“More prestigious than the Olympics.” Seems fake.
“Well, you know how pro chess is.” Defne must remember that I do not, in fact, know, because she continues, “In the end, it’s all about the money. The Pasternak has ridiculous prizes, unlike the Olympics, and most pros and Super GMs don’t want to tire themselves for nothing. Well, not nothing. There is a trophy. It looks nice, kind of like a cup. I guess you could eat cereal in it? Soup? Salads, if you don’t mind your fork clinking against the metal— ”
“Who’s on the US team besides Emil?”
“Not sure.” She sounds a little cagey. “Maybe Tanu Goel?”
“Do you want me to go?”
“I . . .” She scratches the back of her head, and her sleeve slides backward, revealing her chessboard tattoo. I study the positions while she seems to reach a decision. White is attacking with the rook, and Black is two pawns down. “It would be a great opportunity for you to raise your rating, gain expertise, network.” She smiles. For the first time in this conversation. “I’d love to send you, if you can swing it time-wise.”
A few hours later I sit at the dinner table with my family, munching on the tail of a tyrannosaurus chicken nugget and mentioning as casually as I can muster, “The senior center asked me to accompany the residents on a trip.”
“Oh.” Mom looks up from her plate. “Where to?”
“Toronto. Five days, in November.” I can feel Darcy’s eyes burning through me. Having a crucial secret with a naturally chatty twelve-year- old is not all it’s cracked up to be. “They’d pay me time and a half. And it’d be cool to see Canada. I need to let them know by tomorrow— ”
“Wait.” Sabrina sets her phone on the table. Forcefully. “You’re going to party in Toronto and leave us on our own? For real?”
I blink, taken aback by the mix of panic and anger in her voice. “I was just— ”
“What if Goliath has a vet emergency? What if Darcy sticks a Monopoly token up her nose and needs to be taken to urgent care? What if I need a ride to a derby meet— am I supposed to hitchhike?”
“I’d arrange everything beforehand,” I start just as Darcy says, “I haven’t stuck anything up my nose since I was five!” and Mom points out, “I will still be around, Sabrina.”
“Darcy’s an idiot, and idiots are unpredictable, Mal. And that’s the point of emergencies— you cannot prepare for them. What if Mom has a flare-up? Who’s going to take care of her? How egotistical can you— ”
“Sabrina.” Mom’s voice, usually gentle, cuts like a whip. “Apologize to your sisters.”
“I didn’t say anything that’s not true— ”
“Sabrina.”
She’s gone in a flurry of screeching chairs and stomping feet. The room falls silent, and seconds later a door down the hallway slams into its frame.
Mom closes her eyes for exactly three breaths. Then says, “Mallory, of course you should go. We’ll be fine.”
I shake my head. Deep down, I know Sabrina is right. After all, I’m the one who keeps reminding her how fragile Mom’s health is. I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s freaking out at the idea of me leaving. “No. Honestly— ”
“Mallory.” Mom covers my hand with hers. It’s still clutching the fork, the half-eaten nugget speared at its end. “I am asking you to please tell your boss that you’re going, okay?”
I nod. Then churn it over the entire night, sleepless, bitter, Sabrina’s words a hateful ring in my ears. I am angry. Guilty. Furious. Sad.
Egotistical. Does she not understand the sacrifices I’ve made for the family? Does she think that I wanted to stop going to school? Does she think that I enjoy it, knowing that in four years Easton will have a degree and a career and I’ll be stuck in some minimum-wage dead-end job? That we’ll grow further and further apart as time goes on, as I fall behind, forgotten? Screw Sabrina, honestly.
But it’s your own fault if your family is in this situation, that obnoxious little voice reminds me. She has every right to be mad at you. And weren’t you only going to compete in tournaments with money prizes? Why do you even want to go to Toronto?
To build rating! To access future tournaments!
Not because you enjoyed the thrill of competitive chess so much, you’ve been jonesing for it since Philly? Cool. Just making sure.
Oh, shut up.
You just said shut up to yourself, but go off, I guess.
I wake up in the morning eager to apologize to Sabrina for . . . I don’t know. Ruining her life four years ago, maybe? Her room, though, is empty.
“McKenzie’s mom’s driving her to school,” Darcy explains. “For someone whose biggest fear is not having a ride to the ER, Sabrina the Teenage Bitch is pretty crafty at finding one on short notice.”
“First of all, we do not use that word.” I smile and step closer, pushing her bangs back. It’s like looking into a freckled, rejuvenating Snapchat filter. “Secondly, you know Sabrina loves you, right? She doesn’t really think that you’re an idiot.”
“I believe that she loves me and thinks that I’m an idiot. Because she is an idiot.” She gives me an appraising look. “By the way, I don’t think you’re egotistical, Mal. I mean, you skimp on the Nutella and don’t show Timothée Chalamet the admiration that’s due him, and you are, objectively, a liar. But I don’t think you’re egotistical.” I feel a lump swell in my throat. Until Darcy frowns. “Though I’m not one hundred percent sure I have the correct definition of egotistical.”
A couple of hours later I’m in Defne’s office, which is a bit like its owner: colorful, happy, and full of knickknacks that should not go well together but somehow do.
“Good morning!” She grins from her desk. “Did you steal Delroy’s rainbow bagel? He’s very upset.”
“Nope. Just got here.”
“Oh. How can I help you then?”
I clear my throat. Well, here goes. “Could you tell Emil that I’d love to do the Olympics?”
I feel Nolan before I see him.
One second I’m struggling to drag my duffel bag onto the LaGuardia suitcase conveyor and wondering why the Greenleaf clan never invested in something with wheels (or a set of dumbbells, for upper body strength); the next, someone takes it from me, lifts it effortlessly, and deposits it on the belt.
I turn around, but my body already knows, like my atoms vibrate differently when he’s near. Which probably just means that his presence gives me radiation poisoning.
“Hi, Mallory,” he says. He’s wearing sunglasses and a dark shirt, but his voice is the same. He looks the same: Tall. Unsmiling.
Good.
A few pimples, that’s what he needs. A wart to break the perfect imperfection of his face.