Someone enters the lobby and Oz turns that way— together with everyone else. There’s some commotion as the journalists spring into action. I can’t see much: a tall head of dark hair, then another tall head of dark hair, both peeking through the cameras and the boom mics and heading straight for the elevator. I can’t quite make out what the press is asking, only vague words that make little sense together— in shape, prize, Baudelaire, win, breakup, candidates, World Championship. By the time I’ve pushed to my toes, the elevator doors have swished closed. Journalists murmur their disappointment, then slowly scatter about.
Part of me wonders who that was. Another part, the one that’s been having odd, invasive dreams of dark eyes and large hands wrapped around my queen, is almost certain that—
“Your registration’s all set, guys.” Defne appears to hand us lanyards with name tags. “Let’s go to the hotel, leave our stuff, then come back for the opening ceremony.”
I nod, hoping to sneak in a micronap, when an older man with a mic takes a few steps toward us. “GM Oz Nothomb?” he asks. “I’m Joe Alinsky, from ChessWorld.com. Do you have time for a short interview?”
“Oz is currently number twenty,” Defne whispers in my ear while Oz affably answers questions about his shape, training, hopes, favorite pregame snacks (surprisingly: gummy bears).
“Twenty?”
“Twenty in the world.”
“Twenty in the world of . . . ?”
“Chess.”
“Ah, right.”
Defne smiles encouragingly. Considering that I lived and breathed chess for nearly a decade, and how much I still remember about the game itself, I know surprisingly little about the nitty-gritty of professional chess, probably because of Mom’s moratorium on rated play. But Defne never makes me feel like I’m a total idiot, even when I ask totally idiotic questions. “The top twenty in the world is important. They’re the ones who manage to make the shift from competitive chess to pros.”
“Are those not the same?”
“Oh, no. Anyone can be a competitive player, but pros make a living from chess. They support themselves through cash prizes, sponsorships, endorsements from companies.”
I picture a Mountain Dew Super Bowl ad featuring a chess player. Mtn Dew: The Drink of Grandmasters. “Is Oz also a fellow?”
“The opposite. He pays some of the GMs at Zugzwang to train him.”
“Oh.” I mull it. “Does he have a side job?” Maybe he does Instacart deliveries from 2:00 to 5:00 a.m.? It would explain the perennial bad mood.
“Nope, but he does have a dad who’s an exec at Goldman Sachs.”
“Ah.” I notice that the ChessWorld.com journalist is taking a picture of Oz and quickly step out of frame.
It’s stupid. Sabrina and Darcy are with friends till tomorrow; Mom has been better and is working on a few technical writing pieces, which should bring in some needed cash; I told them that I’d spend the day in Coney Island with friends, then stay at Gianna’s place for the night. So I am lying to them about what I’m doing, but there’s no way they’ll find out where I really went from the background of Oz’s picture on ChessWorld.com.
I’m being paranoid. Because I’m tired and hungry. Because Oz didn’t let me eat my PB&J. Monster.
“Hey,” Joe Alinsky says, suddenly ignoring Oz, eyes narrow on me, “aren’t you the girl who— ”
“Sorry, Joe, we gotta go freshen up before the tournament.” Defne grabs my sleeve and pulls me outside of the building. The morning air is already too hot.
“Was he talking to me?”
“I feel like Starbucks,” she says, walking away. “Do you want Starbucks? It’s on me.”
I want to ask Defne what’s going on. But I want an iced kiwi starfruit lemonade harder, so I jog after her and drop the subject altogether.
WHEN I SIT DOWN FOR MY FIRST MATCH, IN FRONT OF A MAN who could be my grandfather, my heart pounds, my palms sweat, and I cannot stop nibbling at the inside of my lip.
I’m not sure when it happened. I was fine till ten minutes ago, looking around the crowded room, staring down at my lilac sundress, wondering if it’s proper chess attire or whether I care. Then the tournament directors announced the start, and here I am. Afraid of disappointing Defne. Afraid of the sour flavor in my throat whenever I lose.
I don’t remember the last time I was this nervous, but it’s okay, because I still win in twelve moves. The man sighs, shakes my hand, and I’m left with forty-five minutes to kill. I walk around, studying interesting positions. Then I snap a picture of the room and text it to Easton.
MALLORY: i blame you for this
BOULDER EASTON ELLIS: Where are you?
MALLORY: some tournament in philly.
BOULDER EASTON ELLIS: Dude, are you at Philly Open???
MALLORY: maybe. how’s higher ed treating you?
BOULDER EASTON ELLIS: I’ve been sleeping three hours per night and joined an improv group. Put me out of my misery.
MALLORY: LMAO tell me about the improv
The little dots of Easton’s reply bounce on the bottom of the screen, then disappear and never come back. Not in five minutes, or ten. I picture a new friend walking up to Easton, her forgetting about me. She’s already posted a handful of selfies with her roommates on Instagram.
I slide my phone into my pocket and move to the next round, which I also win easily, just like the third and the fourth.
“Fantastic!” Defne tells me while we share a Costco bag of Twizzlers on the campus quad. She’s surreptitiously smoking a cigarette, which she lit saying, FYI, I am not modeling good behavior. “But it is an elimination tournament. The more you win, the better your opponents, the harder it’ll get.” She notices my frown and bumps her shoulder against mine. “This is chess, Mallory. Painstakingly engineered to make us miserable.”
She’s right. I get a taste on my last match of the day when I find myself dropping a rook, then a bishop against a woman who looks eerily like my middle school’s librarian. Not-Mrs.- Larsen is a fidgety, anxious player who takes ages to make a move and whimpers whenever I advance on her. I alternate between doodling on my score sheet and feeling like I’m at the zoo, staring at the sloth’s cage and waiting for it to move. The game drags until the end of the round, when we’re both out of time.
“It’s a draw,” the tournament director says dispassionately, surveying our board. “Black advances.”
That’s me. I’m moving to the next round because I was at a disadvantage. I know draws are exceedingly common in chess, but I am distressed. Frustrated. No— I’m furious. With myself.
“I made tons of mistakes.” I tear angrily into the dried apricots Defne handed me. I want to kick the wall. “I should have played rook c6. She could have had me three times— did you see how close she came to my king with her bishop? It was such a shitshow. I cannot believe I am even allowed within ten feet of a chessboard.”
“You won, Mallory.”
“It was a disaster. It qualifies for federal relief— I didn’t deserve to win.”
“Lucky for you, in chess deserving and undeserving wins count the same.”
“You don’t understand. I messed up so many— ”
Defne puts a hand on my shoulder. I quiet. “This. This feeling you have right now? Remember it. Bottle it. Feed it.”
“What?”
“This is why chess players study, Mallory. Why we’re so obsessed with replaying games and memorizing openings.”
“Because we hate to draw?”