwaswelloversix.”
“Yourgrandfathertaughtyou?”
“Kindof.Hewastrainingalotofpeopleatthetime,andIjust…Iwantedtobeinthemidstofthings.HewasthecoolestpersonIknew,andIwantedhimtopayattentiontome.”
“Andyourparentsdidn’twantyouto?”
Heshrugs.“Mydad’sanasshole.Andevenifheweren’t,hejustdoesn’thavethechessbone.WhenIwaslittle,IwouldspendhoursthinkingaboutpuzzlesorLegosortoys,reasoningoverthem,analyzing,andhecouldn’tunderstandwhy.Hethoughttherewassomethingwrongwithme.Putmeinallsortsofsports.AndIwasgoodenoughatthem,becauseIwastallandquick,buttheywerenever…”
“Theyweren’tchess?”
Henods.
IthinkaboutDad.Abouthowhewastheopposite,constantlypushingmetowardchess.Abouthowifhewerestillalive,we’dprobablybejustasestrangedasNolanandhisfatherare.Vastlydifferentpaths,sameresults.“Doyouhateyourparents?”
Heletsoutasmalllaugh.“Idon’tthinkso.Idon’tthinkaboutthemmuch.Haven’tforawhile.”Heswallows.“Somehow,ithurtsevenworse.”
Ireachout,sinkingmyhandinthepocketofhiscoat.Heexhales,awhitechuffinthelateafternoonair.“Itdidn’tmatterwhenmygrandfatherwasaround,becausehegotme.He’dbeenlikemeasakid,orsimilarenough.Whenmyparentsdivorced,theystoppedfeelingliketheyhadtocareaboutme.Momremarried.ThenDad.Thenhisnewwifegotpregnantanditwasalmostarelief.Iwasanafterthought,andIcouldjuststaywithmygrandfatherforweeksatatime.Itwasjustmeandhim.Playing,playingagain.Playingsomemore.”
“Didyoueverwin?”
“Oh,no.Notforalongtime.NotuntilIwasnineorten.ThenIdid,andIwasalmostafraid.HehatedlosingasmuchasIdo.Ithoughthe’dbemad.But…”Heshakeshishead.“IthinkitwasthehappiestI’deverseenhim.”
“Somaybehedidn’thatelosingasmuchasyoudo.”
“Ithink…”Hestops,andsodoI.Holdsmyeyes.“Hetoldmeoncethatsometimes,withsomepeople,it’snotaboutwinningorlosing.Thatwithsomepeople,it’sjustaboutplaying.Thoughforthelongesttime,Ididn’treallybelievehim.”
“Yeah?”Ilookaway,towardthesettingsun.“IstillthinkaboutlosingtoKoch.Everyday.Everyhour.”
“Iknow.”
“Stopreadingmymind.”Ipokehiminthestomach.Hesnatchesmyhandandpullsmeclosertohim.“Howdoyoudealwithlosses?”
“Idon’t.”
“Soyoujustfeellikeshit?Everytime?”
“Youbasicallyhavetohatelosingtobeatopplayer.Prettysurethegenesareonthesamechromosome.”
“Isthatwhyyou’reaterribleloser?”
“Yup.Andwhyyouareone.”
Ismile.“Notgonnalie,it’svalidating.Growingup,Icouldn’tfigureoutwhyEastonwassochillaboutlosingallthosematches.Meanwhileevendrawssentmeintoadeepfunk.”
“Easton?”
“Oh.She’smybestfriend.”Iswallow.“Well.Former?”
Hisheadcocks.“Didshetakeyourqueen?”
“No.She…left.Forcollege.Colorado.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.Haven’theardfromhermucheversince.”Isigh.“HowdoyoukeepintouchwithTanuandEmil,again?”
“It’snotthesame.Emil’sstillinNewYorkandhatesthedorms,whichmeansthathe’salwaysatmyplace.AndyouknowhowTanuis.I’dhavetoworkhardonditchingher.”
“Yeah.”Itrynottosoundtoojealous.“EastonfindsmeboringanduninterestingnowthatIdon’t…Idon’tevenknow.Playbeerpongwithher?”
“Shetoldyouthat?”
“No.ButIknowit.”
“Couldyoubeassuming?”
“No.”
Henods,andIlikethathe’snottryingtolietome.ToconvincemethatI’mimaginingitall.“Haveyouconsideredconfrontingher?”
“No.I…Idon’twantherpity.Iwanthertobewithmebecauseshewantsto.”
“Ah,yes.”Henodsknowingly.Hischindipsintotheraisedneckofhiscoat.“Youdolikebeingincharge.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Youlikehavingtheupperhand.Feelinglikeyou’redoingsomethingforothers.Likeyou’reincontrol.”
“No.”Ifrown.“That’snotitatall.”
“Ithinkit’seasierforyoutobewithpeoplewhenyoufeelneededthanwhenyouneedthem.Lessrisky.Lessmessy,right?”
“Butit’snottrue.Imean,accordingtoSabrinamyfamilydoesn’tneedmeforanythingbutmoneyanymore.AndEaston’stheonewhowentMIA.Andyou—youmostcertainlydon’tneedme—”
“ButIdo.”
Isnort.“Comeon.Youhaveamillionseconds,andlegionsofadoringfans,TanuandEmil,Ellethescarymanager,thepress,theentireworld—”
“Mallory.”Hestopsme.Hisexpressionissolemn.“It’slonely,chess.Youmayhaveateamaroundyou,butwhenitreallycomesdowntoit,you’reonyourown.Youplayonyourown.Youloseandwinonyourown.Yougohome,andyou’reonyourown.”Hetakesinthedisappearinglight,hiseyesdarkerthanever.Andthenlooksbacktome,pressesapalestrandofhairbehindmyear,andaskssomethingIdidn’texpect.“WillyoucometoItalywithme?”
“ToItaly?”
Henods.“FortheWorldChampionship.”
“I…Why?”
Histhroatworks.“Ihadmygrandfatherwithmeforthefirstone,sixyearsago.Butafterthat,Iwasalwaysonmyown.”
“ButTanuandEmilaregoingtobethere,and—”
“Theyare.But…”Icanseethegearsinhishead,likehe’stryingtoarticulateafuzzy,ungraspablefeeling.“They’llbetherewitheachotherfirst.”
Somehow,Iknowexactlywhathemeans.Ifeelit,too,Iwanttosay.Ifeelthesame.Likeeveryonearoundusispartofthesameconnectivetissue,andyou’rejustfloatingabout.Unbound.
Myheartbeatsfaster,becausethisfeelslikeathreshold.Atouch-takedecisionthatIwon’teverbeabletoundo.IfIsayyes,thenNolanandIwillbesomethingdifferent.Somethingtogether.Morethanthesumofourparts.
Then,no.Noshouldbetheonlypossibleanswer.Ihavenobusinesspromisingtobethereforanyone.Ihavepriorities.Duties.But.
“Doyouwantmetobethere?”Iask.
Henodsinstantly.
Itakehiscoldpalm,liftitinbothmyhands,andpressasoftkissinthemiddle,wherethefatelineslashesbetweentheheadandtheheart.
“I’llbethere,then.”Ismileupathim,rightasthelastofthesunlightfadesintothesnow.“Foryou.”
Itoccurstomethatnight,afterwechecksomeofKoch’srecentChallengersgamesagainstenginesandinsteadofstayinguplatetoporeovertheresultswedecidetogotobedateight,thatmaybethetimingforthisthingisalittleoff.
Weshouldbetraininghard.Weshouldfocusonstrategy,tactics,preparation.
Weshouldnotbestaringateachotheracrossthetable.
WeshouldnotdriftoffduringTanu’spassionatespeechonwhyVelveetaislegallynotcheesetoexchangefaint,unprompted,unjustifiedsmiles.
Weshouldnotneedlesslybrushknucklesashehandsmehisplateforthedishwasher.
Andmostdefinitely,weshouldnotfalloneachotherthesecondwe’reinhisroom,thewoodofhisdoorsmoothundermyback,hisfrontpressedagainstmineaswekissdeeply.Themechanicsofthisarefamiliar,buttheimpatiencesimmeringinsidemeisnew.Thefeelingthatonemoreminuteapartwillbetoomuch.SeeingthesameeagernessmirroredinNolan.
“Westilldon’thaveacondom,”Itellhim,andhegruntsagainstmythroat.Thenstepsaninchback.
“I’mgoingtogetonefromEmil—”
“No.No.”
“Why?”
“I’drathertheynotknow.”
“Mallory.”Hepressesakissonmycheekbone.Mynose.“Theyknow.”
“Yeah,buttheydon’tknowknow,and…”I’mtheonetogroannow.“Let’sjustgotoCVStomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”Hepullsbackandlookssohorrifically,theatricallyappalled,Ihavetolaughandkisstheexpressionoffhisface.
“Wecandootherthingsinthemeantime.”
Hisfingersslidedownmyspine,slowlymassagingeachknob.“Likewhat?Shovelsnow?Colorbythenumber?”
Ilaughagainsthismouth.“Somanyoptions.”
“Please,listthemforme.Iamverynewatthis.”Hishandslipsinsidethewaistofmyjeans,andIexhalesharply
“Illegalmove.”
“Shouldwecallinthearbiter?”
“Onlyif—”Myphonerings,andhegroans.Iwhimper,workingmyhandbetweenustoretrieveitfrommypocket.
“It’sDefne,”Isay.Ihaveadéjàvu—monthsago,onNolan’scouch.Shehasatrocious,cockblockingtiming.
“Ignoreher,”heorders,andI’mhappyto.ItossitonNolan’sdresser,andwe’rebackoneachother,graceless,uncoordinated,voracious,untilhekneelsinfrontofmeandstartsunbuttoningmypants.“So.”Hespeaksagainstmyhipbone.“Thesethingswearegoingtodo.Couldtheyinvolveme—”
Myphone,again.No,Nolan’s—it’shisphonebuzzingnow.“Fuck,”hegrunts,pullingitoutofhispocketandthrowingitnexttomine.
ButmyeyesfallonthecallerID,andIstiffen.“Wait.It’sDefne.”
Shehasn’tcalledoncesincewecamehere,justtheoccasionaltext.Andnow.
Wehalt.
Nolan’sphonestopsbuzzing.Asecondlaterminestartsringingagain.
Weexchangealonglook,bothoutofbreath.Heletsoutadeep,frustratedgroan,andhideshisfaceinmystomach.Hishandsclosearoundmywaist,tremblingslightly.Itakeitastacitpermissiontopickup.
“Hey,D—”Heinchesmyshirtupandnibblesonmybellybutton.Mybreathhitches.Igiggle,sigh,trytopushhimaway.Thenthecyclestartsallover.“Hey,Defne,”Ifinallymanage.Nolanlicksastripebelowmynavel.“Howareyou—”
“Mallory,I’monmywaytopickyouup.YouneedtoreturntoNewYorkimmediately.”ChapterTwenty-Three
“Whatdoyoumean,Kochcheated?Thereweretoomanycamerasforhimto—”
“Someonehasbeencombingthefootage.”
Defne’svoiceisgrainyoverthespeakerphone,backgroundnoiseebbingandflowingasshedrivesuptheinterstate.NolanandIsitonthebed,eyeslocked,buthisexpressionisindiscernible.Hishairisstilltousledfrommyfingers.
“Rememberhowhekeptstandingtopace?He’dhiddenasmartwatcharoundhiselbow.He’dleavetheboard,findaplacewithoutcameras,anduseittocommunicatewith…well,wedon’tknow.Presumably,someonewhohadaccesstoachessengine.Buthemiscalculated,becausetheyhavetwoinstancesofthisonvideo.Andonerightbeforehisfinalmoveagainstyou.”
“Thatpieceofshit,”Nolanmutters.Hisjawistight,onelargehandfistingthesheets.
“Whatdoesthatmean?”IaskDefne.“FortheWorldChampionship?”
“FIDEhasn’tmadeaformalannouncementyet.AndKochisstilldenyingitandthreateninglawsuits.ButMal,theevidenceisdamning.Theywillhavetodisqualifyhim.”
“So,ifKochisdisqualified…”Iconsidertheimplications.Aknotofdisappointmenttightensinmychest.“ItmeansthatNolanwillwinbydefault?Andweshouldstoptraining?”Theprospectismoredevastatingthanitshouldbe.Ifaceitforalong,silentmoment,inwhichNolangivesmemoreofthatinscrutablelook,andDefnebreathesaudibly.
“Mal,”shestarts,“you—”
“That’snotwhatitmeans,”heinterruptsher.
“What,then?”IfrownatNolan,confused.“Theycan’tredotheChallengers.”
“Theydon’tneedto,”hesayscalmly.
Thespacebetweenuscharges,asuddenmagneticfield,andthenitoccurstome.
Theydon’tneedto,becausetheyalreadyhavearunner-up.
SomeonewhowaspoisedtowinuntilshelosttoKoch.
Me.
“Butwe…NolanandI…”Ishakemyhead,flustered.“NolanandIhavebeentrainingtogether.”
“That’swhyI’mcominguptogetyou,Mal.I’llbethereinafew—”
Nolanhangsuponher.Thephoneimmediatelystartsbuzzingagain,butweignoreit.Hiseyesholdmineforasecond,fortenyears,andIhavenoideahowtofeel.Whattothink.
“I’msorry,I…”Igetoffthebedandstareatthebooksstackedonthedresser,mindracing.
IfDefneisright,ifFIDEdoesaskmetobethechallenger…threemilliondollars.That’sthemortgagepaidoff,Mom’smeds,mysisters’collegetuition.Hell,mycollegetuition.We’dbesetforlife.
ButI’dhavetocomecleantoMomandSabrina.Theymighthateme.Andthere’sthebiggie:Nolan.Threeminutesago,Iwastryingtogetinsidehisskin.Forweeks,I’vebeenhissecond.I’vebeenstudyinghisweaknesses,strategies,tactics.Challenginghimnowwouldbelikerobbinghimwithahousekeyhehandedmeforsafekeeping.Utterlyunethical.
OhGod
Icannotimaginehowdevastatedhemustbefeeling.Howterrified.HowbetrayedbytheideaofmeexploitingwhatI’velearnedabouthisgame.
Iturnaroundandlookupathim,meaningtoreassurehimthatIwon’t,promisethatIwouldn’t,andfindhim…
Smiling?
“What…whydoyoulooksohappy?”
“Becauseit’sperfect.Becauseit’syou.”Hestepscloser,grinning.Sohard,Ispotararedimple.“I’llgettodothis.Withyou.”
“I…no.Wecan’t.”
“Ithinkwecan.”Hereachesoutforme,andIlethim.
“Ineedtothink.”
“Sure.Think.Thinkoutloud.”Hiscurvedlipspressagainstmythroat.“ThinkwhileIkissyou.Everywhere.”Ilaugh.Thenhisfingersdropagaintothebuttonofmyjeans.MybreathstopswithhowmuchIwantthis.Withhim.“CanI…Ihavethisdreamthatyouletme—”
“IfI…”Ipullbacktolookathiseager,happyface.Suddenly,I’mjustashappyasheis.It’sgoingtohappen.Thetwoofus.Meandhimandachessboard.“WouldIneedtoleave?”
“No.”
“Butwecan’ttraintogetherfor…”
“Thenwewon’t.I’lltraininthisroom.Youtaketherestofthehouse.”
“Butstill—Iknowyourstrategies,Nolan.Iknowyourprep.And…”Ireachuptoholdhishandsome,stubborn,delightedfacebetweenmyhands.BitehislowerlipbecauseIcannothelpmyself.“Thisisamess.Whyareyousohappy?”
Hissmiledoesn’twaver.“Youdon’tknow?”
Myheartrevsuptoamillion.NearlybeatsoutofmychestwitheverythingthatI’mfeelingforhim.Idon’twanttoleave.Iwanttobewithhim.Iwanttosleepwithhiminthisbed.Iwanttowakeuptohimpullingmeintohimself.Iwanttoeattheovercookedpastahemakesandsharehistoothpasteandknowhismoodsbyheart.
“Nolan,”Iwhisperagainsthislips.
“Mallory.”
“Don’tbealarmed,”Isay,mostlytomyself.“ButIthinkthatImightbe—”
Thedoorslamsopen.
“OhmyGod,ohmylittlebabyJesus,guys,didyousee—Oh,sorry.”
Nolangroansinfrustration.IttakesaminuteforustodisentangleandturntoTanu.Whojustbargedinwithoutknocking.
“Koch?”Nolanasks.Hisvoiceisraspy.Hishandreachesouttotouchmywaist,asthoughhecannotbeartobeapart.Ileanintohim,becauseIcan.
“Hecheated!Thatbirdbrainedbitch!Weshouldhaveknownhewasusingengines!”
