I laugh. I laugh, and I don’t stop for a good minute. “This is— this is amazing.”
“I know.” Defne laughs, too. Then her face grows serious, and she takes my hand. “Mallory, I grew up in this world, and I know how these assholes think. There has been a reckoning. The old farts at FIDE realize that they can’t keep women out of chess, and they saw you as an opportunity. An outsider who made a big splash at high-profile events. Unlike with other women who’ve been around for years, they can justify their choice by saying that your score is only low because you’re new— but that you’re also promising enough to invite. They can use you to virtuesignal. But I know them. I know that they also think that you can’t be that good. That your victories were probably a fluke, and that you won’t win the Challengers.”
Something tightens low in my gut. Isn’t it the same thing I’ve been telling myself for weeks? That I cannot compete. That I’m unprepared. That I’m not as good. I’m not going to win has been the default status in my brain. Because . . . I’m inexperienced. Because I don’t want it or deserve it. Because I’m a woman?
Do you know how incredible you are? Nolan asked me in Toronto. I told him yes, while still believing deep down that I wasn’t anything special after all. Which one is it, then?
I look Defne in the eye. She has always encouraged me. Always been honest. No relentless, toxic positivity with her.
“Do you think I can win the Challengers?” I ask her, trembling a little at the prospect of the answer.
She takes my other hand, and I feel held. I feel comforted. I feel stronger. “Mallory. I think you can win the World Championship.”
A sedan picks us up from the Las Vegas airport and brings us to the Westgate. In the elevator, a businesslike FIDE employee tells me about the press conference room, the VIP lounges, and a daily meal expense allowance that thoroughly humiliates the Greenleaf monthly grocery budget. There is a black embossed letter on my pillow: an invitation for an opening gala— Nevada governor in attendance. The US ambassador to Azerbaijan, too, since he’s scheduled to make the ceremonial opening move.
That’s how big of a deal the Challengers is. So big, I have to wonder if the current world champion is present. Then promptly slap myself for it.
Since thinking about Nolan has only been a source of problems.
“Are you sure there isn’t a dress code?” I ask Defne across our neighboring balconies. I wish Darcy and Sabrina were here. Mom, too, would love making fun of the ridiculous extravagance. But they’re back home, nursing the lie I’ve left them with (“visiting Easton in Boulder”). Mom’s relieved that I get to hang out with her again. Sabrina hates me because I am “more self-centered than a dartboard.” Darcy is googling me hard enough to make Silicon Valley stocks rise two hundred points.
And I’m here alone. Well— almost.
“No dress code,” Defne says. “Though it’ll probably be a blazer-over- button-down parade. Lots of grays.”
“Should I buy a black pencil skirt?”
“If you want. But I’d miss seeing you onstage in your primary colors crop top.”
I grin, feeling a sudden surge of affection. “Lucky for you, I packed it.”
For the gala, I put on a sheath dress Easton bought me at Goodwill for seven dollars. Because my life is a shit McMuffin, and because I’ve given up on any attempt not to eat it, I’m not surprised when the first person I meet is Koch.
“Well, well, well,” he says, like a poorly written Austin Powers villain. “Look what Sawyer’s dick and FIDE’s pity toward the less fortunate dragged in.”
“Is it very expensive, Malte?” I ask, plucking a chocolatecovered strawberry from a tray.
“What?”
“The vintage sexism you wear all the time.”
His eyes narrow and he steps closer. “You don’t belong here, Greenleaf. You’re the only player who didn’t earn her place in the Challengers. You’re nobody.”
I want to push him away. I want to punch him. I want to stuff the strawberry in his nose. But the room is full of press. I spot PBS cameras, cable TV mics. ChessWorld.com is going to milk the shit out of this event, probably live stream the players plucking their eyebrows. There is no margin of error.
So I smile sweetly. “And yet, the last time you and this nobody played, this nobody won. Food for thought, huh?”
I whirl around and look for an alcohol-free drink, cherishing the image of Koch’s eyebrow twitching. I can’t find Defne, or anyone else I know, but I’ll get acquainted with the other players soon enough: the tournament is round robin, one game per day. A lively piano song plays, and I drift to the table, eager to stuff my face, where someone hugs me from behind.
“Hiiiii!”
“Tanu!”
“This dress,” she tells me, looking at the bright green embroidery. “Daddy likey.”
“Tanu, we’ve been over this.” Behind her, Emil shakes his head and leans in to hug me. “I cannot take her anywhere, Greenleaf. I don’t know why I persevere.”
“Guys, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“School, shmool.” Tanu waves her hand. “We live freely. We’re not chained by the obligations of modern mundanity.”
“Winter break,” Emil explains.
“Ah.”
“We’re here to study. For when Nolan preps for the World Championship.”
“Oh. Is Nolan here?”
“Mal, we’d love to help you, too,” Tanu says. Not answering me.
“Help me?”
“Most players are here with a team of seconds. You only have Defne, right?”
Seconds are players’ assistants who help them train and debrief, analyze old games, come up with new attack and defensive strategies. “Defne, yeah. And . . .” And Nolan. Nolan’s texts. Which seem to answer my questions before I ask them. Not that I’ll admit it. “Oz Nothomb said he’d be available to talk strategy.”
“Then let us help. We could meet in the mornings. Go over your opponent’s weaknesses and strengths. Some openings. Mal, you’re so talented, and this stuff— it could make a difference.”
“Did Nolan put you up to this?”
They exchange a short look. “Listen,” Emil says, “Nolan might want you to win, but so do we.” He pouts like a child. “Did that poutine we shared in Toronto mean nothing to you?”
And that’s how I find myself walking into an IHOP with Defne at seven the following morning. Tanu and Emil are already sharing a custard-filled French toast, and if Defne needs an introduction . . . she doesn’t. She hugs them tight and asks Tanu how Stanford is treating her, when she got bangs, and what about her cat? I’m considering demanding a drawn schematic of how everyone knows everyone else when Emil whips out a board and says, eyes NFL-coach sharp: “Thagard-Vork. Danish. Thirty-six. Excellent positional player, though well past his prime. He loves opening with d4 and c4.”
“But sometimes he does some weird queen stuff, e4, c5, qh5. You gotta see this, Mal. It’s nuts.”