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“Well, for now. I hope one day I’ll get to cover chess for the BBC. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, your play at this tournament wasamazing. I’m already a fan! Between us, the BBC’s current chess correspondent is a boring old- school guy who only writes about the same three dudes, but I’m going to try to pitch my first article about you. Well, notyouyou, but your chess style. It’s so engaging and entertaining!”
I’m bewildered by her enthusiasm. With no clue how to reply, I’m almost relieved when Russel interrupts us and asks for a moment alone. “So sorry about earlier.” He hands me an envelope. “Here is the semifinalist prize.”
I open it, expecting . . . I’m not sure. A brochure on how to effectively use the Sicilian Defense. A coupon for two hours of counseling with a sports psychologist.Lilo & Stitchstickers.
Nota check. For ten thousand dollars.
It’s clearly a mistake. And yet my first greedy, ugly instinct is to pocket it. Conceal it. Abscond with it.
I want this money. Oh, the things I could do with it. I could be zero months behind with our mortgage. Set up a savings account. Pay for my auto- mechanic certifications. Say yes to Darcy and Sabrina next time they ask for whatever trivial crap they’ve fallen in covet with. Roller skates. Slime. Piano lessons. A cotton- top tamarin plushie.
God,howI want this money. So much so, I need to get rid of it. Immediately.
“I have to tell you something,” I say to Defne. She’s washing her hands in the unsurprisingly deserted ladies’ restroom. “I— They gave me a check. By mistake, I think. Ten thousand.”
“It’s the semifinalist prize.” She briefly struggles with the soap dispenser. “Didn’t you see the info on the tournament website?”
There is a tournament website?“I . . .” I blink.Ten. Thousand. Dollars.Oh God. But— I can’t. It should go to her. “Here.” I hold the check out. “You sponsored me. You have it.”
“Nuh-uh. Youearnedit. Though you might have to pay taxes on it. Check with your accountant.”
My accountant.Right. The one currently on vacation in Seychelles with my hedge fund manager.
“I’ll go get the car so we can head home, but Mal.” She gives me a loaded look. “The prize for the World Championship is two million dollars. The Challengers, a hundred thousand. Just making sure you know, since you hate tournament websites.” She leaves with a wink, and I stare down at my check for a long time.
Plan Fake Your Way Through Chess is going to need some serious reworking.
Defne orders me to stay home on Monday, to sleep off my “chess hangover” and the “tournament crud.” It’s a rare free day without my sisters underfoot, and when I go to bed on Sunday night, I’m fully committed to drooling on my pillow till midmorning, then going to the Krispy Kreme drive- through in my PJs to purchase my weight in donuts, then eating 90 percent of them with Mom while we watchHoarderson YouTube.
I fail miserably.
For reasons that may have to do with the check hidden in the inside pocket of my hobo bag, I’m up at six thirty, scrolling down ChessWorld.com, browsing through every game Malte Koch has ever played.
There are a lot, and he’s a damn good player.
But, also: he’s not without exploitable weaknesses. I’m half comatose, eyes full of sleep boogers, and yet I’m finding blunders in his games.
Also, also: I have a new archenemy.I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments.My life mission is to repeat the words back to him while I checkmate his useless, bloated king.
“Pleeeease, drive us to school!” Darcy asks after giving me herback to fart in my direction— her new favorite morning ritual. In the car she talks my ear off: male seahorses carry the offspring, jellyfish are immortal, pigs’ orgasms last thirty minutes (mental note: install parental control software). Sabrina sits quietly, headphones in her ears, head bent to her phone. I try to remember whether she has said anything this morning. Then I try to remember the last time I’ve had a conversation with her.
Mmm.
“Hey,” I tell her at drop- off, “you get out an hour before Darcy, right?”
“Yeah.” She sounds defensive.
“I’ll come get you early, then.”
“Why?” Now she sounds defensiveanddubious.
“We can do something together.”
“Like what?” The defensiveness is still there, but laced with something else. Hope, and maybe a bit of excitement. “We could get coffee at that place on the corner.”
“Okay. Decaf, though,” I add.
She frowns. “Why?”