Igrin.“Wereallyshouldhave.”
“AndthatTikTok?Dickofdicks,much?”
Nolanblinks.“WhatTikTok?”
Tensecondslater,Koch(@bigKoch;Idespisehim)istalkinginfrontofawallthatboastsanunironicoilportraitofhimself.HisGermanaccentisthickerthanusual.
“Ididnotcheat.Theimagesweredoctored,andmylawyershavealreadygottenintouchwithFIDE.I’llbegoingtoVenicetohandSawyerhisass.”
Behindme,Nolansnortssoftly.
“Oh,hejustpostedanewone,”Tanusays.“Let’sseehowlowhecango.”
“Iwouldn’tbesurprisedifSawyer’steamwasbehindthis.He’sveryscaredoffacingme,becauseheknowshe’lllikelylose.Hehasbeentryingtopreventitfromhappening.Forinstance,henotonlygothisgirlfriendaspotontheChallengersbutalsopaidforGreenleaf’sfellowshipatZugzwang.Thisisaclearattempttomanipulatewhowouldbehisopponentandtoavoidme,thestrongestplayer,inordertokeephisWorldChampionshiptitle.”
Iscoff,indignant.“Canhejustgooutthereandsaythingsthatarefactuallyfalse?Legally,Imean?”
IglanceatTanu,who’spre-law,hopingfora“Hellno.”ButallIfindisawide-eyed,guiltylookthatmakeseverylasttraceofwarmthfreezeinsideme.
“Heiswrong,”Isay,halfstatement,halfquestion.“It’snottrue.Nolanhasnothingtodowithmyfellowship.Hedidn’tgetmeintotheChallengers.He…”
Iturnaround.Nolanissilent,darkeyesevendarkerthanusual.Ishakemyhead.“No.”Iswallow,andit’sglassdownmythroat.“No.”
“Mal.Nolan,I’msosorry,”Tanublurtsout.
“Willyouleaveforaminute?”Nolanasksher.
“Ihadnoideahewasgoingtomentionthat—Ididn’tthinkheevenknew—”
“Tanu,”Nolanrepeats,andinaheartbeatshe’sgone,andthedoorcloses,andmybraincareens.Thisis…no.Nope.Fuckthis.
“DidDefneknow?”Iask.“Thatyouwerepaying?Becauseshevaguelymentionedmultipledonorstome,that—”
“Sheknew,”hesayscalmly.
Iclenchmyteeth.“Right.Well,Tanudid,too,soI’mguessingEmilwasinonit,too,andsinceitreachedKoch—”
“IhadtodisclosemydonationtoZugzwangtoFIDE.Iassumethat’showhefoundout.Butthishasnothingtodowithus,we—”
“Thishaseverythingtodowithus.”Thelastsixmonthshavebeenaparty,andI’mthelasttogethere.OrmaybeIwashereallalong,blindfoldedandlockedinacloset.“Wasitfun,comingtoourhouse,knowingyouwerekeepingthelightson?”
MaybeIshouldbegrateful,butallIfeelisdeceived.Manipulated.LikewhenDadkissedawomaninthearbiterloungeofaHobokentournamentandtoldmeitwasnothing.
Youliedtome.Howcouldyou?
“YoureallybelieveI’deverthinkaboutitinthoseterms,Mallory?”Hisfistclenchesandreleases.Herunsahandthroughhishair.“YouplayedthemostbeautifulchessI’deverseen.Iwantedtogiveyoutheopportunityto—”
“HowdidyouevenknowIwasgoingtoacceptit?”
“Ididn’t.Ijusthoped.Youworkedinashittygarage,andneededout.”
“Whatdoyouevenknowaboutmyshittygarage—OhmyGod.”Itakeastepbacklikehepunchedmeinthesolarplexus.“DidyousomehowhaveBobfireme?”
Hisarmswideninirritation.“WhothehellisBob?”
Idon’tbelievehim.Ican’tbelievehim,notanymore.“Didyouhaveanythingtodowithmelosingmyjobbackinthesummer?”
“Ididn’t,butIfuckingwishIhad,Mallory.”Hehuffsimpatiently.“IwishIcouldtakecreditforshakingyououtofthelifeyousettledfor.”
Igasp.“Iprovideformyfamily,Nolan!Ididn’tsettle,Ineededstabilityforthem.”Mytoneiswellpastcivility.Hestepscloser,nostrilsflaring,faceloweredaninchfrommine.
“It’seasierlikethat,isn’tit?Tohidebehindthem,”hetellsme.“Useyourfamilyasanicelittlecushionbetweenyourselfandreallife.”
Iliftmychin.“Howdareyou?Mymomissickandmysistersare—”
“Takencareof,asofrightnow.Asofawhile.Andyet,youcontinuetousethemasanexcusetodoabsolutelynothingwithyourlife,withyourtalent,withthisthingbetweenus—”
“?‘Thisthingbetweenus’?Youmean,thefactthatwe’vefucked?Becauseclearlythatmeansnothing.Orthefactthatyou’vebeenlyingtomeformonths?Thefactthatyoumanipulatedmetogobacktochess,todotheChallengers,tobeyouropponentattheWorldChampionship?BecauseIcan’timaginewhatelseyoumightbereferringto—”
“Iloveyou,”hesaysplainly.Notadesperateplea,butacalmlystatedfact.Hiseyesaresoclose,Icancountthedifferentshadesofdarkinthem,anditmakesmeseered.
It’snotthefirsttimesomeonehasprofessedtolovemeafteranoceanoflies
“No,”Isaysharply,“youdon’t.Ifyoudid,you’dhavetoldmethetruth.Ifyoudid,you’dunderstandthatmyfamilywillalwayscomefirst.Ifyoudid,youwouldn’thaveplayedwithmylifejusttogettopickyournextWorldChampionshipopponent—”
“Jesus,Mallory,Ididn’t—”Hetakesadeepbreath,strugglingtode-escalate.“Listen,Iknowyoudon’tlikethis,andIrespectit,butyou’restartingtosoundnuts.”
“Andyouwouldknowcrazy.”Isayitcalmly.Coldly.AndevenwhenIseesomethingfractureinhiseyes,Ipowerthrough.“Youdon’tloveanyoneexceptforyourself.You’remanipulative,selfish.You’realone,becauseyourfamilyhatesyou.AndnowIhateyou,too.”
Thedooropensabruptly,butIdon’tneedtolooktoknowwhoitis.IkeepmygazeonNolan’sbeautiful,hurt,deceitfulexpression,andmakesuretoscorchintomybrainthepainIfeelinthisverymoment.Heretheyare.Thelies,thebetrayal,thedisappointmentIwaswaitingfor.
Neverstray,Mallory.Neverbelieve.Nevertrustanyone.
Myhearttrembles,andIgripittightenoughtochokeit.
“Hi,Defne,”Isay,proudofthefirmnessofmyvoice.“Perfecttiming.I’mreadytoleave.”ChapterTwenty-Four
Ipushmyfrozenfingersintomypocket,takeadeepbreath,andfailatnotsoundingtooimpatientwhenIsay,“Ipromiseyourhairlooksperfectandthescrunchiematchesyourtop.Canweleavenow?”
Sabrinatakeshersweettimetofluffherhair,fixherlipstick,andgrabherbackpack,andpausesinfrontofmeonherwaytothedoor.“Amazing,howyouweregonefor”—shechecksawatchshedoesn’twear—“weeks,andwemanagedtofunctionperfectlyandbelateforschool”—anotherpretendcheck—“agrandtotalofzerotimes.”Shetapsherchin.“It’salmostasthoughwedon’tneedyoutobossusaround.Foodforthought,hmm?”
Sheslidespastme.Isighandfollow,steppingovercrunchysnowonmywaytothecar.
It’salmostlikeshe’snothappywithme.
Thenagain:nooneishappywithme.DarcyspentthethreenightssinceDefnedroppedmeoffsleepinginSabrina’sroom—apparently,herrageatmefordecidingnottogototheWorldChampionshiphealedtheyears-longriftbetweenthem.Mom’samixoftired,worried,andsuspiciousofmeforbeingbackweeksbeforemy“double-paynightshiftsattheseniorcenter”weresupposedtobeover.EvenMrs.Abebeglaredatme,forshovelingourshareddrivewaytooearlyandwakinguphertoddler.
Butit’sA-OK.It’sactuallyprettyfitting,becauseI’mnothappywithanybody,either.ScrewEastonforleavingthatAdamDriverWallPunchmemeIsentheronread,andrebuffingmyattemptstoreconnect.ScrewSabrinaandDarcyformakingmefeelunwelcomeinthehomewhosemortgageIpay.ScrewTanu,Emil,andDefneforbeingallinonthepuppeteeringofmylife,andscrewNolanfor…
Hedoesn’tbearthinkingabout.It’sjustmenow.Andthepeoplewhohateme,thepeoplewhomIhate,andofcourse,theauto-mechaniccertificationtestsIfinallyregisteredfor.TheonethingIpromisedmyselfI’ddoduringmyfellowship—notlearntheStaffordGambit,notfancymyselfhalfinlovewithsomemanipulativeliar,butsecuremyfamily’sfuture.
I’mbackontrack.Overchess.Freefromdistractions.Incontrol.
Mymorningsarespentatthetestingcenter,neck-deepinmultiplechoiceoptionsaboutheatingandair-conditioning.Automatictransmission.Enginerepairandperformance.Brakes,suspension,andsteering.Electronicsystems.
ThenIgogetbobaandsmuggleitintothelibrary.Inanewlow,I’mnowlyingtomyfamilyaboutgoingtomyfakejob,whichmeanshavingtokilltimetill5:00p.m.AtleastI’mfinallycatchingupontheGarcíaMárquezreadathon.TherestoftheonlinegroupmovedontoHarukiMurakamiinDecember,butI’mnoquitter.
Idon’tthinkso,atleast.
DarcyandIhavebeenwaitinginthecarfortwentyminuteswhenIdecidethatI’vehadenough.
Anyothertime,I’dbehappytoletSabrinahangoutwithherderbyfriendsinfifteen-degreeweatherwhileDarcyandIshoottheshitandbellowKIISFMsongs,changingeveryinstanceofloveintofart.ButDarcy’seithertooangryatmeforrefusingtoengageonthetopicofchesswithher(dayfourofsilenttreatment—shereallyismaturing)ortootakenwithreadingYouShouldSeeMeinaCrowntopayattentiontome.Icouldpasssometimeonthephone,butI’velearnedmylesson:whenthereisasurgeofmediainterestinyou,it’sprobablywisetostayoffsocials.
SoIgetoutofthecarandyellacrossthehalf-emptygymparkinglot:“Sabrina.Timetogo.”
“Yeah.”She’sgigglingandstaringatherfriendMcKenzie’sphone.“Givemeasec—”
“Igaveyouasecondtenminutesago.Getyourassinthecar.”
Theeyeroll,theshoulder-heavingsigh—those,Ibarelynotice.ButthewayMcKenzieleansforwardtowhispersomethinginherear,Sabrina’smurmuredresponse,thefactthattheybothgigglewhilelookinginmydirection…that’shardtooverlook.Ifeelapitofsomethingthatcouldbeangerdeep-fillmystomach,andremindmyselfthatshe’sfifteen.Herfrontallobe?Justamassofcookiedough.AndifsheandDarcyspendtheridechattingaboutRiverdale,withoutincludingmeintheconversation,it’sokay.
I’mplentybusywhite-knucklingthesteeringwheel.
“IneedaridetoTotowaforameetonSaturday,”Sabrinasaysoncewe’rehome,whileIdiginthefreezerforleftoverchicken.
“Howaboutaplease?”Imutter.
“Iwasn’ttalkingtoyou.”
“Well,Momisnotupfor—”
“I’vebeenreallygoodwiththenewmeds,Mal.”Momsmiles.AtSabrina.“I’lldriveyou.”
“Awesome.”ShekissesMomonthecheek,andtheybothdisappeardownthehallway.I’mleftinthekitchen,cuttingupveggiesfortheCrock-Pot,wonderingifwhileIwasgone,myfamilyoutgrewitsneedanditswantforme.
Wonderingwhatelsechesshastakenawayfromme.
Mom,Darcy,andSabrinaarechattinginthelivingroom—anewpost-schoolritual,seemingly—whensomeoneknocks.Iwipethescallionsfrommyfingersandgetthedoor,expectingMrs.Abebetoaskmetomovethecar.
It’sworse.Somuchworse,Islipoutandslamthedoorshutbehindme.I’mwearingonlyaT-shirtandit’sfreezingcold,butdesperatetimes,hypothermicmeasures.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
Ozlooksaroundmyporch,handsstuffedinhisBurberrypockets,upperlipcurledinwhatlooksalotlikedisgust.“Isthiswhereyoulive?”
“Yeah.”Ifrown.“Wheredoyoulive?Ahigh-riseinHudsonYards?”
“Yes.”
Idon’tknowwhatIexpected.“Okay,well…congrats.Isthereareasonyou’rehere,Oz?”
“Ijuststoppedbytosayhi.Chatalittle.”Heshrugs,eyesfixedonthebrokentrampoline.“Seeifmaybeyou’rereadytopullyourheadoutofyourass.”
Iblink.“Excuseme?”
“Justcheckinginifyou’redoneactinglikeabigwhinyshitwho’sallaloneagainsttheworld.Anyupdates?”
Iblinkagain.“Listen,Iknowbeingmeanisyourwholeshtick,but—”
“Ithinkit’syours,actually.”
“Excuseme?”
Hisgreeneyesharden.“Haveyou,atanypointinthelastweek,consideredthatdecidingtoostrichyourwaythroughthebiggestscandalFIDEhasseeninthepastthirtyyearsmightaffectpeoplewhoaren’tyou?”
“What’shappeninghasnothingtodowithme.Kochcheated.Goodonhim.”Mybreathpaintstheairwhite.“I’mdonewithchess.”
“Ah,yes.Youare.Becauseboo-hoo,yourboyfriendpaidforyoursalarywithoutaskingforanythinginreturnanddidn’ttellyou.CrymethefuckingNile.”
Istiffen.“Youhavenoideawhat—”
“AndIdon’tcare.YouwanttobemadatSawyerfornotdisclosing?Goahead.ChuckhisPS5outofthewindow,Idon’tgiveashit.”Hestepscloser.“I’mheretotalkaboutDefne,andthefactthataftereverythingshehasdoneforyou,you’reruiningherlife.”
“I’mnotruining…”Ihugmyself.Mygoosebumpsarefatlittlehillsonmyarms.“I’mnot.”
“Sheactsasyourtrainerandmanager.WhichmeansthatFIDEhasbeenhoundingherforconfirmationthatyouwillattend.”
“Well,I’mdonewithchessandeveryoneinvolvedinit.ShecantellthemthatIwon’t.”
“Oh,yes,sure.She’lljusttellthemthat.‘Sorry,guys,Malhadadomesticwithherboytoyandisouttahere.’Itwon’tinanywayimpacthercredibilityorherstandinginthechesscommunity,thefactthattheplayershevouchedfordisappearedfromthefaceoftheearth.Thattheplayershebentoverbackwardtogetintotournamentsturnedouttobetheselfish,flaky—”
“Wait,what?Shedidn’t.Ionlyeverparticipatedinopentournaments.”
Hescoffs.“Opendoesn’tmeanwalk-inswelcome.There’sstillaselectionprocess,andpeopleneedtoprovetheircredentials—ofwhichyouhadnone.DefnemadesureyoucouldplayinPhillyandNashville.Shepaidforyoutogothere,andletyoukeeponehundredpercentofyourearnings.AndnowFIDEisconsideringunaccreditingZugzwang,becauseDefne’sstarplayerisrefusingtobeintheWorldChampionship,because…”Hegivesmeawitheringlook.“Why?”
Angerbubblesup.“Defneliedtome.”
“Ah,yes.”Herollshiseyes.“How,precisely?”
“Shedidn’ttellmeNolangaveherthemoney.”
“Eventhoughyouasked.Despicableofher.”
“Ididn’task,but—”
“Ofcourseyoudidn’t.Youweretoldthatthemoneycamefromdonors,didnotaskfollow-upquestions,andnowyou’rehigh-horsingherintotheground.”
Iglare.“Oz—whyareyouevenhere?Howdoyouknowallthisstuff?WhywouldDefnetellyou…”He’slookingatmelikeI’mthedimmestbulbinthecookiejar.AndIam.“Wait.YouandDefnearen’t…?”
