Page 109 of People Skills

‘I’m here,’ I say, jumping down from sitting on the kitchen bench. I always feel like I’m six years old again when Dad comes home. We used to have an elaborate goodbye and hello ritual. A high five, a kiss and a cuddle when he left for work and when he got home. I suppress the urge to do that now. Instead I just kiss his cheek.

‘Happy birthday, honey,’ he says, squeezing me in a big hug.

‘It’s not my birthday yet, don’t age me,’ I say.

‘Don’t be afraid of thirty-one. Thirty-one is a great age. The very best age. You were born when I was thirty-one,’ he says.

‘Well, I’m single and childless,’ I say.

‘Enjoy it!’ Mum yells from the kitchen. ‘The best of times! What I wouldn’t give to be single and beautiful in my thirties. You’ve got plenty of time to have kids. And remember, twins run in the family.’

Mum holds the idea of having twin boys over my head like a threat. I already know that if and when I have kids, whenever I complain, she’ll say, It could be worse, think of me with the twins. Maybe I’ll luck out and have triplets. Then I can lord it over her. Look at how my life is ruined way worse than yours was!

‘Don’t ask me what time dinner will be ready, it’s a delicate balance right now—could be one hour or many,’ Mum says.

‘Sweetheart, do you want me to help?’ Dad calls to her.

‘No. I want you both to stay out of my way until we’re through the danger zone.’

‘What’s the danger zone?’

‘Until I get the cake in the oven and the salad made.’

Dad turns to me. ‘How about a game before dinner?’ he says. He doesn’t need to specify what kind of game. There’s only one.

‘Sure,’ I say. I am determined to get through this chess match without thinking of Xavier.

Dad sets the pieces up in the lounge room.

‘Have you been playing?’ he asks.

‘A little. I was teaching Xavier.’

‘Oh, kicking his arse, I hope.’

‘Of course.’

Dad gets out a coin. He always flips for who gets to choose, white or black.

‘Call it,’ he says.

‘Heads.’

‘Heads it is.’

‘White.’

We never give away an advantage in this house.

We play in silence, each of us spending time thinking about the next move. Dad likes a slow game. He puts on his glasses and leans forwards in his chair, and furrows his brow and taps his fingers and sometimes he puts on a show about how clever I am, which can be his preamble to me winning or a preamble to him swooping in and winning himself. He never goes easy on me. Even when he knew I was sad and miserable, even when he knew I was struggling, he didn’t go easy. He knew it would make me feel worse.

‘So, this Xavier,’ he says, after we finish our first game, which he wins. ‘Is he any good?’

‘He has potential, but he’s a beginner.’

‘Did you give him any books?’

‘A few. I started him with Reassess Your Chess and My System.’