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“Areyou, Mal? Having fun?” Her eyes narrow on me, and I laugh.
“Don’tlaugh. You’re always working. When you aren’t, you’re chauffeuring your sisters around or taking your mom to doctor’s appointments, and— ” She runs a hand through her dark curls and leaves them mussed— a good indicator of her exasperation. Seven out of ten, I’d estimate. “You were number onein our class. You’re a math whiz and can memorizeanything. You hadthreescholarship offers— one to come to Boulder, with me. But you’ve decided not to go, and now you seemstuckhere, with no end in sight and . . . you know what? It’s your choice, and I respect you for it, but at least you could let yourself doonefun thing. One thing that you enjoy.”
I stare at her flushed cheeks for one, two, three seconds, and almost open my mouth to tell her that scholarships pay for you to go to college, but not for the house’s mortgage, or your sister’s roller derby camp, or your other sister’s kidnapped pet’s vitamin-C-reinforced pellets, or whatever it takes to melt the guilt that sticks to the bottom of your stomach. Almost. At the last minute I just look away, and “away” happens to be toward my phone.
It’s 12:24. Shit. “I gotta go.”
“What? Mal, are you mad? I didn’t mean to— ”
“Nope.” I flash her a grin. “But my break is over.”
“Youjustgot here.”
“Yeah. Bob’s not a fan of humane schedules and work-life balance. Any chance you’renotplanning on finishing that bubble tea?”
She rolls her eyes hard enough to pull a muscle, but holds out her cup to me. I fist- pump as I walk away.
“Let me know about the tournament,” Easton yells after me.
“I already have.”
A groan. And then a serious, pointed “Mallory,” which has me turning around despite the threat of Bob’s smelly breath yelling that I’m late. “Listen, I don’t want to force you to do anything. But chess used to be your entire life. And now you don’t even want to play it for a good cause.”
“Like gluten sensitivity?”
She rolls her eyes again, and I jog back to work laughing. I barely make it on time. I’m gathering my tools before disappearing under the Silverado when my phone buzzes. It’s a screenshot of a flier. It says:Clubs Olympic team tournament. NYC area. In affiliation with Doctors Without Borders.
I smile.
MALLORY:okay that is a good charity
BRET EASTON ELLIS:Told you so. Also:
She sends me a link to the WebMD page on gluten sensitivity, which apparently does exist.
MALLORY:okay, so it IS a real thing
BRET EASTON ELLIS:Told you so.
MALLORY:you know that’s your catchphrase right
BRET EASTON ELLIS:That would be “I was right.” So you’ll do the tournament?
I snort and almost typeno. I almost remind herwhy, exactly, I never play chess anymore.
But then I picture her gone to college for months— and me here, alone, trying to have a conversation about the latestDragon Ageplaythrough with some date who just wants to make out. Ithink about her coming home for Thanksgiving: maybe she will have an undercut, become a vegan, get into cow print. Maybe she’ll be a new person. We’ll meet up at our regular places, watch our regular show, gossip about our regular people, but it won’t be the same, because she’ll have met new friends, seen new things, made new memories.
Fear stabs into my chest. Fear that she’ll change, and bloom, and won’t ever be the same. But I will be. Here in Paterson, stagnating. We won’t say it, but we’ll know it.
So I type:
MALLORY:k. last hurrah
BRET EASTON ELLIS:See? I was right.
MALLORY:
MALLORY:you’ll pay me back by driving my sisters to camp next week so i can pick up more shifts