Heignoresme.“Doyouthinkchessclubsarealucrativeenterprise?ThatDefnemakesbank?Rethinkthat.SheboughtZugzwangbecauseshewantedtocreateanenvironmentinwhicheveryonefeltwelcomeinchess.Topreventothersfromfeelingthewayshehad.Andshehastorelyondonors.Sawyerhasbeenoneofthosedonorsforyears,andhere’swhathappened:yes,hegaveherthefundstotrackyoudownandofferyouthejob.Butwhenyourefusedthefellowship,Defnestartedlookingintootherpossibleplayerstosponsor.BecauseSawyer’sdonationwasjustthat—agiftwithnostringsattached.”
Iswallow.“Hewasinvolvedinmelosingmyjob.I’msureofit.”Almost.
“Maybe.”Ozshrugs.“Iwouldn’tputitpasthim.ButDefne?Sheneverwantedanythingfromyouexcepttoseeyousucceed.Whichisthereasonshe’snotherepointingouthowmuchofawhinylittlebitchyou’rebeing,orsuingyouforbreachofcontract.ButIhavenosuchqualms,Mal.Idon’tcareifyoucomebacktoreadLoveintheTimeofCholerawhileyoushouldbestudyingModernChessOpenings.YouoweittoDefnetoseethisyearthrough.AndtohaveaconversationwithherabouttheWorldChampionship.TohelpherdealwithFIDEwithoutlosingface.”
Hetakesastepback.Hisperennialbelligerentairdeflatesalittle,andforonceheseemsmoreopenthanirritated.“Listen.Itryhardnottolearnthingsaboutthepeoplearoundme,but…I’veheardaboutyourfather.Iknowyoutakecareofyourfamily.Iknowyou’redealingwithstufflike”—hischinpointsatmyyard—“thatrustytrampoline.Butifyouunzipyourassholeandpryyourheadoutofit,youmightrealizethatthere’smoretolifethanfeelingsorryforyourself.”Henodsonceandthenturnsaround,hoppinggracefullydowntheslipperyporchsteps.
Iwatchhimwalkaway,aconfusedmixofangerthatfeelsalotlikeguiltswirlingthroughme.Ididn’taskDefnetotrainme.Ididn’taskNolantosponsorme.AllIeveraskedwasforDadtonotcheatonMominfrontofme,forhimnottodie,forMomnottogetsick,formylifetobenormal.HowdareOz,fromhisAlpsofprivilege,treatmelikeIamthespoiledlittlegirl?
“Youdon’tknowme,”Iyellafterhim.Acliché—that’swhoIam.
“AndIdon’tparticularlycareto.”Heopensthedriver’sdoorofhisMini.“Notifthisiswhoyouare.”
WhenIslumpagainsttheinsideofthedoor,thehousefeelsimpossiblyhot.Itakeadeepbreathandordermyselftocalmdown.
It’sirrelevant,whatOzthinksofme,becauseheandchessareoutofmylife.MaybeI’llcallDefneatsomepoint.LetherknowthatI’moutforgood.ButtwonightsagoIdreamedthateverysinglepersonImetinthepastsixmonthswaspointingatmeandlaughing:I’dbeenmovingtherookacrossdiagonals,thinkingitwasabishop.Noonecorrectedme,notevenDefne.Shewasinthefirstrow,sniggeringwithNolan.
So,yeah.Notreadytoreachout.
Ipressmypalmsintomyeyesandgobackintothekitchentofinishmakingdinner.Istopattheentrance,andnoonenoticesme.
“—kindofgross,”Darcyissaying,peekingattheCrock-Pot.“Like…ew?”
“Superunhealthy,withallthatoil,”Sabrinapointsout.“Maybesheneedsacookingclassforherbirthday,Mom.”
“That’salovelyidea,Sabrina.She’lllovethat.”
“I’mnotgettingherapresent,”Darcygrumbles.
“Iseewhatshewastryingtodo.Butit’snotarecipethatcallsforthigh,youknow,”Mommuses.“Maybebreast.Orpork.”
“Idon’twannaeatthis,”Sabrinamumbles,andthat’sthemomentIfeelithappen:likeatoughlittlebubble,bloodyandred,givingoffthetiniestofpopsinsidemyhead.
“Thendon’t,”Isay.Thethreeofthemwhiparoundatthesametime,eyeswide.“Asamatteroffact,whydon’tyoumakedinner?”
Sabrinahesitates.Thenrollshereyes.“Jesus.Chill,Mal.”
“Yeah.”Inod.“Iwillchill.Iwillstopdoingthedishes.Iwillstopgroceryshopping.Iwillstopearningmoneyforfood.Let’sseehowyoulikeit.”
“That’stotallyfine.”Herhandscometoherhips.“Youweregoneforweeksandweweredoingamazing.”
“Oh,really?”It’slikeaknifetwistedinmyribcage.“Youweredoingamazing?”
“Wewerefreeofthisweirddictatorshipwherewecan’tevencommentondinner,”Sabrinasays,andIseeMom’smouthopeningtochastiseher,butI’mquicker.
“Youaresuchabitch,”Ihearmyselfsay.
Itsoundshorrendousinthesilenceofthekitchen.ItshocksMomintosilence,andDarcyphysicallystepsback.ButSabrinanarrowshereyesandstandsherground.SoIcontinue.
“Youareanungratefulbitch.SinceallIdoischauffeuryouaroundandmakesureyourfeesarepaid.”
“Ididn’taskforanyofthat!”
“Thendon’tfuckingtakeit,Sabrina.GooutanddothethingIdid.Don’tgotoschool,quityourpreciousrollerderby—let’sseehowmuchyourlittlebuddyMcKenzielikesyouwhenshe’sincollegeandyouaren’t!Completelygiveuponeverylittlethingyoulovesothatyoucantakecareofyourbratty,ungratefullittlesister”—IpointatDarcy—“who,bytheway,isalsoahigh-functioningbitch.”
“Mallory,”Mominterruptssternly.“That’senough.”
“Isit,though?”Ilookather.Myeyesareblurry,burningwiththesameheatthat’sinmystomach.“Notthatyou’remuchbetter,sinceyou’recurrentlyalsobeingabitch—”
“Enough.”
Mom’sharshvoiceisfollowedbyathick,terriblesilence.
It’smyundoing:suddenly,I’minmybodyagain.Andwiththat,IcanheareveryvilethingIjustsaidlikeaplayed-backtape,andit’sunbearable.I’mtoohorrified,tooangry,toostrickentostayonesecondlonger.
“OhmyGod.I-I…”
Ishakemyheadandturnaround.Staggertomyroom,visionfuzzy.
Ijustcalledmymom,mythirteen-andfifteen-year-oldsisterswhoselivesIruined—Icalledthembitches.IthrewintheirfacewhatI’vedoneforthem—despitethefactthatitwouldn’thaveneededdoingifithadn’tbeenforme
Iclosethedoorbehindme,foldontomymattress,andhidemyfaceinmyhands,ashamed.
Inevercry.Ididn’tcrywhenItoldMomaboutwhatDaddid.Ididn’tcrywhenhepackedhisbagsandleft.Ididn’tcrywhenwereceivedthatphonecallfromthehighwaypatrolatfivethirtyinthemorning.Ididn’tcrywhenIdeclinedmyscholarshipoffers,whenBobfiredme,inDefne’scaronmywaybackfromNolan’shouse.Inevercried,evenwhenIwantedto,becausewhenIaskedmyselfifIhadtherighttothosetears,theanswerwasalwaysno,anditwaseasytostopmyself.
ButI’msobbingnow.Ihidemyfaceinmyhandsandwailloudly,messily,fatdropsslidingdownmyface,poolinginmypalms.Atonce,thelastfewyearsallfeelsoreal.Allmyfailures,mymistakes,mybadchoices.Allthelosses,theminutes,andthehoursspentgoingintheoppositedirectionoflife,thefactthatDadisnothereanymore…It’sallstuckinmythroat,dirtyragsandbrokenglass,suffocating,gutwrenching,andallofasuddenIdon’tknowhowI’mgoingtobearthehurtofwhatbeingmehasbecomeforevenhalfasecondlonger.
Andthenthemattressdips,rightnexttome.
Awarm,thinhandsettlesonmyshoulder.“Mallory,”Momsays.Hervoiceispatientbutfirm.“I’vetriedtogiveyouasmuchspaceasyouneeded.ButIthinkit’stimeforustotalkabouttheWorldChampionship.”ChapterTwenty-Five
IcanthinkofseveralthingstosaytoMom.
Sadly,they’reallswallowedbymyhiccups.
Fortunately,Momseemstobeabletoreadmymind.
“Yes,”shesayscalmly,pushingmywethairbackfrommyeyes.“Iknow.”
“H-how?”
Shesmiles.“Darcytoldmethemomentshefoundout.ButIknewsomethingwasuplongbeforethen.”Sheshrugs.“Yourhoursdidn’tmakeanysense,yourstoriessoundedlikewhatsomeonewho’sneverbeeninaseniorcenterwouldmakeupfromreadingpamphlets.And…thereissomethingaboutyouwhenchessisonyourmind.Youfeellikeanotherperson.Amuchhappierperson.”Hersmileturnsrueful.“Mal.TheytalkedaboutyouonGoodMorningAmerica.DidyouthinkIwouldn’thavegottenphonecallsfromeverydistantcousinofmineabouthowyoushouldreallypermyourhair?”
Igroan.Betweenhiccups.Momletsoutasoftlaughandpullsmecloserwithanarmaroundmyshoulders,likeshedoesn’thatemeforcalling67percentofthepeopleshegavebirthtobitches.
“IthinkI’mdoingthiswrong,”shesaysgently.“MaybebeforewetalkabouttheWorldChampionship,weshouldtalkaboutyourdad.”
Iinstantlyshakemyhead.“No,I—I’msorry.Iwaswayoutofline.Wedon’thaveto—”
“Butwedo.”Herlipspresstogether,andherexpressionmorphsintosomethingsad.“It’sbeenoverayear,andItakeresponsibilityfornotdoingitearlier.Foralongtime,IliedtomyselfthatIwasdoingyouafavor.Thatyouweredeeplyhurt,anddidn’tneedtobere-traumatized.”
“I’mnot.”Iwipemyeyesandletoutaphlegmylaugh.“Iamnottheonewho’straumatized.Youaretheonewhogotcheatedon.SabrinaandDarcyaretheoneswhogrewupwithoutafather.Iamtheonewhomadeithappen—Iamthebitchhere.”
“No,no,no.”Momshakesherhead,lookingcrestfallen.“See?That’swhyweshouldhavediscussedthis.Youarenotresponsibleforanyofthat.Youknowwhois?”Abeat.Hereyesshineinthelateafternoonlight.“Yourfather.Yourfathermadesometerrible,cruel,carelesschoices.AndpartofwhyIdon’ttalktoyougirlsabouthimasmuchasIshouldisthatit’sverydifficult,evenyearslater,formetocometotermswiththepersonhe’dbecometowardtheend.ButIwillneverholdyouresponsibleforanyofit.”
“Youshould.Itwasmyfault.IfIhadn’t—”
“Mal,ourhistoriesarenotmadeofifsandbuts.Although,ifthisisthegameyouwanttoplay:ifyouhadn’ttoldmeaboutwhatyou’dseenatthattournament,Iwouldhavefoundoutanyway.Becauseitwasn’tthefirsttimehe’ddonethat.Andyourfatherhadalonghistoryofdealingwithproblemswithalcohol,andhe’dhadtwoDUIsbeforehisaccident,soevenifhehadstillbeenlivingathome,there’sagoodchancethatwhathappenedwouldhavehappenedanyway.”
Itakeashudderingbreath,thinkingaboutDad.HowmuchImisshim.Howhecouldhavedonethattous.“Sabrinablamesmeforit.Andshe’sright—”
“No,Idon’t.”
Iglanceatthedoor.Sabrinaisleaningagainstthedoorframe,glaringatme.
“Iknowyoudo.”I’msobbingagain.“Andyouhaveeveryright.IstoleDadfromyou,and—”
“Idon’t,youbitch.AndIneverdid.”Shelooksdownatherfeet.“However,IamfamiliarwithyourRedCrossnursetendenciesandwithyourhabitofshoulderingtheuniverse,Atlas-style.”Sheswallows.“SoImayhaveusedtheknowledgethatyoublameyourselfforeverydamnthingtoeverhappentomyadvantage.Whenyoupissmeoff.”
Momsighs.“Sabrina.”
“Iapologize,okay?”shesaysdefensively.“Ididn’tthinkyoufeltthisbadaboutit—it’snotlikeyoushowemotions,ever.Butitalsoisyourfault,alittlebit.Itusedtobefun,hangingoutwithyou.We’ddostuffwithoutMomandDadandDarcy,andI’dfeellikeyouandIwereathing.Youtreatedmelikeaperson.Nowit’slikeyou’rereadytonarcmeoutonanythingIdo.Yougivemeordersandactallsuperiorandlikeyou’retryingtobeMom.YoutreatmemorelikeachildnowthanyoudidwhenIwasachild—”Hervoicebreaks,andshequicklybendshernecktohidehertears.“MaybeI’mabitch,butI’mnotungrateful.I’mverygrateful,actually.Iknowhowmuchyoudo,andifyoudidn’ttrytobesosecretiveaboutit,maybeIcouldactuallyshowit.Butifyouwant,Icansendyouathank-youcard,or—”
Shestopsbetweensniffles,andIwanttostand,Iwanttogohugher,Iwanttotellherthatit’sokayandIdon’twantherstupidcard,Ijustwantmysistertostopcrying.ButMom’shandclosesaroundmine.
“Whenyoustoppedplayingchess,Mal,Iassumedthatyoudiditbecauseyourfather’sactionsmadeittoopainfulforyou.Iassumedyou’dfindyourwaybacktoitonceyouwerehealed.Andwhenyoudecidednottogotocollege…well,youseemedgenuinelyhurtandoffendedwheneverItriedtotalkyououtofit,soItoldmyselfthatyouwereanadult,andweremakingchoicesthatwerebestforyouandyourwell-being,andIhadtorespectthat.
“ButwhenDarcytoldmeaboutyourfellowship,itoccurredtomeforthefirsttimethatmaybetherewereotherreasons.Thatmaybeyourmaingoalwastoprotectmefromsomething,andifthat’sthecase…letmetellyousomething:whenIthinkaboutchess,Idon’tthinkaboutArchie,orabouttheotherwomen.”Shesmilesthroughhertears.“WhenIthinkaboutchess,Ithinkaboutmybrilliantoldestdaughter,doingwhatsheloves,andkickingasswhileshe’satit.”Herchintrembles.“IwatchedyouattheChallengers,Mal.Hoursandhoursofyoubeingsobeautifulinyour”—sheletsoutawetlaugh—“inyourCorpseBridedress.AndeventhoughIcouldn’tunderstandonesinglethingyouweredoing,Iwassoproudofyou—”
Ican’tlookatheranymore.Ican’tbearonemoreword,soIhugher.MoreforcefullythanIshould,givenherjointissues.Andshehugsmeback,herarmsaroundmine,likesheusedtowhenIwaslittleandneededmymom.AndwhenIhearaput-upon“Oh,fine,”andSabrina’sarmsclosearoundus,IfeelwholeinawayIhaven’tinoverfouryears.
“Waytomakemefeelexcluded,bitches.”
“Darcy,”weallsayatonce,allinthesamedisapprovingtone.
“What?”Sheshrugsfromthedoor.“Ithoughtwenowjustsprinkledthewordgenerouslyinconversation.Forseasoning.”
“Wemostcertainlydonot,”Momtellsher.
“God,”Sabrinamutters,shufflingawayfromus.“Thereisnoprivacyinthishouse.”
“Ofcoursenot,”Darcysays.“It’sminusculeandthewallsaremadeoftoiletpaperandTazoteabags.Mallory,canyoupleasewinthatstupidWorldChampionshipandmoveuselsewherewithyoursmartcheckersmoney?”
Iscowlather.“Greatjobkeepingsecrets,bytheway.”
“Technically,IkeptthefactthatIhadn’tkeptthesecret,secretfromyou.”
ImullitoverasIrubmycheeksclean.ThenInod,impresseddespitemyself.
“Well.”Mompatsmyknee.“Nowwecanmoveontotalkingaboutthathandsome‘seniorcentercoworker’ofyours.”
“Right.DoyouandNolanfallasleeptogethertoscalpmassageASMRlikeTwittersays?”Sabrinaasks.
“What?No!We’renot—I’mnot—”Iwipemynosewithmysleeve,whichcomesbackfullofsomethingthatlookssuspiciouslylikesnot.Wereallyneedaparentalcontrolfirewall,Ialmostsay.ThenrememberwhatSabrinasaidaboutmetryingtobeherparent
“Didyouguysbreakup?”sheasks.“What’dhedo?”
“He…liedtome.”
“Ah,yes.Lying.Somethingyou’dneverstoopto.”Mom’stoneissoft,butIwinceanyway.“Let’shearaboutthislie.”
