I scoff. “Clearly I’m not. ”
“Let me rephrase, then: you have more talent. I’ve seen videos of your plays— your instinct when it comes to attack is fantastic. It reminds me so much of . . . well.” She shakes her head with a wistful smile. “An old friend. But there are some basics that all top players know. And if you don’t know them, any opponent with a solid technical foundation will easily exploit them against you. And you won’t even get to use your talent.”
I digest what she said. Then nod, slowly. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m running behind. As though I’ve wasted the past four years. Which . . .
No. It was a decision I made. The best decision. Running behind on my way to where, anyway?
“It doesn’t help that you’re ancient,” Defne adds.
I frown. “I’m eighteen and six months.”
“Most pros start much younger.”
“I’ve been playing since I was eight.”
“Yeah, but the break you took? Not good. I mean, this”— she gestures to the board— “was embarrassingly easy for me.”
My cheeks redden. I swallow something bitter and rusty, suddenly remembering how much I hate losing.
So. Much.
“What do I do, then?”
“I thought you’d never ask. You do . . .” She grins, pulling a piece of paper out of her back pocket and holding it out to me. I tear it open. “This.”
“This is the schedule you handed me on Monday.”
“Yeah. I printed two by mistake. So glad it came in handy— I hate wasting paper. Anyway, we’ll have you in shape in no time. That is, if you do every single thing on this list. And we’ll review everything you learn during our meetings to make sure you’re on track.”
Fantastic. I’m going to be tested.
I look at the list again— all the things I’m supposed to do every single day for the entire year. I think about my plan to phone it in. About Fermina’s questionable romantic choices. About Defne’s expectant, encouraging smile.
I want to head-desk. But I just sigh, and nod at her.
Oz doesn’t talk to me for two weeks— then he does, and I want to kill him.
It’s a Thursday morning. I’m at my desk, staring at the Zen garden, replaying a Fischer– Spassky 1972 game in my head, when he says, “So you’re coming to the Philly Open.”
I startle. Then hiss: “What?”
I’m supremely, virulently, irrationally annoyed that he’s interrupting me this close to a breakthrough. Earlier today, while making Darcy’s oatmeal (Call it what it is: Nutella with oats sprinkled on top, Sabrina muttered while biting into a Granny Smith) I realized that Fischer made a mistake, one that Spassky could have exploited. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, sure that if Black used the knight to—
“I’ll drive,” Oz says. “We leave at six.”
Why is he talking? I am so irritated. “Drive where?”
“To Philly. What’s wrong with you?”
I ignore him, go back to focusing on my replay until my afternoon session with Defne. I’ve started looking forward to my meetings with her— partly because she’s the only human adult I interact with aside from Mom, but also because I genuinely need her to parse chess stuff with me. The more effort I put into learning technical stuff, the harder it hits me how little I know, and how much I need a sounding board. I guess that’s why GMs have coaches and trainers and whatnot.
“Can we go over a play?” I start the second I step into the library, sliding my notebook in her direction. “I’ve been stuck on— ”
“Let’s first talk about Philly Open.”
I stop. “Philly what?”
“Philly Open. The tournament. Your first tournament— this weekend.”
I blink. “I . . .”
She cocks her head. “You?”
Oh. Oh? “I doubt . . . There’s no way . . .” I swallow. “Do you think I’m ready?”
She smiles cheerfully. “Honestly, not at all.”
Lovely.
“But, it’s too good an opportunity. Philly’s close by, and this is a very reputable open tournament.” I only have a vague idea of what that means, which must be why Defne continues. “It attracts elite players, the top ten in the world, but also allows unrated players like you in the rated section. And it’s a knockout tournament— the loser of each match is eliminated, the winner moves forward. So you won’t be stuck with mediocre players just because you’re currently unrated. Provided that you keep winning.” She shrugs. The single feathered earring she’s wearing tinkles happily. “I’ll come with. Worse comes to worst, you just make a fool of yourself.”
Super-duper lovely.
And that’s how I find myself in the passenger seat of Oz’s red Mini Hatch on a Saturday morning. In the back seat, Defne lists tournament rules as they come to mind, her voice too loud for 7:00 a.m. “Touch-move and touch-take, of course— if you touch a piece during your turn, you’ll have to move it. You must record all your moves on the score sheet, in algebraic notations. No talking to your opponent unless it’s your turn and you’re offering a draw. When castling, use only one hand and touch the king first. If there’s a conflict or a disagreement, call one of the tournament directors to solve it for you, don’t ever fight with— ”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Oz barks. I follow his eyes to the foil-wrapped PB&J I just took out of my bag.
“Um— want a piece?”
“Eat that— or anything else— in my car, and I will chop your hands off and boil them in my urine.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Then starve.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Honestly, I think I’m growing on him. “But this is my emotional support sandwich.”
“Then have a mental breakdown.” He turn-signals and swerves to the right so hard, I almost hit my head against the window.
Philly Open is nothing like the NYC charity tournament, and my first clue is that there’s press. Not a ridiculous amount, like the paparazzi on Taylor Swift ca. 2016. But a sizable gaggle of journalists with camerapeople and photographers in tow crowds the hall of the Penn State engineering building, where the tournament will take place. It’s vaguely surreal.
“Was there a homicide or something?” I ask.
Oz gives me his usual you’re too dim to live glance. “They’re covering the tournament.”
“Are they under the misconception that this is the NBA?”
“Mallory, at least pretend to have some respect for the sport that is your livelihood.”
He’s not wrong. “The tournament won’t start for another hour, though.”
“They’re probably just hoping to get a glimpse of— ”