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 Bubikoğlu, 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?”
“Not now.” The relief that sweeps over me is embarrassing. “I’d like to know what a Zugzwang fellow is, though.”
Walked right into that one. “It’s a . . . a job. I am being paid to learn about chess. For one year.”
“And the senior center?” Her eyes widen. “And the pigeons?”
“There are no— well, there are pigeons, plenty, more than we need. But no senior center.”
“Do Mom and Sabrina know? Did you lie just to me?”
“No.” I shake my head energetically. “No one knows.”
She seems relieved. For a split second. “So you’re playing chess for money?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that like gambling?”
“What?”
“And isn’t gambling illegal?”
“I— ”
“Is that why you’re lying? Because you’re working for the gambling mob?”
“It’s not gambling, Darcy. It’s a sport.” I notice her raised eyebrow. She knows my athletic prowess. “Kind of.”
“Why don’t you want us to know, then?”
“There are . . . things you might not remember, because you were very young when they happened, but— ”
“Because Dad used to play chess.”
I sigh. “Yes. Partially. I just want to protect you guys from something that could hurt you.”
“I’m not fragile or— ”
“But I am. And so is Sabrina— even though she’s in her rebellious phase and would deny it. And Mom . . . Many painful things happened, Darcy. But we’re happy now.”
“Sabrina’s mostly just sullen.”
I chuckle. “True. I just want to take care of all of you.”
“And yet, you brought the Kingkiller into our house.”
“How do you even know about— ”
“The Wikipedia entry was very thorough. Did you know that he once played Jeff Bezos for charity? He beat him in twenty seconds, then asked if the water bottle next to the chessboard was for peeing.”
“A true hero of the working class. Darcy— ”
“Also, there’s tons of fanfiction on AO3, mostly of him making out with some Emil Kareem guy, but— ”
“What? How do you know what fanfiction is?”
“I read it all the time.”
“Excuse me?”
“Chill. The PG-13 stuff.”
“PG means parental guidance, which means that a parent— me— should be there with you.”
She cocks her head. “You are aware that you’re not my parent, right?”
I take a deep breath. “Listen, Darcy, the reason I was keeping a secret— ”
“Oh my God. Mal, now it’s our secret!” All of a sudden, she looks seriously pumped up.
“No. No, I don’t want you keeping secrets from Mom— ”
“I don’t mind,” she says quickly. “I want to!”
“Darcy, you were all about us telling each other everything at dinner. I’ll explain to Mom— ”
“You said it might be painful to her. And I want to have a secret with you. Something just ours!”
I study her hopeful, shining eyes, wondering if she’s been feeling isolated. I’m in NYC a lot, after all. It’s not like Sabrina can be coaxed away from her phone, and Mom is too low- energy to spend much time with her. Plus, telling the truth would open a whole silo of worms. And I’m reasonably confident that neither Mom nor Sabrina will be looking me up on the internet.
“Okay,” I say. It’s a terrible idea, but Darcy fist- pumps. Then her face takes on a calculated expression.
“But it’ll cost you.”
My eyes narrow. “Really? Are you going to blackmail me?”
“I just think that my morning oatmeal could use one more tablespoon of Nutella. Half? A teaspoon? Please?”
I shake my head and go in for a hug.
I DON’T SEE NOLAN AGAIN.
Not like, ever. But not for weeks, and I don’t hear about him, either, with the exception of a Tuesday afternoon when he trends on chess Twitter, after forgetting about a virtual tournament and showing up on camera five minutes late while still pulling a Henley over his chest (#KingkillerSoHot). The fact that I notice his absence from my life has me slightly rattled. I might be even more rattled, but it’s the busiest I’ve ever been.
After Philly Open, Defne changes my routine. She schedules more time for me with the GMs (including Oz, who loves it) to focus on specific weaknesses in my play. She also has me play online chess to increase my rating, and daily matches with Zugzwang’s patrons. “It suits you better— learning by doing,” she tells me.
She’s right. My game improves quickly, positions and strategies easy at my fingertips. “Who’d have guessed that deliberately cultivating a natural talent would lead to the betterment of said talent,” Oz says tartly. In retaliation, I chew an entire bag of kettle chips at my desk.
A huge chunk of my time is spent replaying old games. “Thanks for not buying the creamer I asked for,” Sabrina huffs after I spend a hazy hour drifting through the grocery store aisles, wondering if Salov could have unpinned his knight in ’95. I’m training so much, I can’t seem to turn it off, not even in my sleep. Chess positions are taking over the back of my head, and after nights spent tossing and turning to Karpov’s end games, I almost welcome fleeting dreams of dark, deep- set eyes glaring at me in frustration.
In the last week of September the morning air gets chilly, and I break out my favorite blue scarf, the one Easton made for me during her short- lived knitting phase. (“Some stitches are missing. Poetic license and that.”) I snap a selfie and send it to her, scowling when her only response is a lazy heart emoji. I realize that we haven’t talked in over a week, and I scowl harder when she doesn’t reply to my How have things been? When my phone pings an hour later, I feel a burst of hope, but it’s just Hasan, asking if I’d like to meet up over the weekend.
I’m not sure why, but I leave him on read.
For the first time, when I walk into the office, Oz is not at his desk.
“He’s at a tournament,” Defne explains.
I nearly pout. “Why didn’t I get to go?”
“Because your rating is at the core of the earth. Most tournaments are either invitation- only or have strict access criteria.”
I fully pout.
“You’re in an unprecedented situation, Mal. Most players grow in the game, and their ratings grow with them. But even if you do nothing but win at chess and eat tuna straight from the can, it will still take you a couple of years to get to a point when your rating represents your actual skills.” She pats my shoulders. “I did sign you up for the Nashville Open in mid- October. Prize is five thousand, but you’re going to win— top players don’t show up for that.” She bites her lower lip, hesitating. “I’ve been approached with another opportunity, but . . .”
“What opportunity?”
She chews on her lip. “You know the Chess Olympics?”
I blink. “That’s not really a thing, is it?”
“Of course it is.”
“Let’s say that I believe you. What is it?”
“Just a team tournament. Not real Olympics, but a similar format: one team per nation, four players per team. Five days. This year it’s in Toronto, the first week of November— do you have a passport?” I nod. “Emil called and asked if— ”
“Emil? Kareem?”
“Yup. The problem is, the Pasternak Invitational is right after, in Moscow, and that’s a way more prestigious tournament.”
“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?”