ItellheraboutDefne,andthefellowship,andKoch’sTikTok.AfterI’mdone,Momtakesadeepbreathandsays,“Listen,IlikeNolan.AndwhenIsawthetwoofyoutogether…Ithinkhe’sbeengoodforyou.Butthisisnotabouthim.It’saboutchess,andaboutyou.”Shesqueezesmyhand.“Youmadegoodmoneyfromthetournamentsyou’vebeenin.Mynewmedsareworkingwell,andI’vebeenabletoworkregularlyforweeks.Thingsaresomuchbetterthantheywereevenjustsixmonthsago.Iappreciatewhatyou’vedoneforus,butnowit’stimetofocusonwhatyouwant.
“Guiltandresponsibilityareheavyburdens,Mallory.Butthey’realsosomethingwecanhidebehind,andnowyoucan’tdothatanymore.Youarefreetodowhatyoulove.WhichmightbeneverthinkingaboutchessagainstandmovingtoBouldertobewithEaston.Itmightbebecominganautomechanic.Itmightbetakingayearofftobackpackaroundtheworld.Itcanbewhateveryouwant—butithastobeyourdecision.Yourchoice,freeofconstraints.Andtodothat,you’regoingtohavetolookintoyourself,andbehonestaboutwhatyouwant.Andyes,Iknowthat’sterrifying.Butlifeistoolongtobeafraid.”
Isnortwetly.“Tooshort,youmean.”
“No.Yearsspentcarryinggrudges,talkingyourselfoutofthingsthatmightmakeyouhappy?Theygoslowly.”
IturntoDarcyandSabrina.They’relookingatmewithidenticalshadesofblueeyes,identicalseriousexpressions,identicalwispyblondstrandsframingtheirprettyfaces.
“Andonemorething,”Momsays.“Ifyouneedsomething,youareallowedtoaskforit.Godknowswehavebeen.ButIknowyou’renotgoodatit,soI’mgoingtooffer:whateveryoudecidetodo,aboutchess,aboutyourlife…maywebethereforyou?Maywebepartofyourlife,fromnowon?”
Ican’tbringmyselftosayyes.
ButmaybeI’mmakingprogressanyway,becauseatleastImanagetonod.PARTTHREEEndGame
ChapterTwenty-Six
Darcyspendstheeight-hourplaneridetoItalyquizzingOzabouttheinsandoutsoftheWorldChampionship.
“Whendoesitstart?”Infivedays.
“Whyarewegoingsoearly,then?”ForMallorytogetusedtothetimezone.
“Howmanygames?”Twelve.
“Howmanyhourspergame?”Nolimit.
“Sotheycangotothefollowingday?”We’reinthecomputerera—gamescannotbeadjournedanymore,orplayerswouldjustturnonanengineandevaluatetheirpositions.
“Whowins?”Whoeverwinsthemostgames.
“Whatiftheydraw?”That’swhytherearetwelvegames.
“Whatiftheydrawaaaaaallthegames?”Theygototiebreaks,whichareroundsofrapidchess,and..
Ozscowls.“ThisflighthascomplimentaryWi-Fi.Can’tyouBingitorsomething?”
“Momwon’tgetmeasmartphonetillI’mfourteen.”
“Mrs.Greenleaf,”hetellsMom,who’ssittingwithmeandDefneinthecenterrow,“Iwillbepurchasingacellularphoneforyouryoungestgremlin.”
“Oh,there’snoneed.”
“Iinsist,”hesays,loweringhissleepmask.
“Mom,”Sabrinawhines,“ifDarcygetsapresentfromOz,Iwantone,too!”
“Aslongasyoushutthehellup.”Heaggressivelystuffsplugsintohisears,justintimetoblockoutmysisters’booming“Yay!”
Nexttome,Defneisfrowning.“Ihavetosay,thetiebreaksdoworrymealittle.Inthelastmonthweworkedtenhoursaday,sevendaysaweek,andstillbarelyhadtimetotrainyouforregularchess.Wehaven’tpracticedrapidandblitzatall.”Sheshrugs.“Oh,well.Let’sjusthopeitwon’tcometothat.”ThesilverfigleafearringsthatIgotherwhenshewouldn’tletmeapologizeforbeingadickdangleprettilyfromherear.Adickletatmost,shetoldmebeforepullingmeinforahug,herlemonscentsour-sweetinmynostrils.Ishouldhavetoldyouwherethefellowshipcamefrom.Iwantyoutoknow,I’monyourteam.
Ibelieveher.Because,asOzsolovinglyputit,Ifinallyrelaxedmysphincterenoughtoactlikeanemotionallymatureperson.I’mvaguelybefuddledthatfollowingaheftyamountofgroveling,heactuallyagreedtobemysecond.AndjustasbefuddledthatheandDefnemighthaveathing.Iwanttoknow,butIdon’twanttoaskTillyouworkupthecourage,it’sSchr?dinger’sfucking,Sabrinatoldmeknowingly.Icouldonlynod,proudofhergraspoftheoreticalphysics.
AttheMarcoPoloairportduty-freeshop,whileI’myawningandpayingforanassortmentofKinderproductsDarcyselected,agirlinanIHeartRomesweaterstopsmeforapicture.
Idon’tbataneye.It’sbeenalittleoveramonthsinceIformallyacceptedFIDE’sinvitationtobethechallenger,andafterabunchofviralTikToksonmygames,thishasbeenhappeningalot.Inlineatthegrocerystore.AttheDMV,standinginlinetogetSabrina’spermit.WhileIattempttojog,perDefne’sworkoutschedule.
AccordingtoOz,Ineedamediateam.AccordingtoDarcy,IshouldgoonCelebritySurvivoriftheyeverask.Accordingtome,IjustsmileandsignwhateverI’masked—areceipt;acartonofArby’scurlyfries;ononememorableoccasion,adirtyNikesock.Ifmysistersarewithme,theytrytogetinwhateverselfieishappening.Everyoneletsthembecausethey’recuteAF.
“Doyouthinkyou’regoingtowin?”IHeartRomeasksme,vowelsglidinghappily.Idon’thavethehearttotellherthatIseriouslydoubtit.ThatI’mscaredshitless.
“Who’stosay?”
“Well,Ihopeyoudo.Iwasfirstboardonmymiddleschoolteam.HadaJudithPolgarposterinmyroom.NeverthoughtI’dlivetoseeawomanintheWorldChampionshipwithhowterriblethemeninthesportcanbe.Andbytheway,IknowyouandNolanSawyerhaveathing,andit’sgottabealittlesadtohavetoplayagainsthim,butdon’tgoeasyonhim,okay?”
SheleavesbeforeIcanthinkofananswer.ThebackofhersweaterisananthropomorphizedColosseum,winkingatme.
“Isit?”Darcyasks.
Iglancedownatthepieceofcandyshe’salreadyeating,disturbinglyshapedlikeahippopotamus.“What?”
“Sad?ToplayagainstNolan?”
Itakeadeepbreath.Forafewbeats,myheartturnsheavierinmychest,twistsandcontortsintosomethingpainfulthatresemblesregret.Iwrenchitbackintoshapeandwrapmyarmaroundhershoulders.
“Comeon.Wegottagothroughcustoms.Let’sseeifIscrewedupourvisasandwehavetoturnaround.”
TheWorldChampionshiplogoisbafflingly,inexplicably,alarminglyugly.
Westareatit—astylizeddude’slimbsknottedwithanother,equallystylizeddude’s;astripey,Picasso’edchessboardontheirlaps—andalmostmisstheall-capsGREENLEAFonthesign.
“I…guessthat’sourride?”Isay.
“Prettysurethat’spositionnumberthirty-fiveintheKamaSutra,”Sabrinamutters,whichdegeneratesintoMomhavingtoexplainwhatcreativeintercourseistoDarcy.
IthinkIimaginedItalywouldbewarm,buttheFebruarychillisnearlyassharphereasbackhome.Thesaltwindiscold,myhairtanglesontheshuttleboat,andIletDarcysnuggleundermyplaidcoatwhilewepointatthebeautifulhousesfacingthecanal.Romantic,Ithink.I’veneverbeenonetousetheword,butthemazeofcallesandbridgesspreadingaroundthelagoon,thewaterlappinggentlyatthestonehomes,itallseemssopretty,soreadytobeexplored.“DoyouthinkMrs.AbebeisfeedingGoliathonschedule?”sheasks.
Thesunisonitswayout.Wechosealate-landingflighttominimizethewreckonoursleepcycle,butitalmostfeelsmeanttobe:Mom,mysisters,Veniceatsunset.Me.
Iknewtheyneededme.ButIneverquiteunderstoodhowmuchIneededthembeforethisyear.“IthinkGoliathwouldtakeherdaughterhostageifshedidn’t,”Itellher.“ButIcouldtextforupdates,okay?”
Theboatdropsusoffatasmalldockinfrontofthehotel.ThehorrifyingFIDElogoiseverywhere,andI’mdebatingcoveringDarcy’seyes,Sabrina’s,Mom’s,sendinganaggressivelywordedemail,turningbackandsailingaway,butI’mparalyzedbythegrandiosity.
“Isthisacastle?”Darcyasks.
“No,it’s…”Iblink.“Maybe?”
“We’renotpayingforthisoutofpocket,right?”Momasks.
“FIDE’sonit.Theyshitmoney.Sorry,poop—theypoopmoney.”Shehandshersuitcasetoasmilingporterwithastilted“Grazie,”andIwonderhowmanymonthsofmortgageastolenashtraywouldfetch.
IexpecttosharearoomwithDarcy,butSabrinatakesherinwithafirm“Weneedyoutorestandwinandearnenoughtosponsormyrollerderbyteam.”
“Theywillbuynewuniforms,”Darcyadds.“AndI’llbetheirnewmascot.Inaguineapigcostume.”
“Hmm.”Myheartsqueezes,likeitalwaysdoeswhentheyassumethatI’llwin.It’snotsosimple,Iwanttoscream.Thisisdifficult.Butthey’rejusttryingtobesupportive.“Soundslikeyoutwohavebeentalkingthisthrough.”
“Oh,wehaveplansforyourmoney.”
ThesuitelookslikesomethingfromthedrylandhalfofTheLittleMermaid,fullofcanopies,lusciousrugs,antiquefurniture,andwallartthat’solderthanmymonkeyancestors.It’salsoempty,though,emptyofsomethingthatIcannotpinpoint.Iunpackthreeweeks’worthofnot-warm-enoughclothes,setthechessboardtotheKorchnoiversusKarpov,1978gameIwasstudyingontheplane,snappicsofthecanalviewthroughthearchedwindow—thenrealizethateverysinglepersonImightsendittoiscurrentlytreatedtothesamesight.
Islideintobed,tossandturnforahandfulofhours,admittomyselfthatI’mtoosomethingtofallasleep,slideout.
Thereisalargepooldownstairsthatthefancybrochureinformsmeisfullyheated,andI’msplashinginitlessthanfiveminuteslater.Thewaterisfilteredfromtheoceanandsmellslikesaltratherthanchlorine.IletthecomplimentaryNashvilleOpenT-shirtItriedtosleepinbillowaroundme,andstargaze.
RememberingthelasttimeIwasinapoolwouldberollingdownadangerouspath,fullofunbearablethingsIdon’tliketothinkabout.Soisthetimebeforethat:Eastonandme,house-sittingforoneofherneighbors.Itwasthesummerbeforesenioryear,andthatpoolwasfullofbugsandstuffthatIrefusedtobelievewassquirrelturds.Eastonkeptrepeating,“Ew,”butImanagedtopersuadehertodipherfeet.IspentonehourfloatingaboutwhileshereadherSATprepquestionsoutloudinafakeFrenchaccent.
Ihaven’theardfromherintwomonths.BeforeAugust,ourrecordwastwodays.Ioscillatebetweenbeingangry,begrudginglywishingthebesttoherandthegirlshe’sInstagram-officialwith,andbeingtakenabackwhenIfindmyselfstillonthevergeofsendingheraDragonAgeTikTokdespiteourlackofrecenthistory.
It’sriskybusiness,focusingonthepast.Thefuture,theutterhumiliationthat’stocomeinfourdays,evenriskier.ThenowiswhereIam:ice-coldstars,mellowwater,andKorchnoi’sinexplicablerooktoa1driftinginsidemyhead.
It’sthedeepofthenightwhenIpushout,shiveringpoolsideinthecoldair.Allthehotellightsareoff,exceptforasinglewindow.IthinkIspotatallsilhouettethroughthecurtains,butmyeyesmustbetrickingme.
Iblinkonce,andwhenIopenthem,there’snothinglefttosee.ChapterTwenty-Seven
“Yournextthreedaysarewideopen,sowe’lljustberunningyourgamesthroughenginesandlookingforweaknesses.Thedaybeforethematchiswhenthingsstartfillingup.You’llhavethemorningforyourself,butthere’sapressconferenceintheafternoon.Andtheopeninggalaatnight,butjustanappearanceisfine.”Defnesmilesfromacrossthebreakfasttable.ThismorningsheappearedoutofaroomthatshemayormaynotbesharingwithOz.Sabrinamouthed“Schr?dinger,”andInearlychokedonmyspit.
“Defne,whyisthishotelsodeserted?”Momasks.
It’sjustusintheocean-viewdiningroom,andasmallmountainofflaky,warm,gooeyNutellacroissants.Darcyatesomany,shehadtogobackupforanapbeforeleavingforaglassfactorysightseeingtour.We’llneverbeabletotalkherbackintooatmeal.
“HotelCiprianidoesn’topentillmid-March,soFIDErenteditoutofseason.Theyholdthechampionshiphereeveryfewyears—I’vealwayswantedtocome,butnevergotachancebefore.Iassumepeoplewillstarttricklingin,though.Organizers,commentators,FIDEhigher-ups.Thecurrentchampionandhisteam.”
Shedoesn’tmeetmyeyes.Myhearttugs.
“Thentherearethechesssuperfanswhoalwaysshowup,mostlySiliconValleyandtechpeople.Somepresswillbestayinghere,thoughmostjournalistswillhavecheaperaccommodationandferryinforthegames.”Sheshakesherhead.“Istillcan’tbelieveNBCisbroadcastingtheeventthisyear.Whatarewe,theNFL?Thecurlingleague?”
IwistfullywaveatmyfamilyastheyboardtheshuttletoMurano,andthenturntoDefne,readytobescoldedformyinabilitytoequalizetoughpositionsintimetrouble.
“Shouldwedoitinmyroomoryours?”Iask.I’mwonderingifIcanusethesituationtosolvetheOznemysteryonceandforall,butoneoftheconciergesnose-blocksme.
“Therearetrainingspacessetasideforplayers,”hesays,ItalianaccentheavythroughperfectEnglish.“ShallIshowyou?”
Heleadsusthroughasetofgardensthataresurprisinglybeautifulandgreen.“Notattheirbestinthisseason,I’msorrytosay.WecallthemtheGiardiniCasanova.”
“Likethemanwhore?”Defnewhispersatme.
Ishrugjustastheconciergenods.“Likethelegendarylover,precisely.Andthat’swherethematchwilltakeplacenextweek.”Hepointsataconstructioninthecenterofthegardensthatlooksalittlelikeahothouse.It’sasimplesquare,butallfourwallsandtheceilingaremadeofglass.Theinsideisempty,withtheexceptionofawoodentable,twochairs,andasimplechessset.
Myheartkicksinmythroat.
“It’sfullyheated,ofcourse.Andsoundproof.”Hissmileisreassuring.“Thisisthefifthchampionshipwe’vehosted.”
“That’salotofcameratripodsandlightsallaround.”Defnepatsmeontheshoulderandgrins.“Noworries.Icanhelpyouwiththatcowlick.”
Ourtrainingroomisunderacloister,behindawoodendoor.Insidetherearechesssets,laptopswecanusetoconnecttotheengines,rowsofopeningandmiddlegamebooks.
“Thisisincredible.”Defnerunsherfingersoveraglassset.“I’mseriouslyjealous.”
“Yeah.I’mnotsurprisedtheyhostlotsofchampionships.Theyareprepared.Ibetthey…”
InoticethepictureonthewallandforgetwhatIwasabouttosay.It’softwomen,standinginthesameglasshouseIjustpassedoutside.Oneisnearlybald,theotherhasafullheadofdarkhairandasmallsmile.They’reshakinghandsontopofadevelopedboard,andBlack—thebaldone—musthaveresigned,twomovesfrombeingcheckmated,allhispiecesdisastrouslypinnedormercilesslytiedup.Theotherplayer’seyesarehoodedandstern,familiarinanalmostdisorientingway,andforasecondIfeelaninexplicable,leadenweightinmychest.
