“What did I use to do?”
“You know when you were thirteen and you’d beaten all the other kids at the Paterson Chess Club, then the teenagers, then the adults? And they brought in people from New York for you to humiliate? I don’t need that.”
I was actually twelve when that happened. I remember it well, because Dad stood next to me, hand warm on my bony shoulder, proclaiming proudly, I haven’t won a game against Mallory since she turned eleven a year ago. Extraordinary, isn’t she? But I don’t point it out, and instead plop down in a patch of grass, next to a flower bed full of zinnias barely hanging on to life. August in New Jersey is no one’s favorite place.
“Remember halfway through my exhibition matches? When I was about to pass out and you told everyone to step back— ”
“— and I handed you my juice.” She sits next to me. I glance at her perfect eyeliner wing, then at my oil-stained coveralls, and it’s nice, how some things never change. Perfectionist Easton Pe?a, always with a plan, and her messy sidekick Mallory Greenleaf. We’ve been in the same class since first grade but didn’t really interact until she joined the Paterson Chess Club at ten. She was, in a way, already fully formed. Already the amazing, stubborn person she is today.
You really enjoy playing this crap? she asked me when we got paired for a match.
You don’t? I asked back, appalled.
Of course not. I just need a wide range of extracurriculars. College scholarships don’t win themselves. I checkmated her in four and have adored her ever since.
Funny, that Easton never cared for chess like I did but stuck with it much longer. What an odd love triangle the three of us make.
“You owe me for the juice box, then— come to the tournament,” she orders. “I need a team of four. Everyone’s either on vacation or can’t tell the difference between chess and checkers. You don’t even have to win— and it’s for charity.”
“What charity?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course. Is it for a right-wing think tank? The next Woody Allen movie? A made-up disease, like hysteria or gluten sensitivity?”
“Gluten sensitivity is not made-up.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And the tournament is for— ” She taps furiously on her phone. “I can’t find it, but can we cut this short? We both know you’re going to say yes.”
I scowl. “We know no such thing.”
“Maybe you don’t.”
“I have a spine, Easton.”
“Sure.” She chews on her tapioca balls, aggressive, daring, suddenly more grizzly bear than guinea pig.
She remembers ninth grade, when she talked me into being her VP as she ran for class president. (We lost. Overwhelmingly.) And tenth grade, when Missy Collins was spreading gossip and she recruited me to hack her Twitter. Eleventh grade, too, when I starred as Mrs. Bennett in the Pride and Prejudice musical she wrote and directed— despite my better judgment and my half-an-octave vocal range. I probably would have agreed to something moronic during senior year, too, if things at home hadn’t been . . . well, from a financial standpoint, less than good. And I hadn’t spent every spare second working at the garage.
“We all know you’re unable to say no,” Easton points out. “So just say yes.”
I check my phone— twelve more minutes in my break. Today’s hot as soup, I’m done scarfing down boba, and I eye her cup with interest. Honeydew melon: my second-favorite flavor. “I’m busy.”
“Busy how?”
“Date.”
“Who? Carnivorous plants guy? Or the Paris Hilton lookalike?”
“Neither. But I’ll find someone.”
“Come on. It’s a way to spend time together before college.”
I sit up, knocking my elbow against hers. “When are you leaving?”
“In less than two weeks.”
“What? We just graduated, like— ”
“Like three months ago? I have to be in Colorado by mid-August for orientation.”
“Oh.” It’s like waking up from an early afternoon nap and finding out that it’s already dark. “Oh,” I repeat, a little shocked. I knew this was coming, but somewhere between my sister’s bout of mono, my mom’s week at the hospital, my other sister’s bout of mono, and all the extra shifts I picked up, I must have lost track of time. This is terrifying: I’ve never not lived in the same city as Easton. I’ve never not seen her once a week to play Dragon Age, or talk about Dragon Age, or watch Dragon Age playthroughs.
Maybe we need new hobbies.
I try for a smile. “I guess time flies when you’re having fun.”
“Are you, Mal? Having fun?” Her eyes narrow on me, and I laugh.
“Don’t laugh. You’re always working. When you aren’t, you’re chauffeuring your sisters around or taking your mom to doctor’s appointments, and— ” She runs a hand through her dark curls and leaves them mussed— a good indicator of her exasperation. Seven out of ten, I’d estimate. “You were number one in our class. You’re a math whiz and can memorize anything. You had three scholarship offers— one to come to Boulder, with me. But you’ve decided not to go, and now you seem stuck here, with no end in sight and . . . you know what? It’s your choice, and I respect you for it, but at least you could let yourself do one fun thing. One thing that you enjoy.”
I stare at her flushed cheeks for one, two, three seconds, and almost open my mouth to tell her that scholarships pay for you to go to college, but not for the house’s mortgage, or your sister’s roller derby camp, or your other sister’s kidnapped pet’s vitamin-C-reinforced pellets, or whatever it takes to melt the guilt that sticks to the bottom of your stomach. Almost. At the last minute I just look away, and “away” happens to be toward my phone.
It’s 12:24. Shit. “I gotta go.”
“What? Mal, are you mad? I didn’t mean to— ”
“Nope.” I flash her a grin. “But my break is over.”
“You just got here.”
“Yeah. Bob’s not a fan of humane schedules and work-life balance. Any chance you’re not planning on finishing that bubble tea?”
She rolls her eyes hard enough to pull a muscle, but holds out her cup to me. I fist-pump as I walk away.
“Let me know about the tournament,” Easton yells after me.
“I already have.”
A groan. And then a serious, pointed “Mallory,” which has me turning around despite the threat of Bob’s smelly breath yelling that I’m late. “Listen, I don’t want to force you to do anything. But chess used to be your entire life. And now you don’t even want to play it for a good cause.”
“Like gluten sensitivity?”
She rolls her eyes again, and I jog back to work laughing. I barely make it on time. I’m gathering my tools before disappearing under the Silverado when my phone buzzes. It’s a screenshot of a flier. It says: Clubs Olympic team tournament. NYC area. In affiliation with Doctors Without Borders.
I smile.
MALLORY: okay that is a good charity
BRET EASTON ELLIS: Told you so. Also:
She sends me a link to the WebMD page on gluten sensitivity, which apparently does exist.
MALLORY: okay, so it IS a real thing
BRET EASTON ELLIS: Told you so.