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It’s almost like she’s not happy with me.
Then again:no oneis happy with me. Darcy spent the three nights since Defne dropped me off sleeping in Sabrina’s room— apparently, her rage at me for deciding not to go to the World Championship healed the years- long rift between them. Mom’s a mix of tired, worried, and suspicious of me for being backweeks before my “double- pay night shifts at the senior center” were supposed to be over. Even Mrs. Abebe glared at me, for shoveling our shared driveway too early and waking up her toddler.
But it’s A-OK. It’s actually pretty fitting, because I’m not happy with anybody, either. Screw Easton for leaving that Adam Driver Wall Punch meme I sent her on read, and rebuffing my attempts to reconnect. Screw Sabrina and Darcy for making me feel unwelcome in the home whose mortgageIpay. Screw Tanu, Emil, and Defne for being all in on the puppeteering of my life, and screw Nolan for . . .
He doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s just me now. And the people who hate me, the people whom I hate, and of course, the auto-mechanic certification tests I finally registered for. The one thing I promised myself I’d do during my fellowship— not learn the Stafford Gambit, not fancy myself half in love with some manipulative liar, but secure my family’s future.
I’m back on track. Over chess. Free from distractions. In control.
My mornings are spent at the testing center, neck- deep in multiple choice options about heating and air- conditioning. Automatic transmission. Engine repair and performance. Brakes, suspension, and steering. Electronic systems.
Then I go get boba and smuggle it into the library. In a new low, I’m now lying to my family about going to my fake job, which means having to kill time till 5:00 p.m. At least I’m finally catching up on the García Márquez readathon. The rest of the online group moved on to Haruki Murakami in December, but I’m no quitter.
I don’t think so, at least.
DARCY AND I HAVE BEEN WAITING IN THE CAR FOR TWENTYminutes when I decide that I’ve had enough.
Any other time, I’d be happy to let Sabrina hang out with her derby friends in fifteen- degree weather while Darcy and I shoot the shit and bellow KIIS FM songs, changing every instance ofloveintofart. But Darcy’s either too angry at me for refusing to engage on the topic of chess with her (day four of silent treatment— she reallyismaturing) or too taken with readingYou Should See Me in a Crownto pay attention to me. I could pass some time on the phone, but I’ve learned my lesson: when there is a surge of media interest in you, it’s probably wise to stay off socials.
So I get out of the car and yell across the half- empty gym parking lot: “Sabrina. Time to go.”
“Yeah.” She’s giggling and staring at her friend McKenzie’s phone. “Give me a sec— ”
“I gave you a second ten minutes ago. Get your ass in the car.”
The eye roll, the shoulder- heaving sigh— those, I barely notice. But the way McKenzie leans forward to whisper something in her ear, Sabrina’s murmured response, the fact that they both giggle while looking in my direction . . . that’s hard to overlook. I feel a pit of something that could be anger deep- fill my stomach, and remind myself that she’s fifteen. Her frontal lobe? Just a mass of cookie dough. And if she and Darcy spend the ride chatting aboutRiverdale, without including me in the conversation, it’s okay.
I’m plenty busy white- knuckling the steering wheel.
“I need a ride to Totowa for a meet on Saturday,” Sabrina says once we’re home, while I dig in the freezer for leftover chicken.
“How about aplease?” I mutter.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Well, Mom is not up for— ”
“I’ve been really good with the new meds, Mal.” Mom smiles. At Sabrina. “I’ll drive you.”
“Awesome.” She kisses Mom on the cheek, and they both disappear down the hallway. I’m left in the kitchen, cutting up veggies for the Crock-Pot, wondering if while I was gone, my family outgrew its needandits want for me.
Wondering what else chess has taken away from me.
Mom, Darcy, and Sabrina are chatting in the living room— a new post- school ritual, seemingly— when someone knocks. I wipe the scallions from my fingers and get the door, expecting Mrs. Abebe to ask me to move the car.
It’s worse. So much worse, I slip out and slam the door shut behind me. I’m wearing only a T-shirt and it’s freezing cold, but desperate times, hypothermic measures. “What are you doing here?”
Oz looks around my porch, hands stuffed in his Burberry pockets, upper lip curled in what looks a lot like disgust. “Is this where you live?”
“Yeah.” I frown. “Where doyoulive? A high- rise in Hudson Yards?”
“Yes.”
I don’t know what I expected. “Okay, well . . . congrats. Is there a reason you’re here, Oz?”
“I just stopped by to say hi. Chat a little.” He shrugs, eyesfixed on the broken trampoline. “See if maybe you’re ready to pull your head out of your ass.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