ThenIreadthetagbelow:Sawyervs.Gurin,1978.WorldChessChampionship.
“Heis…”
“Yup.”Defnestepstomyside.
“Youknewhim?”
“Itrainedwithhim.”
Right.Yeah.“Howwashe?”
“Verypositional.AsBlackhealmostalwaysplayedtheNajdorfSicilian—”
“Imean,whatkindofperson?”
“Oh.Let’ssee.”Shepursesherlips,eyesonthephoto.“Quiet.Kind.Dry,sharpsenseofhumor.Honest,almosttoafault.Stubborn.Troubled,sometimes.”Shetakesadeepbreath.“He’sthereasonIhaveZugzwang.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Hegavemethemoneytobuyit.Aloan,Ithought,butonceIcouldpayhimback,hewouldn’ttakeit.”
SoundslikesomeoneIknow:generous,sarcastic,badatlying.
Sombereyed.
Ibethedidn’tknowhowtotakeano.Ibethewassingle-mindedandmercurialandinscrutable.Ibethewascharismaticbutalsoarrogantandobstinate.Mulish,anddifficulttounderstand,stupid,irritating,necessary,annoying,so,soaddictiveinthatfrightening,out-of-controlway,sowarmandgentleandgenuinelyfunny,right,ruthless,impossibletogetover—
“Mal?”
Istartleawayfromthepicture.“Yeah.”
“Yourtraining…Whatwehavebeendoing,studyingyourplay,it’sgood.Focusingonyourweaknessesisgood.Butweshouldreallytakealookatsomeofhis—”
“No,”Iinterrupther.We’renottalkingaboutMarcusSawyeranymore,butitdoesn’tneedtobespelledout.
“Idon’tunderstandwhyyourefuseto—”
“No.”
Shehuffs.“It’sonlyfair.Andexpected.Thisisnotatournament,Mal,it’stheWorldChampionship—thematchbetweenthetwobestplayersalive.Youshouldbehoningyourskillswithyouropponentinmind,nottrainingonoldgamesandoveranalyzingyourownstyle.He’sprobablystudyingyourgames,andIdoubtthathe’dexpectyounotto—”
“No,”Isayforthelasttime,andsheknowsit’sfinaljustaswellasIdo.“Let’scontinueasplanned.”
Defnefrowns.Butshenodsnonetheless.
I’mbadatconsolidating.
Iattacktooearly.Ortoolate.
I’mnotdecisiveenough,exceptwhenI’msodecisive,Iblowmyadvantage.
Icannotcomfortablytradeintoendgames.
Irelytoomuchonmyfavoriteopenings—acardinalsin,sinceplayerswithpreferencesareplayerswithweaknesses.
Ishouldfocusonthesidestotakethecenter.
And:
“ThisgameagainstChuang,”Ozissaying.“Yourqueenwascompletelyopen.Notsayinggoallministryofdefense,but—”
“Okay.Okay,I…”Irubmyeyes.“You’reright.Let’sgobacktotheengines.IfeellikeI’m—”
“It’spastmidnight,Mal.”Defneisshakingherhead.“Youshouldgotobed.”
Shit.“Okay.Tomorrowmorning—”
“We’vebeenlockedinherefortwodays,Mal.”
Wehave.Withbrieffoodinterruptionsandsporadicvisitors—Momstoppingbytokissmyforehead;SabrinabarginginonananalysistoshowmeanarticlefromTheCutinwhichajournalistbeggedmeto“steponher”;Darcycomingbytoaskifherbluetopwasinmysuitcase(itwas)andtoshowmeherprettynewpendant.
Amurrina,it’scalled!
Sobeautiful.Istaredatthecolorfulcirclesofflowers.Wheredidyougetit?
N—Momboughtitforme!
“Ithinkyoushouldtakeabreak,”Defnesays.
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Tomorrow,takethemorningoff.Sleepin.Maybegosomewherewithyoursisters?Youhaveonedayleftbeforethematch,andhalfofitisgoingtobefullofpress.”
IfrownbetweenherandOz.“Youguyskeepsayingthatmycentersaresoclose,theylooklikecheckers.”
“Yes,butthere’snothingwecandoaboutitnow.”
“Okay.Yeah.You’reprobablyright.”ItrynottopoutasIambletothedoor.Mythighsachefromtoomuchsitting.
“Hey.”
Iturnaround.Ozisputtingthesetsbacktogetherandturningoffthecomputers.ItakeinMarcusSawyer’sphotointhebackground,thesharpcontrasttoDefne’spixiehair.“Yeah?”
“Itoldyouoncebefore.Butincaseyouforgot…IthinkyoucanwintheWorldChampionship.Ithinkyoucandowhateveryouputyourmindto.”
Ismilefaintlyandwalkaway.
I’mnotsureIbelieveher.I’malmostsureIdon’t.
Thehotelhasbeenfillingup,tothepointthatit’sbecomedifficulttowalkaroundavoidingimpromptuinterviewsandpicrequestsandpeoplewearingT-shirtswithmydamnfaceonthem.It’sprobablywhyI’vestoppedemergingfromthetrainingroom:thisclosetothestartofthechampionship,andI’mfeelingmoreandmorelikeafraud,likeakidattheadults’table,likeI’mnotworththeinkmynameisprintedwith.I’mnotgoodenough.Idon’tdeservethis.I’mshitwiththeNightAttackagainsttheCaro-Kann.IheardthewordsFirstwomanattheWorldChessChampionshiponce,andhavebeentryingtoexpelthemfrommyheadeversince.DoesitmeanthatifIlose,it’llbeafailureforallwomen?DoesitmeanthatI’msuddenlymorethanjustmyself?Ihavenoidea,andIcan’tdealwithanyofthis.SoIdon’t,andfocusonthewayIdidn’tknowabouttheRaphaelVariationuntilthisverymorning.
Soundshealthy,huh?
Thislateatnight,atleast,theplaceisasblessedlyquietaswhenwefirstgothere.Iwalkpastthereceptioncounter,andoneoftheconciergeswavesatme.
“Yourroommateisarrived,”sheinformsme.“FromUnitedStates.”
Ihalt.“Excuseme?”
“Yourfriendarrived.”Shepointsattheelevator.Theremightbeabitofalanguagebarrierhere.
“I…What?Where?”
Shesmiles.“Yourroom.”
MyheartpoundsasIsprintupthestairs.Istherereallysomeoneelseinmyroom?OnlyonepersoncouldhavearrivedtonightfromtheUnitedStates.
Buthe’snot
Hewouldn’t
Wehaven’teventalkedin
IsaidsomethingsthatIreallyregret,andheprobably
Ilookdownatmytremblinghand,feelinglikemyDNAhelicesareunwinding.Igrabthehandleandopenthedoor,justtogetitoverwithbeforeananeurysmannihilatesmybrain.
Thereissomeonesprawledonmyfreshlymadebed.
Myheartstops.
Thenrestarts,amixofreliefandsomethingelse.
Thenderailsagain.
“Mal,thisroomisavibe,”avoicetellsmefromthebed.“You’rereallycomingupinlife,bitch.AndallbecauseIpushedyoutoembracetheimportantcauseofglutensensitivity.”
Iclosemyeyes.Takeadeepbreath.Openthemagain.
Andwhimper,morethanask:
“Easton?”ChapterTwenty-Eight
HerhairhasgrownalotsinceAugust,wellpasthershoulders.Itlooksdarkerandglossierthanbackinthesummer,afterthesunbleachedhertipsandtheseawaterfrizzedthem.Perhapsitshouldsurpriseme,butitdoesn’t.
Thankyou,Instagramstalking.
“Why…Whatareyoudoinghere?”
Sherollsonthebed,thenpropsherselfuponherelbows.“Sabrinatextedme.”
“Sabrina?”
Shenods.“Yeatall?Blond?Pubescent?Aggressivelysullen?”
“IknowwhoSabrina—”Ishakemyhead.“Shetextedyou?”
“ImadethemistakeofgivinghermynumberbeforeleavingNewJersey.Duringtheweekofallthoserides?Iblameyouforit.”
“You’vebeencorrespondingwithmyfifteen-year-oldsister?”
“No.I’vebeenleavingyourfifteen-year-oldsisteronreadwhenshesentTikToksofpeopledancing,aboutwhichIcarenothing,orTikToksaboutrollerderby,aboutwhichIcare,astonishingly,evenless.Butacoupleofweeksagoshetextedmeaboutyou.SoIreplied.”
I’mslowlyrecoveringfromthenearstroke.Eastonishere.Onmysideofthebed,withouteventakingoffhershoes.Wehaven’ttalkedinages.Millennia.
It’spossiblethatI’mannoyed.
Icrossmyarmsovermychest.“Shouldn’tyoubeinColorado?”
“Shouldn’t,shmouldn’t.”
Myeyesnarrow.Maybeannoyedisnottherightword.“I’msurprisedyouwereabletopryyourselfawayfromcollege,sinceyouloveitsomuch.”Isoundsoacid,Inearlywince.
Herheadtilts.“Idon’tremembereversayinganythinglikethat.”
“Youdidn’tneedtosayit.”
“Youreadmymind?”
“IreadyourInstagram.”
“Ah,yes.”Shenodssagely.“IdobaremyheartandconfessmydeepestpainstoInstagram.”
Ilowermyeyes,feelinglikeanidiotofthepettiestkind.
“Imean,”sheaddswithashrug,“Idoseewhereyou’recomingfrom.It’snotlikeIdidn’tthinktheexactsame.”
“Really?”Iliftmyeyebrowbacktosour.“Ihaven’tupdatedmyInstagramsinceIsawthatgiantleopardmoththreeyearsago.”
“Youhaven’t.Butonedoesn’tneedsocialmediatokeepuponthewhereaboutsofthegreatMalloryGreenleaf.NotwhenJezebelhasanentirearticleaboutyourwardrobe.”
“No,theydon’t.”Iexhale.Shit.“Dothey?”
“Theyhave,like,four.Anyway.”Sherollssomemoreandsitsontheedgeofthemattress.“There’ssomethingexquisitelyhumblingaboutfindingoutthatyourbestfriendofmanyyearsisdatingsomeone,forthefirsttime,anddidn’tbothertellingyou—”
“I’mnotdating—”
“—orthatsheneglectedtomentionthatshewonthePhillyOpen,thatshewasselectedfortheChallengers,thatsheisnowbuddieswiththebestplayerintheworld,thatsheisgoingtobehisopponentfortheWorldChampionship—shouldIgoon?”
Idon’tanswer.Ijustlookatherasshestandsandstepsinfrontofme.Adozenlittlepuzzlepiecesareworkingovertimetoclicktogetherinsidemyhead.
“Youknow…”Shescratcheshertemple.Herbrowneyesareseriousandbeautiful.“Whenyoustartedtextinglessandless,Ithoughtyouwereoverme.Youhadthissuper-coolfellowship,anobjectivelyhotboyfriend,prizemoney,andyouare—Jesus,Mal,you’refamous,it’ssoweird.AndIfiguredIwasjustbeing…phasedout.Iwasbeingoutgrown.”
“I—”
“Butthen.”Sheliftsherfinger.“ThenSabrinatextedmeabouthowmuchofamiserablemopeyou’vebeen,andIrememberedsomethingveryimportant.”
Iswallow.“Whatisthat?”
“Thatyouareanidiot.”
Iflinch.
“Here’sthedeal,”shecontinues.“You’vealwaysbeenlikethis,andIdon’tknowhowIcouldhaveforgotten.Evenbeforeyourdaddidwhathedid,youdidn’twanttobeaburden.Didn’twanttoimpose.Youwerealwaystheleave’embeforetheyleaveyoukindofperson.AndnormallyIwouldhaverealizedsoonerwhatyouweredoing,butIwasabitinmyhead,too.”Shewetsherlips.“Collegeis…noteasy.Andnotthatfun,sometimes.Andit’sprettylonely.AndIgainedsixpounds.Nowmybrachafes.”
“Ouch.”
“It’sokay,I’veorderednewones.Thepointis,Iwastoobusytorealizethatyouwerejusttryingtoanticipatemymovewiththatchessbrainofyours.”Shepauses.Iwatchhersliphershoesoffwithhertoes.“IthinkthatwhenIleft,youwerescaredthatI’dgetoveryou.Soyoudecidedtogetovermesooner.”
“Ididn’t—”
“Maybenotconsciously,but—”
“Imean,Ididn’tdecideit,”Isay,voicethick.Mylastvestigeofirritationiswashedawaybysomethingdangerouslyclosetotears.“Ijustthoughtthatyou…”
Eastonsighs.Patsmeontheshoulder,once.Thenmovesbacktothebed,sprawlingagainontopofthecovers.Stillonmyside,butatleastthistimeshe’sbarefoot.Ihavenoideawhattodo,soIoptforwhat’snatural:takeoffmyownshoes,steparoundthemattress,andsettleonthefreeside.Webothturnonourpillows,facingeachother,andthiscouldhavebeenusduringasleepovereight,five,three,twoyearsago.Anynumberoftimes,inanynumberofplaces.
“So.”Iclearmythroat.“You’regoingoutwiththatreallyhotgirl?”
“Kim-ly?”
“Yeah.”
“Mal,I’msogoneforher.She’ssocute.Outofmyleague.”
Inod.“Yeah,abit.”Shepunchesmeonthearm,andwebothlaughinwhatfeelslikenotjustamusementbutalsorelief.AndthenIblurtout:“Willyoustayforthechampionship?”
“Dude.YouthinkIcametoItalyforaheart-to-heartandnowI’mturningaround?”
“Youhaveschool.”
“I’llbefine.”
“Ican’taskyoutotakeofftwoweeksforme.”
“That’sfine.SinceI’moffering.”
Iclosemyeyes,feelingmychestswell.“Iloveyou.AndI’msorry.AndImissedyou.”I’mtearingupagain.It’slikecryingoncetoredownwhatusedtobeaveryarchitectonicallysounddam:inthepastmonthI’vesobbedwhilewatchingMyGirl,afterDarcy’steachertoldmethatmysisterisgifted,whenSabrinawonherderbymeet.I’macriernow.MaybeIalwayswas.
“Imissedyou,too.”
“Easton,I…”Isniffle.“I’mnevergoingtowinthisstupidchampionship.”
“Maybenot.Butitdoesn’tmatter.You’redoingthethingyoualwayswantedthemost,surroundedbypeopleyoulove,whilesharingaroomwithyourstruly—who,bytheway,recentlyredevelopedsleepterrors.Luckyyou.”Shetwinesherfingerswithmine,likesheusedtowhenwewerelittle.“Mal.Youalreadywon.”
Wefallasleeplikethat:myhandinhers,andourhairtangledtogetheracrossthepillows.
IspendthenextmorningbeingatouristwithEaston,anditfeelsliketakingourfriendshipforajoyride.
Itstartsalittlerocky:weasktheconciergedirectionsfortheTreviFountainandaremetwithascandalizedlookandtherevelationthatit’sactuallyinRome,somefivehundredkilometerssouth.ButitmovesupwhenwemanagetomakeourwaytoPiazzaSanMarco,getpeckedbyahordeofpigeons,endupfuriouslyscrubbingbirdshitfromourclothes.
Afterthesecondpersonasksmeforanautograph,webuytwopairsofcheap,heart-shapedsunglassesandspendforty-fiveminutesbrowsingforamurrinaforKim-ly.Weasktheshopowner,“What’smostsuitedforsomeonewhosefavoritesinger-songwriterisTaylorSwiftandwhosefavoritedirectorisAriAster?”andarelefttoourowndeviceswhenhepretendsnottounderstandEnglish.Weeatthreebreakfasts.“LiketheHobbits,”wekeepsaying,sinkingourteethintobacididamaandbignesandfrittelle.It’snotreallythatfunnyofajoke,butjustbeingtogetheragainisintoxicating,andwegiggleoveritfortwowholebridges.
Lookatus.
Whowouldhavethought.
Notme.
We’reattemptingaselfieonthePontediRialtowhenKim-lytextsasimpleHey,how’sItaly?
Thebridgeispackedwithtouriststryingtogetagoodview,butwespendtwentyminutestakingspaceonthebanister,formulatingtheperfectresponse.
“Don’tsendthat—addthatyoumissher,”Iinsist,tryingtostealEaston’sphone.
“Tooclingy.”
“Shesentyouaheart.”
“Agreenheart,whichmeansnothing.”
“OhmyGod.”Ilaugh.“You’reanidiot.Iloveit.”
“Shutup.”Hercheeksarerosy,notjustfromthecold.“Bytheway,whenarewetalkingaboutSawyer?”
“Never.”Iglanceaway,takinginonceagaintheprettyhousespackedtogetherandthestunningviewoftheGranCanal.
“Ha.”
