“I’m sorry. I’ll pay as soon as I can.”
“It’s okay.” She rolls her eyes. “Deadline’s next Wednesday.”
“What?”
“I just told you a few days earlier because I know you.”
“You little— ” I gasp, relieved, and flop on the couch to tickle her. In thirty seconds I have maneuvered her into a hug, and she laughs while saying yikes and gross and Seriously, Mal, you’re embarrassing yourself.
“Why do you smell like old books and apple juice?” she asks. “Do we have apple juice?” I nod silently and go to the kitchen to pour her a glass, choked in my throat because of how much I love my sisters, and how little I can give them.
That night, my Gmail snoozes an unanswered message from [email protected]. Received 5 days ago. Reply? I stare at it for a long time, but don’t open it.
On Saturday and Sunday I get a lucky break: a couple gigs— yard work for a neighbor I sometimes babysit for; dog walking— and it’s nice to have some cash, but it’s not sustainable, not long term and not with a mortgage.
“It just needs to be paid,” the credit union teller says on Monday morning, when I show her the reminder, urgent, you are behind and failing at taking care of your family, you useless member of society letter. “Preferably, all three overdue months.” She gives me an assessing look. “How old are you?” I don’t think I look younger than my age, but it doesn’t matter, because eighteen’s plenty young, even when it feels anything but. Maybe I’m just a child playing at grown-up. If that’s the case, I’m losing. “You should probably let your mom handle this,” the teller says, not unkindly. But Mom’s having a terrible week, one of the worst since the nightmare of her diagnosis started, and we probably need to change her meds again, but that’s expensive. I told her to rest, that I had everything under control, that I was picking up extra shifts.
You know, like a liar.
“You look tired,” Gianna tells me when I show up at her place later that night, in desperate need of a distraction from thinking about money. She and I used to take calculus together. We’d have study sessions in this very house that’s probably a McMansion, and would spend approximately one minute working on functions and two hours having lots of fun in her room. Her parents are out of town on a sailing trip, and she’s leaving for some small liberal arts college in less than a week. Hasan, my other good friend, the week after.
“Tired is my default state,” I tell her with a forced smile.
When I get home, not nearly as relaxed as I’d hoped, I find Easton’s text (Just take the fellowship, Mal) and force myself to look at the sample contract.
It’s good money. Good hours. The commute wouldn’t be ideal, but not impossible once my sisters’ school starts. Defne might allow for a flexible schedule, too.
Still, there’s lots to consider. My feelings about chess, for one, which I cannot disentangle from my feelings for Dad. They are twisted, knotted together. There’s pain. Regret. Nostalgia. Guilt. Hate. Above all, there’s anger. So much anger inside me. Mountains of it, entire blazing landscapes without a single furyless corner in them.
I’m angry with Dad, angry with chess, and therefore I cannot play it. Pretty straightforward.
And setting that aside, am I even good enough? I know I’m talented— I’ve been told too many times, and by too many people not to. But I haven’t trained in years, and I honestly believe that beating Nolan Sawyer (who in my latest dream broke off a piece of his queen and offered it to me like a KitKat) was nothing more than a stroke of luck.
On the twin bed next to mine, Darcy snores like a middleaged man with sleep apnea. Goliath is in his cage, wandering aimlessly. The fact is, competitive chess is a sport, and like other sports, there’s little room at the top. Everyone knows who Usain Bolt is, but no one gives a shiitake mushroom about the fifteenth-fastest person in the world— even though they’re still pretty damn fast.
The diner where I used to wait tables has a full roster, and the local grocery store might be looking for help, but starting positions are minimum wage. Not enough. I contemplate the news on Tuesday and whine about it on the phone.
“Listen, you stubborn bitch: just take the fellowship and fake your way through it,” Easton says, exasperated, affectionate, and suddenly I’m afraid again. That she’ll forget all about me, that I’ll never measure up to Colorado and the people she’ll meet there. I’m about to lose her, I know I am. It seems such an inevitable, predestined conclusion, I don’t even bother voicing my fears.
Instead I ask, “How do you mean?”
“You can take the money for a year and play your best, but also not care about chess. Don’t think about it after hours. It doesn’t have to be obsessive or consuming like it used to be before your dad . . . Just clock in, clock out. In the meantime, you can get those mechanic certifications.”
“Ha,” I say, impressed by her more-or-less devious plan. “Ha.”
“You’re welcome. Can you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Not be a total lunatic weirdo about something?”
I smile. “Unclear.”
She leaves on Wednesday, after stopping by my place to say goodbye. I just figured it’d be different. I expected a TSA farewell and to stare at her plane as it flew off, but it doesn’t make sense: we’re eighteen. She has parents— a non-bedridden, stilltogether set that takes care of her, and drives her to the airport, and pays for a nice dorm room with the 529 that did not need to be cashed out when the old water boiler sputtered to its timely but heart-wrenching demise.
“You have to come visit,” Easton says.
“Yeah,” I say, knowing that I won’t.
“When I’m back, we’re going to New York. Get that macaron you don’t deserve.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, knowing that we won’t.
She just sighs, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and hugs me, and orders me to text her every day and watch out for STDs. Darcy, who’s been hovering around us with heart-shaped eyes, asks her what that stands for.
I watch the street long after the car has disappeared. I take a deep breath and empty my mind of everything, allowing myself a rare, beautiful, luxurious moment of peace. I think about a deserted chessboard. Only the white king on it, standing on the home square. Alone, untethered, safe from threats.
Free to roam, at least.
Then I go back inside, open my laptop, and write the message I knew I’d write ever since this mudslide of a week started.
Hey Defne,
Is that fellowship still on the table?
PART TWO
Middle Game
8:55 am— Arrive at Zugzwang! There’s coffee & bagels in the lounge room— help yourself! (Do not eat the rainbow bagel: it’s Delroy’s, one of our resident GMs. He gets cranky when his food has less than five colors.)
9– 10 am— Memorize assigned list of opening variations
10– 11 am— Memorize assigned list of end-game positions