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“But he isn’t?”
“He cannot compete. No one can compete with Sawyer, really. He’s been dominating for nearly a decade. I mean”— he pops half a deviled egg in his mouth— “Koch’s an excellent player, if inconsistent. He has moments of brilliance. He’s forced Sawyer into draws, and once even came close to beating him. But ultimately they’re not comparable.”
Must be miserable, losing game after game. “Koch’s not aware?”
“I’m sure he’s plenty aware, but you’ve seen the kind of people he holds court with. Their narrative is that Sawyer is some superevil villain who made chess predictable by being unbeatable— as though he isn’t the reason chess got so big among younger people in the last few years. They make it sound like Sawyer’s Thanos andKoch’s Tony Stark.” He rolls his eyes. “Obviously, they’rebothThanos.”
Oz Nothomb: unexpectedly, a Marvel guy. “Are we . . . in middle school again?”
Oz shrugs. “Close enough. Kochisjust a child, salty because he always ends up dead in FMK. Meanwhile Sawyer gets all the attention, makes serious bank, ends up onTime’s Most Influential, and sleeps with Baudelaires or whatnot— ”
“Baudelaires?”
“Yeah. It’s this experimental rock band— ”
“I know who the Baudelaire sisters are.” Sabrina is obsessed. I like their music, too. “Sawyersleepswith them?”
“Yes. And Koch wants that for himself. As if.”
My head is exploding. “Did he— Which Baudelaire did Sawyer . . . ?”
“I don’t know, Mallory. I donotwatch reality television.”
“Right.” I look away, chastised. I’m going to have to google this. I’mdyingto whip out my phone right now. “Well, the top ten sounds pretty crowded with assholes.”
“Mostly just Koch and Cormenzana. And Sawyer, but he’s a better brand. I’m not gonna make a friendship bracelet for him, but I’ll take a sphincter- clenchingly scary asshole like Sawyer over a slug-slurping-moisture-after-a-rainstorm slimy asshole like Koch any day.”
They both sound uniquely horrible, I think as a man plucks custard- filled beignets off the table and quickly scurries away, unimpressed with the anus talk.
“Anyway,” Oz concludes, “everyone else in the top ten is less punchable.”
I smile faintly. “Is ‘less punchable’ Oz-speak for ‘nice’?”
He arches one eyebrow. “And what doesthatmean?”
“Well, you’re not the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”
“I am a motherfuckingdelight, Greenleaf. And for the record, you and I areequallyhot.”
I only stay at the reception for about thirty minutes. Oz is right, and not everyone in chess is a dick: he introduces me to several people who do not insult me, sexually harass me, or act with a messianic- grade superiority complex. But his group of friends is a few years older than me, and I drift out of conversation when it falls on their wives and graduate education. I feel the occasional side glances from Koch’s gang on me, and cannot quite relax, so I wave goodnight and head back to my room, ready to spend the rest of the evening berating myself over my mistakes.
Until I see the sign in the elevator. Three little words next to the fifth floor:
Indoor Pool & Gym.
I head there without thinking it through. The entrance for the pool slides open under my keycard. When I peek inside, I’m instantly enveloped by heat, chlorine, and silence.
I love swimming. Or whatever that thing I do that passes as swimming is— float for hours, occasionally move about like a drowning puppy. And here’s this amazing, deserted pool.
Problem: I don’t have a swimsuit. The tattered bikini that barely fit me a cup size ago is somewhere in my dresser at home, and Goliath is probably using it at this very moment to wipe his butt. What I do have, however, is underwear that’sbasicallya bikini. And a strong yearning for a swim.
So I don’t think about it too much: I pull my dress over my head, shrug off my sandals, and toss them on the nearest bench. Then I jump in with a loud, messy splash.
I need to minimize my blunders, I tell myself fifteen minutes later, drifting over the water and staring at the ceiling. The reflection of the waves on the ceiling is a mangled, distorted chessboard.I should aim for breadth of knowledge, since I’m unlikely to achieve much depth in one year. I should play more offbeat lines.
By the time I lift myself out, I’m in better spirits. I screwed up today, but I’ll focus on improving. If I know my weaknesses, I can tailor my training. I train a ridiculous amount anyway.
You are faking your way through this fellowship, a voice reminds me. It’s either mine or Easton’s.