“There’snothingtotalkabout.”
“Idoubtit.”Herelbowpushesagainstmine.“Whereareyouguys?”
“Nowhere.”She’slookingatmeexpectantly.AndI’mtryingtobemoreopenandforthcomingaboutmyneedsandfeelings,soIsay,“Wehaven’tspokensincetheKochthing.Ifoundoutthathe’dbeenpayingformyfellowship.Wehadahugefightoverit,andthatwasit.”
“Andhe’sokay?Withitbeingit?”
“Nolanis…”Istop.
Thisisthefirsttime.ThefirsttimeI’vesaidhisnameoutloudsinceourargument.ThefirsttimeI’veallowedmyselftoacknowledgehimandthenovel,oddlyshapedholehe’sleftinmychest.It’slikepickingatascab.Diggingawoundopen,finallyadmittingthatitwasneverpatchedup.
“Ithinkwebothsaidsomethingsthatweregretted.”Iswallow.“Thingsthatweknewwouldhurt.”Iswallowagain.“Mostlyme.”
“That’swhathappenswhenyoufightwithsomeonewhogetsyou.”
Iclosemyeyes.ThereminderofhowmuchNolangetsmeislikeapunchinthestomach.“IaccusedhimoforchestratingBobfiringme.”
Eastonsnorts.“What?”
“Itjustseemedlikesuspicioustiming.”
Sheburstsintolaughter.Andlaughter.Andmorelaughter.AgroupofFrenchtouristsgiveshersuspiciouslooks,butshesobersupwhenshenoticesmyglare.“Dude,Iwastherewhenitallwentdown.I’mprettysurethat’snotwhathappened.Bobhadbeengaggingtofireyoueversinceyouruncleleft.Youwerecrampinghisupsellinglifestyleandwereutterlyreplaceable.”
Iglanceaway,irritated.AndthenIadmitsomethingforthefirsttime—outloudandtomyself.“Iknow.”
“Youknow?”
“Ido.ButIstillhavetherighttobemadthathedidn’ttellmeaboutthefellowship.”
“Okay,butit’snotthesameatall.Imean,gettingyoufiredfromyourjobistakingsomethingawayfromyou.Thefellowshipisgivingyousomething.Thetwoarenotevencomparable,and—”
“Iknow,”Irepeatthroughgrittedteeth.IdidnotmissthisaboutEaston.Thewayshereadsmymind.I’mjustthankfulsheandNolandon’tknoweachotherandneverwill.“Theworstofitis…whenIaccusedhim,hedidn’tevenbotherdenyingit.Hejustsaid…”Iswallow.
“Whatdidhesay?”
“Thathewishedhehad.”Isigh.“ThatIneededtobeshakenoutofmylife.”
Shenods.Thehornofaferrypunchesthelingeringquietbetweenus.“Well,youknowhowIfeelaboutagreeingwithwhiteguyswithtrustfunds,but…Imighthavetogivehimabrowniepointhere.”
“God.”Igroanandlowermyheadbetweenmyforearms.“ThethingsIsaidtohim.Abouthim.Abouthisfamily.Ijust…Iwassomad,Easton.”
“Whowereyoumadat,Mal?Nolan?Yourdad?Life?Yourself?Alloftheabove?”
Idon’twanttofacetheanswertothat.SoIjustlaymyheadonhershoulder,letherpetmyhair,andforthefirsttimeinweeksIrememberhowmuchIlikedhim,evenwhenIdidn’t.ThewayIlaughedandfeltunsettlingly,tantalizinglyseen.Thethrillofwatchinghimplay,andmytremblingheartasIwatchedhimsleep.TheoddreliefinacknowledgingthatwithhimwasexactlywhereIcaredtobe.AndthentheangerIfeltforallowingmyselftodothat.
ForthefirsttimeinweeksIcanadmitit:
IwishIhadtheprospectofexchangingmorethangambitswithhim.
Ihavenoideahowtositacrossfromhimfortwelvegames.
Iwillhavetoshakehishandtomorrow,beforethefirstgameevenstarts,andmyfingersitchfromwantingitsodesperately.Hemustbeclose,onthisisland,andIfeelitinmybones,hispresence.Ifeelhiminmystomach.
“Easton.IthinkImessedup,”Isay.
“Yeah.”Shenods.“ButIthinkthat,maybebecauseofwhathappenedwithyourdad,youtendtobelievethatwhenpeoplemessup,that’sit.Theydon’tgetasecondchance.Andsometimesthat’strue,butothertimes…”Sheshrugs.“I’mhere.Yourfamilyishere.Nolan…”Shedoesn’tcontinue.
SoIsigh.Andshesighs,too.Andforalongtimewejustlistentotheseagulls,watchtheboatspaintwhitestripesinthecanal,andpretendthere’snowhereweneedtobeinaboutonehour.ChapterTwenty-Nine
IenterthepressconferencealittlelikeMeghanMarklewould:flankedbytwoFIDEpeoplewhosenamesIdidn’tcatch,followedbyaburlymanwho,Isuspect,hassomethingtodowithsecurity.ThecameraflashesexplodethesecondIstepintotheroom,butinasubduedwaythat’smoremiddlingpoliticianannouncinglong-shotpresidentialrunthanBTSlandatLAX
Iknow,thenandthere,thatI’llnever,ever,evergetusedtothis.AndthatIprobablyshouldn’thavewornmygreenChuckswiththeholeintheleftpinkie.
Acoupleofjournalistsinthefirstrowgreetme.I’venevermetthembefore,andyettheysmileatmelikeI’mthedistantcousintheyseeonlyatweddingsandbaptismsbutneverthelesslike.Thisis…weird.Muchweirderthancasualchessfansaskingforautographs.
Never,ever,ever
“Hi,guys.”Iwaveawkwardlyandglancearound.There’snooneIknowhere:presspasseswererequired,andDefnedidn’tgetone.I’mcrowdedlyaloneinafancyItalianroomfullofantiquevelvetcurtains,andtheworstisyetto—
Inthelastrow,someoneisgrinningandwavingatme.ElenifromtheBBC,halfsubmergedbythesmallmountainofequipmentshe’scarrying.Clearly,stillanintern.Ismilebackatherandfeelmarginallybetter.
Thetableonthepodiumislongandnarrow,withthreesetsofmicsandplaques.Themiddleoneisalreadytakenbythemoderator,amiddle-agedmanwhohappenstobeoneofFIDE’smanyVPsandwhomIvaguelyrememberfromtheChallengers.Theoneontherightbearsmyname,andthat’swhereIsit.
Theremainingone,atthemoderator’sleft,isemptywhenIarrive.
Andstaysemptyforoneminute.
Two.
Twoandahalf.
Three,andIwasalreadyabitlate,becausetheferrysystemisnotexactlystraightforward,andEastonandIneededafourthbreakfast.We’renowalmosttenminutespastschedule,whichiswhythejournalists,andtherearedozensofthem,whisperlikethisisascandalouslyjuicyVictorianball.
Ilookatthemoderatorinpanic.
“Don’tworry,”hewhispersconspiratorially,hidingourconversationwithasheetofwhitepaper.“Hewon’tdareno-show.We’velearnedourlessonswithhim.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Hehatespresseventsandalwaystriestoskipthem.But”—hepointsbehindus,tothepanelsdecoratedwithsponsorsandbrands—“FIDEmakeslotsofmoneyfromthem,especiallythisyear.Sowewritesteepfinesintohiscontractsthatmakeitimpossibleforhimtoavoidthem.”Hegivesmeacunning,ifwarm,smile,andlowersthepaperbeforeclearinghisthroatandturningonhismic.“Well,everyone.Itseemsliketherearesomedelays.Whydon’tMs.GreenleafandIentertainyouallwithagameofchess.I’lltakeWhite.”
Themurmursgetlouder.Iglancearound,findnoset,thenrealizewhathisplaniswhenhesaysintothemic,“d4.”
“Oh.”Iscratchmynose.“Um,d5?”
“c4.”Hiseyesshineandheturnstowardthejournalists.“Willsheacceptmygambit?”
Iusuallydon’t.IusuallydeclinetheQueen’sGambitwithe6andthenbuildupasolidposition,buthelookssohopeful,andpeopledoloveanacceptedchallenge,soIgrinandsay,“c4,takepawn.”
Peoplecheer.Mygrinwidens.Thetensionintheroommeltsalittleasthemoderatorlaughsandnods,pleased.“e3,”hesays,andI’mconsideringmovingmyknighttof6justforthefunofitwhen—
Adooropens.
NotthedoorIcameinfrom,butoneonthesidethatIhadn’tevennoticed.Thecamerasstartagain.Ared-hairedwomanwhomIrecognizefromPhillyOpen—Nolan’smanager,whomustbebetterthanDefneatobtainingpresspasses—walksbrisklyintotheroom,lookinglessthanhappy,andrightbehindher…
IthoughtIhadsuccessfullyfortifiedmydefenses.BecauseIspentthosethreeminuteswithEastoninthebathroom,followingherinstructionsonhowtobracemyself.Isquaredmyshoulders,tookadeepbreath,andrepeatedatherinsistence:I’mabiggirl,andIcanhandleareunionwithmyexinfrontofadozencountries’majorTVoutlets—okay,Easton,no.Thisiscounterproductive.
Still,IdidthinkI’dbefine.ButwhenNolanenterswearinghisusualcomboofdarkshirtanddarkjeans,eyesguarded,hairshorterthanthelasttimeIranmyfingersthroughit,I’mnotfine.
I’mnotokayatall.
Hedoesn’tglanceinmydirection,notonce.Hecalmlystepsontothepodium,andwhenawomanfromthefourthrowsays,“You’relate,Nolan.Everythingokay?”hejustanswers,“Yeah.”Hespeaksintothemicrophone,effortlesslyconfident.He’sdonethisbefore.Hemighthateit,buthehasadecadeofexperienceonme.“Mycarbrokedown,”headds,andeveryonelaughs.
IfistmyhandsinmylapuntilI’msurethey’renotshaking.Bythetimethemoderatorgoesthroughafewintroductorywordsandpicksthefirstquestion,I’verecovered.Atleastalittlebit.
“KarlBecker,DPA.Nolan,youhaven’tmadeastatementaboutMalteKoch’scheatingscandal.Isthethree-yearsuspensionhereceivedfair?Andwhatdoyouthinkabouthim?”
“Itrynottothinkabouthimatall.”Peoplechuckle.“Andit’suptoFIDEtodecidewhat’sfair.”
“LuciaMontresor,Ansa.Nolan,howisyourplayingshapecomparedwiththePasternak?”
Hehalfhuffs,halfwinces.“Can’tpossiblybeworse,canit?”
Morelaughter.Nolanhasn’tchangedmuchsincethattalkshowinterviewseveralyearsago,theonethatmakesmethinkofMrs.Agarwalandbakingsoda.He’sstillcharismatic,almostdespitehimself.Hestilldoesn’twanttobehere,doesn’tmindadmittingtoit,andyetmanagestonavigatethequestionsinarelaxed,charming,uncomplicatedway.
Ilookathimnotlookingatme,andmyheartsqueezes.
“AndaquestionforMallory:Thiswasyourbreakoutyear.Howdoesitfeel,beinghere?”
“It’s…”Everyoneturnstome.ExceptforNolan,whokeepslookingstraightaheadintothecrowd.
Hehatesme.ForwhatIsaid.Forleaving.Iscrewedup,andhehatesme,andhe’sright.
“It’sanhonor.”Iattemptasmile.“Iamhappyandgrateful.”
“AFP,EtienneLeroy—questionforboth.Youtwohaveclosefamilymemberswhousedtoplaychessathighlevelsbutarenothereanymore.Doesthatmakeyourchampionshipmoremeaningful?”
Istiffen.Ican’ttalkaboutDad.Or:thelastmonthhasshownmethatIcantalkaboutDad,butIdon’twanttotalkaboutDadinfrontofdozensofpeoplewho—
“Nope,”Nolansaysflatly,savingusboth.Themoderatorpicksanotherjournalist,andI’mfloodedwithrelief.
“Reuters—Chasten.Nolan,thereisarumorthatMs.Greenleafwaspartofyourteamofassistantsbeforethecheatingscandalcametolightandshebecamethechallenger.Caretoconfirmordeny?”
“Notparticularly,no.”
Laughter.
“Eitherway,somesaythathavingbeenyoursecondwillgiveMs.Greenleafanunfairadvantage.”
Nolanshrugs.“Ifsomethinkthatsheneedsanunfairadvantage,thentheyneedtopaybetterattentionwhensheplays.”
Theroomdropsintomurmuredquiet.Myheartbeatsintomyears.
“Mallory,FoxNews.YouarethefirstwomantomakeittotheWorldChampionship.Whatdoyouattributeitto?”
“Ijust…”Ibitintomylip.“OnlytothefactthatIhadanontraditionalpathtochess.Anddidn’thavetosufferthroughthesexismofthisenvironmentasmuchasmostfemaleplayersdo.Didn’thaveachancetogetdiscouraged.”
“Soyoudon’tthinkyou’rebetterthanallthewomenwhocamebeforeyou?”
“No,notatall.I—”
“Then,sinceyouhaveneverevenbeenpartofasuper-tournament,whatmakesyouqualifiedtobeheretoday?Whyyouandnotsomeoneelse?”
Iswallow.“Ijust…”
Nothing.Igotlucky.It’samistake.I’mnotgoodenoughand—
“Man”—Nolansnortsintothemic—“sheliterallywonthequalifyingtournamenttobehere.Keepup,willyou?”
FoxNewslowershiseyes,chastised.IglanceatNolan,whoreallyworksthecrowdlikeastand-upcomedian.Peoplelaugh,andacoupleevenclap,becausetheyfindhimamusingandlikehimevenwhenhe’snotlikable.Iwanttoscreamatthem,Iknow.I’vebeenthere.
Istillam.
“Mallory?AFPagain.DoesyourpastromanticrelationshipwithNolanmakethischampionshipmorecomplicatedforyou?Willitinanywayaffectyourplay?”
Well.
Probablystupidofme,butIreallydidn’tthinktheywouldgothere.AndI’mpositivethemoderatordidn’t,either,becauseIfeelhimtensenexttome.
IalmostturntoNolan.Because,let’sbehonest:everyotherhard,difficultquestionthatmighthavemademestumble,hetook,blocked,deflected.Thisone,though…hesimplycan’t.AndeventhoughIcouldprobablydenythatourrelationshipwaseverromantic,orstraight-uprefusetoanswer,oreventellthetruth,I’mnotpreparedforanyofthis.SoItaketheeasywayout,andhearmyselfsay:
“No.”
Itechoesinthemurmuringroomlikeaslap,andIimmediatelywanttotakeitback.IwanttolookatNolanandsay…
Idon’tknowwhat.Butit’sokay,becauseIdon’tgetthechance.“Verywell,”themoderatorinterrupts.“Weseemtobepressedfortime.Ithinkwe’llcallitfortoday,but—”
“Onelastquestion—TrentMoles,theNewYorkTimes.Inthenameofgoodsportsmanship,couldyoubothsaywhatyouadmirethemostaboutyouropponent’splay?”
Themoderatorhesitates,likeheknowsthisquestionisabadidea.Butthenhelookstohisleft.“Ofcourse.Wouldyouliketotakeit?”
Nolanwouldn’t.Atleast,that’swhatIassumewhenhestayssprawledbackinhisseat,likewe’rebackinNewYorkandhe’swatchingEmilfailatmakingsourdough,liketheentireworldanddozensofInstagramaccountsdedicatedtohishandsanddimplesandgambitsaren’twatchinglikehawks.
Butthenheshifts.Iwatchhimleanforward,justaninch,thenanother,andinhaleminutelybeforespeakingintothemic.“Everylastthing,”hesays.Simple.Decisive.
Heartshattering.
It’sfollowedbyamomentofsilence.Forthefirsttime,noonelaughs.Noonespeaks.Noonescribblesnotesontheirpad.Nooneraisestheirhandforanotherquestion.
Myheartpressesdesperatelyagainstthebordersofmychest.
Themoderatorclearshisthroatandturnstome.
“Mallory,”heasks.“WhatdoyouadmirethemostaboutNolan’splay?”
“I…”
WhatdoIadmirethemost?What?
Heissodynamic.
Hefightstothelastpoint,usingeverypiece,everymoment,everyresource,bleedingthechessboarddry.
Heisdeadlyandmeticulous.
Heisfunandinterestingandunpredictable.
Heisanadventure
Andthatfrownonhisforehead,whenhe’sthinkingabouthowtomakethenextmoveasnuclearandchaoticaspossible.Itmakesmewanttoreachoutandpullhisvisor-handsaway.Itmakesmewanttosmoothit.Itmakesmewanttoplaymyownbestchessand—
“Mallory?”
