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“I was playing safe. Cautious. Even when I was in the position to push for an advantage, I didn’t. I was defensive. Which confused you, then frustrated you, then had you making basic mistakes because you were bored.” She points at the positions. “This is easy for me, because I grew up with a formal chess education. Now, you’re a much better player than I am— ”
I scoff. “Clearly I’m not. ”
“Let me rephrase, then: you have more talent. I’ve seen videos of your plays— your instinct when it comes to attack is fantastic. It reminds me so much of . . . well.” She shakes her head with a wistful smile. “An old friend. But there are some basics that all top players know. And ifyoudon’t know them, any opponent with a solid technical foundation will easily exploit them against you. And you won’t even get to use your talent.”
I digest what she said. Then nod, slowly. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m running behind. As though I’ve wasted the past four years. Which . . .
No. It was a decision I made. Thebestdecision. Running behind on my way towhere, anyway?
“It doesn’t help that you’re ancient,” Defne adds.
I frown. “I’m eighteen and six months.”
“Most pros start much younger.”
“I’ve been playing since I was eight.”
“Yeah, but the break you took? Not good. I mean, this”— she gestures to the board— “was embarrassingly easy for me.”
My cheeks redden. I swallow something bitter and rusty, suddenly remembering how much I hate losing.
So. Much.
“What do I do, then?”
“I thought you’d never ask. You do . . .” She grins, pulling a piece of paper out of her back pocket and holding it out to me. I tear it open. “This.”
“This is the schedule you handed me on Monday.”
“Yeah. I printed two by mistake. So glad it came in handy— I hate wasting paper. Anyway, we’ll have you in shape in no time. That is, if you do every single thing on this list. And we’ll review everything you learn during our meetings to make sure you’re on track.”
Fantastic. I’m going to be tested.
I look at the list again— all the things I’m supposed to do every single day for the entire year. I think about my plan to phone it in. About Fermina’s questionable romantic choices. About Defne’s expectant, encouraging smile.
I want to head- desk. But I just sigh, and nod at her.
Oz doesn’t talk to me for two weeks— then he does, and I want to kill him.
It’s a Thursday morning. I’m at my desk, staring at the Zen garden, replaying a Fischer– Spassky 1972 game in my head, when he says, “So you’re coming to the Philly Open.”
I startle. Then hiss: “What?”
I’m supremely, virulently, irrationally annoyed that he’s interrupting me this close to a breakthrough. Earlier today, while making Darcy’s oatmeal (Call it what it is: Nutella with oats sprinkled on top,Sabrina muttered while biting into a Granny Smith) I realized that Fischer made a mistake, one that Spassky could have exploited. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, sure that if Black used the knight to—
“I’ll drive,” Oz says. “We leave at six.”
Whyis he talking? I amsoirritated. “Drive where?”
“To Philly. What’s wrong with you?”
I ignore him, go back to focusing on my replay until my afternoon session with Defne. I’ve started looking forward to my meetings with her— partly because she’s the only human adult I interact with aside from Mom, but also because I genuinelyneed her to parse chess stuff with me. The more effort I put into learning technical stuff, the harder it hits me how little I know, and how much I need a sounding board. I guess that’s why GMs have coaches and trainers and whatnot.
“Can we go over a play?” I start the second I step into the library, sliding my notebook in her direction. “I’ve been stuck on— ”
“Let’s first talk about Philly Open.”
I stop. “Philly what?”
