There’s an openness to him. A vulnerability. He suddenly looks younger than I know him to be, a boy asking someone to do something very, very important for him. It’s hard to say no.
But not impossible.
“I’m sorry, Nolan. I’m not going to play against you unless it happens in a tournament.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I can’t wait that long.”
“Excuse me?”
“You barely have a rating. You’re not going to be allowed into invitationals or super-tournaments for years, the next open isn’t until late spring— ”
“That’s not true,” I protest, even though I have no idea. His stubborn, displeased, near-worried expression lets me know that it likely is.
Something twists in my stomach.
“Why?” he asks. “Why this bullshit no-play- outside-work rule?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.” Then why are you giving him one? “But . . . I don’t like chess. Not like you do. It’s just a job, something I fell into backward, and . . .” I shrug. It feels tense, unnatural. “It’s just the way I want it.”
He studies me, silent. Then: “Is this because your father— ”
“No.” I close my eyes. There’s a loud roar in my ears, drums pounding at my temples. Slow, deep breaths make it recede. A little. “No.” I hold his gaze. “And please, don’t ever bring up my dad again.”
He briefly looks like he won’t let it go. Then nods. “I’ll give you the money.”
“What?”
“I’ll give you the tournament prize. The one you should have been competing for.”
“Are you for real?”
“Yes.”
“If I beat you, you’ll give me fifty thousand dollars.”
“I’ll give it to you even if I win.”
I laugh. “Bullshit.”
“I’m not lying. Fifty thousand dollars is nothing for me.”
“Yeah, well.” Having him say so in front of my lower-middleclass house-and- apricot-tree combo stings. “Screw you.”
I walk away again, and this time he doesn’t grab my wrist. He doesn’t need to: with two steps he’s in front of me, between me and the house. The sun has set again, and the garden is pitch black. “I meant that I’m good for the money. I’ll pay you to play with me.”
“Why? Is it because you can’t stand to have someone best you? Are you like Koch, unable to accept that you once lost to a woman?”
“What?” He looks genuinely appalled. “No. I am nothing like him.”
“Then why?”
“Because,” he near-growls. “Because I— because you— ” He stops abruptly and takes a few steps away. He makes a frustrated, abortive gesture with his arm, something I recognize from his rare losses at chess.
I guess I won, then.
“Listen, Nolan. I’m sorry. I . . . I’m not going to play with you.” I expect the disappointed expression on his face. The mirror feeling in my chest, not so much. “It’s not personal. But I promised myself that I’d keep chess at a distance.”
I turn without saying goodbye and walk back inside the house, hating myself all the way to my room for the odd feeling of loss in the pit of my stomach.
I’m stupid. He just hates the idea that we played once and he lost. I’m not special. This is not about me— it’s about him. His status. His insecurities. His need to dominate.
I let myself into my room. My head throbs, and I cannot wait to go to bed. I cannot wait for this day to be over.
“Did Nolan leave?”
Darcy’s voice startles me. I’d forgotten she’d be in here, doing homework at her desk.
“Yes. He had to go home.”
“Well, that’s understandable.”
I nod, looking for my pajamas.
“He must be very busy. He’s the number one chess player in the world, after all.”
I blink.
I blink again.
I blink once more and make a split-second decision: lie. “You have him confused with someone else, honey.” I cough. “Did you need help with your homework?”
“Nolan Sawyer, right?”
“It’s just two people with the same name.” I wave my hand airily. “Like when you were in kindergarten and there were, like, four Madison Smiths in . . .”
She turns her tablet around. It’s on Nolan’s Wikipedia page, which includes a high-res candid of him scowling down at a chessboard. As much as I’d love to deny it, he is undeniably the same guy who just raided our meat loaf stash.
I blink.
I blink again.
I blink once more and make another split-second decision: lie again. Darcy’s twelve. I can talk myself out of this.
I gasp dramatically. “No way! Are you serious?” I am a terrible actress. I’m talking elementary school play level. “He never mentioned. I’ll have to ask him next time we . . .”
I fall quiet, because Darcy has navigated to a new page. It has a picture of two people: Nolan, looming darkly on one side of the board, shakes the hand of a blond girl wearing a flannel top that looks just like mine. Neither smiles or speaks, but they’re holding each other’s eyes in a way that seems almost intimate, and— My eyes fall on the title of the page: Who is Mallory Greenleaf, chess’s new breakout player?
“Fuck.”
“There’s a whole article about you.”
“Fuck.”
“And pictures.”
“Fuck.”
“And even a video, though I can’t make it work. I think popups are blocked?”
“Fuck fuck fuck.” Of course this shit’s online. The press was everywhere— what did I think they were going to do with the footage, scrapbook it? “Fuck.”
“You should stop swearing in front of twelve-year- olds. Mrs. Vitelli says that my brain’s still all squishy. I’ll probably end up in juvie if you swear just once more.”
“Fuck.”
“Here goes another promising young woman.”
I pluck the tablet from Darcy’s hands. The article is on ChessWorld.com. The header boasts Largest chess website, over 100 million unique visits per month.
I groan.
. . . entered the tournament as an unrated player, but surprised everyone by not losing any match. Greenleaf, who currently trains at Zugzwang with GM Defne Bubiko?lu, is the daughter of the late GM Archie Greenleaf (peak FIDE ranking: 97), who passed away a year ago. Last month, at the NYC Charity Tournament, she defeated World’s No. 1 Nolan Sawyer. Sawyer had a chance for a rematch at Philly Open, but—
I toss the tablet onto the bed. My hands are shaking. “How did you find this?”
Darcy shrugs. “I was doing homework.”
“Homework.”
“It’s genealogy week. I’m supposed to write about my paternal great-grandparents, and it’s not like I can ask you or Mom, since you both go in to covert operation mode whenever I mention Dad, so I googled Archie Greenleaf, and I’m sorry if I— ” Darcy’s voice is high pitched, and she looks about to cry. My heart twists.
“Okay— it’s okay! You didn’t do anything wrong, honey. I swear I’m not mad. And . . .” She’s right that we don’t really discuss Dad, or what happened to him. Maybe we should? Maybe I should be talking about Dad to her? Not Mom— it would be painful for her. It would be my responsibility.
It’s only fair, considering that it’s my fault in the first place he’s not around anymore.
I kneel in front of her and take her hand in mine. “Do you want to talk about Dad?”