IlookupfrommyFijiwaterbottle.Thereareamillioneyesonme.Iswallow.
“Right.I…”
Iamlostforwords.Iamoverwhelmed,sweptaway,disoriented.Andthemoderatornods,thensmileskindly.
“Well,Iguessheranswerisnothing.”Afewforcedchuckles.Thenmorejournalistsraisetheirhands,clamoringforonelastquestionthatisn’ttobe.“Thankyouforcoming,everyone.Ofcourse,we’llhavelongerpressconferencesaftereachgame,soI’mexcitedto…”
AFIDEemployeeasksmetostand.Shetakesmyelbowtoguidemeoffthepodium.IfollowherpastNolan’schair,andwhenmyhandbrushesagainsthisshoulderblade,I’mnotsurewhetherit’sanaccidentordesperation.
Istepoutoftheroomknowingthathehasn’tlookedatmeasingletime.
Istayatthegalaforlessthantenminutes.I’mchewingonmyfifthbruschettaandcraningmyneck,onthelookoutforbroadshouldersandcroppeddarkcurls,whenDefnewhisksmeawaywithahandonmywrist.“Okay,youmadeyourappearance.Nowweleave.”Herbrightredlipssticktoapolitesmileasshecrisscrossesmethroughthecrowd.
“ButIonlyjustgotthere.Andthebruschettaisamazing.”
“Andyougottabeinbedbynine,sincetomorrow’sthemostimportantgameofyourcareer.”
“Isit?BecauseasfarasIknow,Ihavetwelvecomingup.”
“Thefirstonesetsthetone,Mal.”
“I…Won’titberudetoleave?”
“Maybe.”Shepullsmeupthestairs.“Butyouropponentdidn’tevenbothershowingup.Aslongashisrudenesseclipsesyours,you’regolden.”
That’showIendupwearingmyjammiesat8:53,tuckedin,pillowpunchedunderneathmyhead.Eastonslidesinonhersideofthebed,Darcycurlsrightbetweenus,andSabrinasettlesatthefootofthemattress.
Averitableslumberparty.
“Accordingtomytrainer,Ishouldbeasleepinfiveminutes,”Ipointout.
“Ah,yes.”Sabrinadoesn’tlookupfromherphone.“IsDefnegoingtocomeburpyou,too?”
“Comeon,Sabrina,”Eastonscoldsher.“Youknowshefirstneedsadiaperchange.”
Weargueforthelongesttimeoverwhattowatchonthe8KTV.Thenwegiveuponfindingamoviethatwon’tbevetoedbyatleastoneotherperson,andsettleforpullinguprandomYouTubevideos.AfterninecenturiesofsurprisinglyviolentrollerderbyfootagethathavemeworriedforthestateofSabrina’sbrain,EastonblessesmewithaDragonAgeplaythrough.Foraminuteitfeelslikeitusedtobe—thetwoofus,andSolasbeinganassholeonscreen.WhenIturntogrinather,Ifindthatshe’salreadygrinningatme.ThenIremembersomething,andmysmileslips.
“What?”sheasks.
“Nothing.Just…”Ishrug.“IwatchedonewithNolanonce.”
“Aplaythrough?IsthatgemofaboyintoDA?”
“Notreally.”
“Ah.I’veseenyourpressconference,bytheway.Nicejobmakingitlooklikeyoutotallydespisehimevenwhenhesaidnothingbutsuper-nicethingsaboutyou.”
“Ididn’t.”
“Yes,youdid,”DarcyandSabrinasayinchorus,withouttearingtheireyesfromtheTV.
“Whatever.”Irollmyeyes.Becausethey’reright.“Hehasn’treally…Maybehesaidmediumlynicethings,butdon’tbefooled.Hehasn’tacknowledgedmypresence.”
“Mmm.”Eastonnods.“Haveyouconsideredacknowledginghisfirst?Maybebelike,‘Hey,whadup,Ididn’treallymeanthemanyhorriblethingsIsaidaboutyou.’?”
“Right.”Iclearmythroat.Lookaway.“No.”
“Didyoucallhimabitch,too?”Darcyasks.
Itiltmychinupandgroan.“Irefusetoengageonthistopicwithanyonewho’sundereighteen,orwithanyonewho’sovereighteenbutneedsatwenty-five-minutepeptalktoaddaheartemojitoatext,”Ideclare.Buttenminuteslater,whileaTexanladynursesaninjuredbatbacktohealth(Darcy’sselection),Istartcomposingatext.ThemostrecentbluebubblesaredatedJanuary9,middleofthenight:theresponsetomyEitherEmil’sreallygoodatsexorhe’sguttingTanu,wasYoumean,it’snotafoghornthatwokemeup?Ihalfsmileandwrite:
canwetalk?
ThenIdeleteit.Andtypeagain:
you’rerightaboutsomethings.maybenotallofthem.butIoverreac
Delete.
didyouknowinyour2016gameagainstLalyoumissedacheckmate.nicequeening,though.
Delete,delete,delete.
imsorryabout
Delete.
hi.
Idon’thitSend.ButIleaveitthere,inthetypingbox.AndwhenIsetmyphoneagainstmychestandgobacktowatchingTV,itfeelsseveralpoundsheavierthaneverbefore.ChapterThirty
Afteramatch—usuallyduringoneofthosepressconferencesthatIalwaysassumewillhavetwelveviewersbutinsteadarestreamedbyhundredsofthousandsofnerdslikeme—peoplewillaskmehow,inaspecificmoment,ataspecificturnofthegame,Idecidedwhattodo.Howdidyouknowtosacrificethepawn?Whythattrade?Rooke6wasperfect—whatmadeyouthinkofthat?
Peopleaskme.AndallIcansayis:Ijustknew.
Instinct,maybe.Somethinginnatewithinmyselfthathelpschesscometogetherlikeafullyformedshape.Arudimentary,gutunderstandingofhowthingscouldbeifIletmyselffollowapath.
Thepiecestellmeastory.Theydrawpicturesandaskmetocolorthemin.Eachone,withitshundredsofpossiblemoves,billionsofpossiblecombinations,islikeabeautifulskeinofyarn.IcanunspoolitifIlike,thenweaveittogetherwithotherstocreateabeautifultapestry.Anewtapestry.
Ideally,awinningtapestry.
Ifithadn’tbeenforDad,thatinstinctwouldhavestayedcoarse,unspunwithinme.Ifithadn’tbeenforyearsofhardwork,ofpracticing,studying,analyzing,thinking,reliving,obsessing,playing,playing,playing,myinstinctwouldbeworthverylittle.Ifithadn’tbeenforDefne,afterfallingasleepforfouryears,itwouldhavestayeddormant.
ButIwouldstillhaveit.Ifthingshadbeendifferent,myinstinctwouldstillbearawballofunknownsknottedinsideme:wakingmeupat3:05a.m.onthemostimportantdayofmylife,thrummingwithinme,pullingmeoutofbed.
Idon’tevenrememberfallingasleep.TheTVisstillon,Netflixpointedlyaskingifwe’restillwatchingRiverdale,andIhavenoideawhymysistersdecidedtoinfiltratemyroominsteadofreturningtotheiroverpricedsuite.ClimbingoutofbedtakesCirqueduSoleil–gradecoordinationandanearlysprainedankle.OnceI’vepeedanddrunkwhat’sleftinmywaterbottle,I’mjustnotmotivatedenoughtodivebackin.
ItrytokeepquietasIputonEaston’sCUBoulderhoodie.Itstopsjustbelowmyshorts,andIshouldprobablygrabacoatandsomethicksweats,butIdon’tbotherturningonthelightforsomethingwarmer,andinsteadletmyselfoutoftheroom.
Thehallwaysaresilentandgelid.Thesea,quiet.Therearenoferries,noboats,noseagulls,becauseallofVeniceisfastasleep.Imakemywaydownthestairs,theshinypinksandwhitesofthemarblefloorspureiceundermybarefeet,hairbouncingovermyshoulders.
Idon’tknowwhereI’mgoing,butIknowinmystomachthatitfeelsright.It’sgood,this:beingalonewiththenightseabreeze,exploringthedesertedgardens,inhalingthesmellofgrassandsalt.Ispotsomelightsinthedistance,fromthelittleglasshousewhereI’llspendthenexttwoweeks,immersedinchessandheartache.Ifollowthestonepath,shivering,tracingthestepsforthefirstofthirteentimes.Wonderingifcomemorning,thepreciouscalmIfeelrightnowwilltangleintoapileofexposednerves.
IstopinmytrackswhenIseehim,butI’mnotstartled.MaybeIshouldbesurprisedtoseehimthere—thetime,theplace,thecoincidencedon’texactlymakesense—butmyguttellsmethatthisisfine.
ThisiswhyI’mhere:forNolan.
Hegivesmehisback,standingtallinfrontofafamiliarframe.MarcusSawyer’spicturehasbeenmovedintotheglasshouse,flankedbythreeothers—alltheworldchampionswhohavebeencrownedhereinVenice.Tomorrow,whenthefirstgamestarts,theywillsurroundtheplayers.Placethemrightwithinhistory.
IwatchtherelaxedlineofNolan’sshouldersandthinkaboutmynextmove.
Thinkaboutturningaround.
Thinkaboutmycoldlimbsandthepileofsistersbackinmyroom.
ThinkabouthismessyhairandaboxofFrootLoopsandhiswideeyesashesaid,Kasparovwasthere
Thinkabouthimnuzzlingmybellybutton,andhispenchantfortheScotchGame,andthewayIlikedbeingwithhimsomuch,maybeIgotabitscared.
Alotscared.
Mynextmove,then,istokeeponwalking.Horizontally,throughanunoccupiedpath.Likearookwould.AndNolan…hemusthearmeopentheglassdoorandenter,buthedoesn’tturn.Nordoesheacknowledgemypresence.Hecontinuestostudyhisgrandfather’spicture,darkeyestodarkeyes,stubbornjawtostubbornbrow.WhenIcometostandrightnexttohim,closeenoughtofeelhisheat,andsay,“I’vebeenstudyinghisgames,”hisanswerissimply:
“Haveyou?”
Imissedhisvoice.Or:Imissedthewayhisvoicesoundswhenit’sthetwoofusandnooneelse.Rich.Lowerthanusual.Strippedofitscoatsandedges.Imissedlettingitflowthroughme.
“BecauseIcouldn’tbeartostudyyours.”
“Thatboring,huh.”
Iexhaleashakylaugh.“No,it’sjust…Comeon.Youknow.”
Henods,stillfacingthepicture.Thesoftlightsplaybeautifullyacrosshisskin.“Idoknow.”
“Yeah.Anyway.”Ipushmyhairbehindmyear.I’dlovetomeethiseyes,butit’snotgoingtohappen.Notifwecontinuethisway.Notifhewon’tlookatme.“MyfavoritewastheoneheplayedagainstHoncharukatsomepointintheearlyeighties.TataSteel,Ithink,backwhenitwascalled…”
“Hoogovens?”
“Yeah.”
“Thatgamewhenheofferedadraweventhoughhehadthelosingposition?”
“Yes.”Ichuckle.“Itmustbesuchamindfuck,havingMarcusSawyerdothat.Youhavetoassumehe’sseeingsomethingyou’renot.”
“Right.Istillcan’tbelieveHoncharukacceptedinsteadofslappinghim.”Heshakeshisheadfondly.“God.Whatanassholemove.”
“Clearlyrunsinthefamily,”Isay.Helaughsalittle,silent,wistful,andIimmediatelywanttokickmyselfandtakeitback.
I’msorry
Ididn’tmean
Iliedwhen
“Clearly.”
“No.No,I…”Icovermyeyeswithmyhands.I’mamess.I’mmakingamess.“Ididn’tmeanto…Forwhatit’sworth,Idon’tthinkyou’reanasshole.Ormanipulative.Orselfish.Or…”Unloved.“OrmostoftheotherthingsIcalledyouinNewYork,really.Ormaybeyouare,abit,butnomorethananyotherchessplayerintheentireuniverse.Nomorethanme.”Itrytotakeadeepbreath,andtheairalmostchokespasttheacheinmylungs.“Ireallydidn’tthinkanyofthethingsIsaid.AndwhenIcalledyou‘crazy’…I’mreallyashamedofthat.Iwas…”
Idon’tknowwhatIwas.ButNolandoes.“Angry.Tired.Hurting,andwantingtomakemehurtjustasmuch.Scaredoutofyourmind.”
Iclosemyeyes.“Absolutelyfuckingterrified.”
Henods.Stillnotlookingatme.“Ineverwantedtomanipulateyou,but…youcanpaymebackforthefellowship,ifit’llmakeyoufeelbetter.Thatwayyouwon’towemeanything,andyou’llbefreeofme.”
Mystomachsinks.“Wouldyoulikemetopayyouback?”
Heletsoutasmall,self-effacinglaugh,andfinallyturnstome.Thenightairissuckedoutofmychest.“Howareyou,Mallory?”
“I…Good.”Asitturnsout,I’mtheonewhocan’tstandtomeethiseyes.I’mtheonestudyingMarcusSawyer’simpeccablesuitnow.“Idon’tknowifI’mgood.ButI’m…betterthanIwas,”Iadd,becauseIthinkhewantsarealanswer.“It’s…Youwereright.AboutthewayIacted,especiallywithmyfamily.Butthingshavebeenbetter.Well.”Iscratchmyneck.“Ihavetriedtobebetter.Lessofacontrolfreakonapathtomartyrdomandmoreofa…person?”
Hestudiesmeforasecond.ThenIfeelhimshiftforwardandItense—caught,immobile,strungout.Awaiting.Hecouldtakemyhand.Hecouldtugmetohimself.Hecouldwraphishandaroundmyneckandkissmeashardasheoncedid.
Hejustpullsaloosestrandofhairfromwhereitstucktomylips,straightensback,andsays,“DarcyandSabrinaseemgood,too.”
I’m…dizzy.Disappointed.“You’vemetthem?”
“Wewentforawalktheotherday.AndItookthemforgelatothismorning.”
“Theydidn’ttellme.”I’mscowling.
“Itwasveryhush-hush.Sinceyouare,I’vebeentold,knownforthrowinghissyfits.”
Iscowlharder.“Isthatwhyyouwerelateforthepressconference?”
Henods.“Darcyneededtotryeverysingleflavorbeforesettlingonanorder.Aproblem,sincesamplesarenotathinginItaly.”
“Didyouhavetofisticuffabrawnyicecreammanwithagoldnecklace?”
“Depends.Wouldthatmakememoreorlesscoolthanbribinghimwithfiftyeuros?”
Ilaughintothebackofmyhand.AndafterthatIlookathim,andhe’sseriousonceagain.
“Nolan—”
“I’msorry,too.AboutwhatIsaid.Ihadnorighttoimplythatwhatyou’vebeendoingforyourfamilyisnottherightthing.AndIknowIcan’timaginewhatyou’vebeenthroughwithyourdad.”
“Actually,Ithinkyoucan.”
Hestudiesmeforlongerthaniscomfortable.Galaxiespassthroughhisblackeyes,andIwonderwhetherthissecondcouldlastacentury.Whethertheuniversecouldbejustmeandhim,understandingeachotheronaforeverloop.“Yeah.MaybeIcan.”
Iclearmythroat.Okay.Heregoes.
“InthespiritofacknowledgingthatI’vebeenhidingbehind…abunchofstuff—mostlyMom,andmysisters,andDad—andthatI’vebeenusingwhatneededtobedoneasashield,I’vebeentryingtopracticeverbalizingwhatIwant.SothatIcan,youknow,livemylifeformyself.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.Forinstance,IknownowthatIwanttokeeponplayingchess.Professionally.Iwantittobemyjob.”
Nolan’smouthtwitches.HiseyeswidenwiththatboyishgleamthatI’vecometolovefromhim.“Yeah?”
“Yeah.SoI’lldothat.OratleastI’lltry.And…MyfriendEastonishere,whichisnice.Andwemadeup.Butonceweleave,I’llstillwanttotalkwithhereveryday.SoI’lljust…callhermyself.I’llmakeithappen.Ifwe’renotupineachother’sbusinesstillthedaywedie,itwon’tbeformylackoftrying.”
Henods.“Fair.”
“Andalso,I’vebeentalkingaboutDadathome.Slowly.Butmoreandmore.I’vebeenlookingatsomeofhisgames.I’vebeenshowingthemtoDarcyasIteachherhowtoplay.BecauseevenifIcan’tforgetthebad,Iwantustostillrememberthegood.”
HeknowsexactlywhatImean.Icantellfromtheruefultwistofhissmile.“Youshould.”
