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Still, there’s lots to consider. My feelings about chess, for one, which I cannot disentangle from my feelings for Dad. They are twisted, knotted together. There’s pain. Regret. Nostalgia. Guilt. Hate. Above all, there’s anger. So much anger inside me.Mountains of it, entire blazing landscapes without a single furyless corner in them.
I’m angry with Dad, angry with chess, and therefore I cannot play it. Pretty straightforward.
And setting that aside, am I even good enough? I know I’m talented— I’ve been told too many times, and by too many people not to. But I haven’t trained in years, and I honestly believe that beating Nolan Sawyer (who in my latest dream broke off a piece of his queen and offered it to me like a KitKat) was nothing more than a stroke of luck.
On the twin bed next to mine, Darcy snores like a middleaged man with sleep apnea. Goliath is in his cage, wandering aimlessly. The fact is, competitive chess is a sport, and like other sports, there’s little room at the top. Everyone knows who Usain Bolt is, but no one gives a shiitake mushroom about the fifteenth- fastest person in the world— even though they’re still pretty damn fast.
The diner where I used to wait tables has a full roster, and the local grocery storemightbe looking for help, but starting positions are minimum wage. Not enough. I contemplate the news on Tuesday and whine about it on the phone.
“Listen, you stubborn bitch: just take the fellowship and fake your way through it,” Easton says, exasperated, affectionate, and suddenly I’m afraid again. That she’ll forget all about me, that I’ll never measure up to Colorado and the people she’ll meet there. I’m about to lose her, I know I am. It seems such an inevitable, predestined conclusion, I don’t even bother voicing my fears.
Instead I ask, “How do you mean?”
“You can take the money for a year and play your best, but alsonot careabout chess. Don’t think about it after hours. It doesn’t have to be obsessive or consuming like it used to be before your dad . . . Just clock in, clock out. In the meantime, you can get those mechanic certifications.”
“Ha,” I say, impressed by her more-or-less devious plan. “Ha.”
“You’re welcome. Can you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Not be a total lunatic weirdo about something?”
I smile. “Unclear.”
She leaves on Wednesday, after stopping by my place to say goodbye. I just figured it’d be different. I expected a TSA farewell and to stare at her plane as it flew off, but it doesn’t make sense: we’re eighteen. She has parents— a non- bedridden, stilltogether set that takes care of her, and drives her to the airport, and pays for a nice dorm room with the 529 that did not need to be cashed out when the old water boiler sputtered to its timely but heart- wrenching demise.
“You have to come visit,” Easton says.
“Yeah,” I say, knowing that I won’t.
“When I’m back, we’re going to New York. Get that macaron you don’t deserve.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, knowing that we won’t.
She just sighs, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and hugs me, and orders me to text her every day and watch out for STDs. Darcy, who’s been hovering around us with heart- shaped eyes, asks her what that stands for.
I watch the street long after the car has disappeared. I take a deep breath and empty my mind of everything, allowingmyself a rare, beautiful, luxurious moment of peace. I think about a deserted chessboard. Only the white king on it, standing on the home square. Alone, untethered, safe from threats.
Free to roam, at least.
Then I go back inside, open my laptop, and write the message I knew I’d write ever since this mudslide of a week started.
Hey Defne,
Is that fellowship still on the table?
PART TWO
Middle Game
8:55 am— Arrive at Zugzwang! There’s coffee & bagels in the lounge room— help yourself! (Do not eat the rainbow bagel: it’s Delroy’s, one of our resident GMs. He gets cranky when his food has less than five colors.)
9– 10 am— Memorize assigned list of opening variations
10– 11 am— Memorize assigned list of end- game positions
11 am– noon— Go over assigned list of old games/tactics
