It is nuts. And three hours later, when he does some weird queen stuff and I know exactly how to answer, it’s even more nuts.
My name, and the US flag next to it, are everywhere. Not taped pieces of paper, but embossed on the side of the table, the panels, the chair, like someone spent a whole lot of money at Kinko’s. There are five tables on the stage and five hundred deadly silent people in the audience. Live-stream screens are everywhere, and ominous graphics run during idle moments.
10 players.
9 days.
45 matches.
1 winner.
Zum zum zuuuum.
The press crowds every corner, but in a respectful, distanced way, as though the players are not to be disturbed. I glance at the monitor while Thagard-Vork eyes my knight. All the players look the same, little soldiers in neutral colors frowning down at little boards in neutral colors. Except for the girl at the fourth table, who sticks out like a sore thumb with my white-blond hair and teal sweater.
I smile, close my eyes, and win without ever being in jeopardy. It takes me eighteen moves.
“She was a million miles ahead of me,” Thagard-Vork says at the post-game analysis press conference. My first interview. I tried to skip, but one of the directors showed me his fancy badge and said, “It’s mandatory.” “When she sacrificed her knight . . .” He shakes his head, looking at the replay screen. I notice a weird cowlick on my forehead. “She was a million miles ahead,” he repeats.
“It was a challenging game,” I lie to the host.
I don’t fully relax until I’m alone in the elevator, away from all the cameras.
Chess computers are so powerful these days, so quick to find the perfect move that electronic devices and even watches— hell, even lip balm— aren’t allowed in the tournament to prevent cheating. Which means that my phone is charging at my bedside table, full of notifications. When I get back to my room, I open Darcy’s first.
DARCYBUTT: How can the entirety of your hair be as straight as a limp noodle except for one single curl smack in the middle of your forehead?
I laugh.
Eight games to go.
I WIN THE FOLLOWING GAME (KAWAMURA; US; #8) THANKS TO a half-open file, and the one after (Davies; UK; #13), although it takes me five hours.
By the end of day three I’m number one in the tournament, tied with Koch and Sabir. All other players have either suffered a loss or settled for draws. That’s when the press decides that respectful distance won’t cut it, and starts circling around the lounge area, where I’m sitting with Defne eating pistachio Oreos.
They look thirsty. Sharky.
“Maybe you should give an interview. Before they corner you at the IHOP with Tanil,” she muses.
“Tanil?”
“Tanu and Emil. It’s their ship name. Anyway, the other players have been giving interviews. You should do the same.”
“I already do the post-game analyses.”
“You don’t get it. They don’t want to know about your chess. They want to know about you.”
And that’s how I find myself with a CNN mic hovering an inch from my mouth. It smells like burnt plastic and cologne. Or maybe it’s the journalist.
“How is it, being the dark horse of the Challengers?”
What’s a dark horse again? “It’s . . . great.”
“Is it odd, being the only woman?”
“It’s odd that there are so few women in chess. But I don’t feel odd.”
“You’re the daughter of a GM. What would he say if he were here?”
Breaking news: I officially hate giving interviews. “I don’t know, because he’s not here.” Darcy better never see this.
“What about Nolan Sawyer? How would he feel if you ended up becoming the Challenger, given your relationship?”
There is no relationship. “Good question. You should ask him.”
“A lot of people think that it might come down to you and Koch. What do you say about that?”
I’m not sure why I choose that moment to look at the camera. And I’m not sure why I lean a bit into the mic, which really does smell foul. “I’m not afraid of Koch,” I say. “I’ve defeated him once, after all.”
“We might have to work on your interviewing skills,” Defne tells me the following morning at the IHOP with Tanil (it’s growing on me). They have taken to bringing a list of openings and positions that they want to show me. The list has three different handwritings on it, but I pretend not to notice. Their analyses are sharp, on point, brilliant, brilliant past what I’d expect from two talented players who never quite got to the top. I pretend not to notice that, either.
My first draw is on the fourth day, against Petek (Hungary; #4). The game is a mess of Najdorf Sicilian, which I knew he’d play, long pockets of mind-numbing boredom, and me attempting to surprise him into a retreat Defne once taught me when we were looking into Paco Vallejo’s games. I come this close to winning— this close— but after six hours, when he holds his hand to me and offers a draw, I take it.
“It’s for the best,” Defne tells me the following day. “Tomorrow you’d have been exhausted otherwise.” But I draw on my fifth game, too, and then on my sixth and seventh, and I’m exhausted anyway, exhausted from worrying and second-guessing myself and hating the opportunities I’m missing. I’m not good, after all. I’m a mediocre player. Defne was wrong. Nolan was wrong. Dad was wrong. CNN is suddenly less interested in interviewing me. I leave the post-game analysis with my head down, and I can barely thank Eleni from the BBC when she smiles and tells me that she’s rooting for me. Maybe if I pull a Lindsay Lohan and trash my room I’ll feel better?
DARCYBUTT: Koch has one more win, but he also has a loss against Sabir. You’re not out of the running. At all.
DARCYBUTT: Though it would help if you beat Sabir tomorrow.
MALLORY: bb do you even know how to play chess?
DARCYBUTT: I don’t need to know how the little priest moves to understand a score system.
I’ve been starfishing in bed and woe-is-me-ing for one hour when someone sends a bowl of noodle soup and three Snickers bars up to my room. I refuse to think about its origins as I devour all of it, and then, with my stomach full and my skin warm and the sweet taste of chocolate lingering in my mouth, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The following day I wake up rested and win against Sabir with the Trompowsky.
IT DOES COME DOWN TO KOCH AND ME.
Sabir trails a point behind, but with only one game left, he might as well be fracking on Jupiter. Some overworked intern from the IT department whips up new graphics: the monitors are now pictures of Koch and me from previous games. I bite down on my lip; Koch looks at the ceiling. He squeezes his eyes shut; I nibble on my thumbnail.