“Andalso…”Iswallowpastthelumpinmythroat,near-frozentoescurledintothefloor.“Also,I’vebeenconsideringthingslikefate,andcoincidences,andthepast.Sappy,Iknow.Andyouprobablyneverthoughtofit,butwhenIwasakid,andyouwereabarelyolderkid,webothplayedchess,bothinthesamegeographicalarea.Andforsomereasonwenevermet,butIhavetowonderifmaybewewereatthesametournamentoratthesameclub,justindifferentdivisions.Ihavetowonderifmaybeweplayedonthesamechesssets,oneaftertheother.Ihavetowonderifweweremeanttobe,andonlymissedeachothernarrowly.BecausewhenIstoppedplaying,Iwasdone.Done.Yearspassed,anditshouldhavebeenitforyouandme,weshouldhavebeenthatnarrowmissandnothingmore.ButDefne’stournamenthappened,anditwas…asecondchance.”Itakeadeep,shudderingbreath.“Idon’tthinkIbelieveindestiny.Ibelieveinsolidopenings,andmiddlegamesthatshowinitiative,andswifttransitionstoendgames.ButIcan’tstopwonderingifmaybetheuniversewastryingtotellussomething,and—”
“Ican’tbelieveyouprefacedallofthiswith‘youprobablyneverthoughtofit.’?”Nolan’stoneisdryandamused,andIcan’tkeepthewordsinsidemeanymore.
“Iwanttobewithyou,”Ipushout.Shaky.Andthen,whennothingexplodesattherevelation,Irepeatitmorefirmly.“Iwanttobewithyou.AsmuchasIcan.Asmuchasyou’llhaveme.”
I’vesaidit.It’soutthere.I’vesetitfree,andIwatchNolanhawkishly,onthelookoutforananswer,foranykindofemotionalreaction.Buthisdarkeyesareasinscrutableasever.
“I’mgladyousaidthat,”hetellsme.Likehe’scomplimentingagoodchessmove.LikethisisnotthebiggestleapI’veevertaken.
“Why?”
He’sstaringatmewithasmallsmile.It’sbarelynoticeable,butsomehowmanagestomaketheentireearthtipover.“BecausenowIcansayitback.”
Iclosemyeyes,feelinglikemyeveryatomisinthemiddleofaseismicevent.ButVeniceisstillwitching-hourscalm,andNolan’sheatissoclose,itcentersme,groundsmemorethanIthoughtIcouldeverbe.“Thelasttimewetalked,Isaidalotofthingsthatweren’ttrue.AndIforgottosayonethingthatwas.WhichisthatIwashappywithyou.ThedayswehadinNewYorkwere…”
Heseemsvaguelyamusedatmyinabilitytoarticulatemyemotions.“Good?”
“Yeah.Very.AndI’dliketohavemore.Alotmore.Starting…now,ifpossible.Eventhough…”Ilookaroundandletoutachokedlaugh.“Thisisreallypoortimingonmypart.”
Hesmiles.“Idon’tknowifIagree.”
“Why?”
Hegesturestotheboardwithhishead.“Weareabouttospendalotoftimetogether.”
“Right.Thereisthat.”Iscratchthebackofmynecktostopmyselffromreachingoutforhim.Iwantto.ButmaybeIshouldn’t.ButIwantto.“Bytheway…sinceyou’renotanewbielikeme,doyouhaveanyadvice?”
Hetiltshishead,pensive.“Makesureyouhavebreakfast.”
“Right.Breakfast.”
“Somethingwithprotein,ifpossible.”
“Okay.”Iwaitforhimtocontinue.Frownwhenhedoesn’t.“Really,that’sit?Areyouhoardingadvice?”
Heshrugs.“That’sallIhave.”
“Comeon,Nolan.You’vedonethreeofthese.”
“Yeah.Butthisoneisunlikeanyotherchampionship.”
“Whyisthat?”
Ilookathimlookingatme,andoverflowwithsomethingIcannotputanameto.“BecausewhenI’mwithyou,Mallory,everythingisdifferent.WhenI’mwithyou,IwanttoplaymorethanIwanttowin.”
Myeyesbegintotearup,butI’mnotsad.Forthefirsttimeinalong,longwhile,I’mamillionthings,andsadisnotanyofthem.
“Youknow,”Isay,takingastepcloser.Thenanother.Thenoneintohim,andit’slikesteppingintoanewworld.Aneweraofmylife.“I’vebeenreadingalotofchesstheory.Big,tediousbooks.Andtheyallsaythatwhenchessissolved,whentheperfectgameisplayed—theysaythatitwillbeboring.Becauseitwillinevitablyendinadraw.”
Ifeelhissmileinthebeatofhisheart.“Theydo?”
Inod.
“Well,then.”Hisarmsclosearoundme.Hislipsspeakintomyhair.Hischestrisesandfallsagainstmyear,andIknowitinmygut,likeIknowchess,thatthisiswhereI’mmeanttobe.“Itwillbefunwhenweprovethemwrong.”ChapterThirty-One
Sixandahalfhourslater,themayorofVenice,atallmanwithathickblackbeardandahard-to-pronouncelastname,setsmyqueen’spawnond4intheceremonialfirstmoveoftheWorldChessChampionship.
Thecamerasclick.
Thespectatorsclap.
Thewavespushpatientlyintothelagoon.
Thenthemayorleaves,closingtheglassdoorbehindhim,andthegardenlullsintoapeacefulquiet.
I(MalloryGreenleaf;US;Worldranking:#1,843)glanceatmyopponent(NolanSawyer;US;Worldranking:#1).
Ifindhimalreadylookingatme,awarmsmileinhisdarkeyes.Epilogue
Twoyearslater
THENEXTWORLDCHESSCHAMPIONSHIPANDTHEFACTTHATEVERYONEISTALKINGABOUTIT—EXPLAINED
ByEleniGataki,SeniorChessCorrespondent,BBC
TheupcomingWorldChessChampionship,whichwillstartonMarch15,isgoingtobethemostviewedinhistory.Byalot.Thisisabiannualeventthat,inevolvingformats,hasbeenoccurringsincebeforeanyofushasbeenalive(thefirstchampionshiptookplaceinNewYorkCityin1886).Andyet,itissafetobetthatmostpeoplehaven’theardabouttheWorldChessChampionshipuntilthisyear.So,whatchanged,andwhatarethefivefactorssuddenlymakingachessmatchdiscussedalmostasmuchastheSuperBowl?Well,let’sstartfromtheobvious:
NOLANSAWYER,THECURRENTNO.1CHESSPLAYERINTHEWORLD
Chancesare,ifyou’veheardofonlyonechessplayerinyourlife,it’sFischer,Kasparov,orSawyer.ThegrandsonofformerworldchampionMarcusSawyer,NolanSawyer(22)hasbeenaphenomenonsincehischildhood.You’veprobablyseenpicturesofhimlookingadorableandvanquishingopponentsfourtimeshisageat8yearsold,oryoumighthaveheardofhisterribletemperandthatstoryabouthimbeating(notonlyatchess)disgracedplayerMalteKoch(althoughthisisjustanunsubstantiatedrumor),oryoumightbefamiliarwithhimfromtheyearhemadeTime’s100MostInfluentialPeoplelistattheageof15.Thefactremains,you’relikelytohaveheardofhim.Andhisnotorietyhasonlybeenincreasedby
MALLORYGREENLEAF,WHO…EXISTS.
Soontoturn21,MalloryGreenleafiscurrentlyrankedNo.5intheworld…andyetsheistheworldchampion.Itmightseemcounterintuitive,butwhereastheworldchampionisdeterminedbyaspecifictournament,therankingisacombinationofallthegamesaplayerundertakes.
Butdon’tletGreenleaf’s“lowly”No.5foolyou:theonlyreasonshe’snotrankedhigheristhatherpathtochesswasveryunusual.AhighschoolgraduatefromNewJerseywithaGMfather,Greenleafplayedinunratedtournamentsfromages5to14,thenreturnedtochessat18,justintimetotriumphinthelastWorldChessChampionship,whichtookplacetwoyearsagoinVenice,Italy.GreenleafdefeatedSawyeronthetwelfthmatch,afterelevendraws.Asthefirstwomantonotonlyqualifyforbutalsowinachesschampionship,shemadeheadlines.Forherchessabilities,sure,butalsobecause…
NOLANSAWYERANDMALLORYGREENLEAF…WELL.IT’SUNCLEAR.
Rumorsregardingapossiblerelationshipbetweenthetwoplayersabound,buttheyhavenotbeenconfirmed,asbothSawyerandGreenleafhaverefusedtoanswerquestionsabouttheirprivatelives.Thatsaid,theyareregularlyphotographedtogetherholdinghands.AccordingtoherInstagrampost,whenGreenleafdroppedoffhersisteratBrownUniversitylastfall,Sawyerwaspresent.SourcesclosetothetwohaverevealedthattheylivetogetherinthesameTribecaapartmentthatwasonceMarcusSawyer’s.Andthen,ofcourse,therewasthelonghugbetweenthemthathappenedinfrontofthecamerasafterGreenleafdefeatedSawyerintheWorldChampionship(noteworthy,inasportwhoseplayersusuallylimitthemselvestoahandshake).ThereisalsothefactthatthreemonthsagoSawyerappearedtoleaninandplayfullybiteGreenleaf’searwhilewalkingawayfromthefinalgameattheLinaresInternationalChessTournament,inwhichhedefeatedher.Plentyofclueshavegivenrisetospeculations,butwhetherSawyerandGreenleafaresoontobethefirstfamilyofchess,orarejustgoodfriends,isstillunknown.Andyet…
NOLANSAWYERANDMALLORYGREENLEAFWILLBEPLAYINGAGAINSTEACHOTHER.
WhenNolanSawyerdominatedthisyear’sChallengerstournament,thereforeadjudicatingaspotasGreenleaf’sopponentinMontreal,thepossibilitythatthenextWorldChampionshipmightbearomanticaffairbecametitillating.Couldthetwobejustgoodfriends?Yes,undoubtedly.Butwhatiftheyaren’t?Whatifinadditiontobeingadversaries,theyalsobrushteethsidebysideinthemorningandknowtheother’sgo-totake-outorders?Whatiftheycanreadeachother’smindsoverthechessboard,ortheyhaveinsidejokesabouttheother’sweaknesses?
Theideaissimplyfascinating.Andit’sprobablythereasonsomanypeoplehaveshowninterestinchessinthelasttwoyears:firsttheyweredrawnbythebrillianceofthesetwotalentedplayers,thentheydecidedtolearntoplaychessthemselves,andthentheyrealizedthat…
CHESSISCOOL,ACTUALLY.
Thesaleofanythingchessrelated—sets,timers,accessories,tutorials,onlineclasses,apps—hassoaredfollowingthemostrecentWorldChampionship,andthewaveisheretostay.What’smostnotableisthatinterestinchessis,forthefirsttimeindecades,higheramongwomenthanmen.Furthermore,therearecurrentlymorewomenandnonbinarypeopleintheFIDETop500thaneverbefore.“It’sbecausewefeelthattheenvironmentislessandlesshostiletous,”GMDefneBubiko?lu,Greenleaf’smaintrainerandownerofchessclubZugzwang,toldus.Herclubhasbeenthriving,officiallysurpassingMarshall,NewYorkCity’shistoricchessclub,inmembership.
INCONCLUSION…
Wedon’tknowhowtheWorldChampionshipwillplayout.Butwedoknowthatbecauseofthecircumstancessurroundingit,morepeoplewillbetuninginthaneverbefore,andforthefirsttimeindecades,chessplayersarebecominghouseholdnames.Andwhetherthemorejuicy,romanticaspectsofthischampionshiparetrueorsimplyrumors,thefactremainsthattheymakeforcompellingnarratives.
Andifyou“shipthemhard”and“wanttobelieve,”youmightenjoythislittleclue:threeweeksago,atacharityevent,NolanSawyer—whoisanotoriouslybadloser—didnotstoptotakequestionsfromjournalists.ButeyewitnessesreportedthatwhenaskedhowhefeltaboutthepossibilityofMalloryGreenleafaccruingenoughpointstotaketheNo.1spotfromhim,hesimplysmiledbeforewalkingaway.Author’sNote
ThestudyongenderstereotypesandchessperformancethatDefnementionsinthebookisreal.ItwaspublishedbyMaassetal.in2008intheEuropeanJournalofSocialPsychology,andthenreplicatedbyseveralotherresearchgroupsinthefollowingdecade.Funfact:it’sthestudythatfirstsparkedmyinterestinchess.
In2008Iwastryingtodecidewhattofocusonformyundergraduatethesis,andinoneofmyclassesIcameacrosstheconceptofstereotypethreat:whenpeoplefindthemselvesinsituationsinwhichtheirsocialgroupisstereotypedtobeinferior,theyaremorelikelytoperformpoorly(IhighlyrecommendyoucheckoutClaudeSteele’soriginalstudyonthetopic,andanythingbyNaliniAmbady’sgroup,butifyourunintopaywallstheWikipediaentrywilldo).Iwasimmediatelyinterestedintheidea,anddelightedtofindoutthattherewasaresearchgrouponstereotypethreatinmyuni.Istartedreadingtheirstudies,hopingtoconvinceoneoftheprofstotakemeonasanadvisee,cameacrossthechessstudy,andtherestishistory.Okaymaybenothistory,but:I’dlearnedhowtoplaythegameasachild(verypoorly),butI’dneverthoughtabouttheplayersmuch.Ihadn’tknownaboutthegendergap,butonceIfoundoutIbeganlookingforwardtoseeingitbridged.Theideaofastorysetintheworldofchesspercolatedthroughmyheadforyears—until2021.Iwasanxiouslywaitingformyadultdebuttocomeout,anditwasfinallytimeformetowrite“mychessbook.”Fulldisclosure:whenitcomestothechess,Itooklots(ANDLOTS)ofpoeticlicensestomovethestoryalong(plotbeforerealism?)andifyounoticedthem…I’msosorry.IhopeyouwerestillabletoenjoyMalloryandNolan’sjourney.
(Also,incaseyou’reinterested:theprofdidenduptakingmeon!)Acknowledgments
Thisisbookfiveormaybesix(omg!!),andI’msortofrunningoutofwaystowriteacknowledgmentsorganically,sohere’sabulletedlistforyourpleasure:
ThaoLe,myamazingagent,whoencouragedmeandsaiditwasfinallytimetowritemychessbook.NottobeAcademyAward–y,butshetrulyismyrockintheharshlandscapeofpublishing,andit’sverysafetosaythatwithoutherIwouldperish,likeanakedmoleratexposedtothecruelelements.
SarahBlumenstock,mysection-break-hatingeditor,whoagreedtotakeachanceonmyYAeventhoughshe’sanadulteditor(almostasifsheknewaboutmydebilitatinganxietyandfearofchange).
LizSellers.She’stheonewhocameupwiththerook-iepun,btw.MakethiswomantheCEOofPRHrightnow,please!
PoloOrozco,whogaveSarahandmeinvaluableadvicethathelpedgetthebooktobeinitsbestshape,foritsbestaudience.
MymarketingandpublicityteamatBerkley:BridgetO’Toole,Kim-SalinaI,TaraO’Connor,KristinaCipolla.Iamgratefulforthemandeverythingtheydo,evenifIstilldon’tfullyunderstandthedifferencebetweenmarketingandpublicity.
ChristineLegonandNatalieVielkind,mymanagingeditors,aswellasJenniferMyers,myproductioneditor,andLaurelRobinson,mycopyeditor.
Lilith,whoillustratedtheperfectcoveronceagainbecauseshe’scapableofnothingbutgreatness,aswellasVikkiChuandRitaFrangie,whodesignedthecover.
CindyHwang(mygrandeditor)andErinGalloway(mygrandpublicist).They’rethebest.
EveryoneelseatBerkleyandPutnamYoungReaders.
EveryoneatSDLA,inparticularAndreaCavallaro,JenniferKim,andJessWatterson.
Mydelightfulfilmagents,JasmineLakeandMirabelMichelson.
Myfriends.Theyknowwhotheyareandbynowareprobablytiredofreadingtheirnamesinmyacknowledgmentsanyway.
TaylorSwift.Youknowwhatyoudid,Taylor.Photo?JustinMurphy/OutoftheAtticPhotography2022
AliHazelwoodistheNewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofTheLoveHypothesis,aswellasawriterofpeer-reviewedarticlesaboutbrainscience,inwhichnoonemakesoutandtheeverafterisnotalwayshappy.OriginallyfromItaly,shelivedinGermanyandJapanbeforemovingtotheUStopursueaPhDinneuroscience.WhenAliisnotatwork,shecanbefoundrunning,eatingcakepops,orwatchingsci-fimovieswithhertwofelineoverlords(andherslightly-less-felinehusband).
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