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“Chill. The PG-13 stuff.”
“PG means parental guidance, which means that a parent— me— should be there with you.”
She cocks her head. “You are aware that you’re not my parent, right?”
I take a deep breath. “Listen, Darcy, the reason I was keeping a secret— ”
“Oh my God. Mal, now it’soursecret!” All of a sudden, she looks seriously pumped up.
“No. No, I don’t want you keeping secrets from Mom— ”
“I don’t mind,” she says quickly. “I want to!”
“Darcy, you were all about us telling each other everything at dinner. I’ll explain to Mom— ”
“Yousaid it might be painful to her. And I want to have a secret with you. Something justours!”
I study her hopeful, shining eyes, wondering if she’s been feeling isolated. I’m in NYC a lot, after all. It’s not like Sabrina can be coaxed away from her phone, and Mom is too low- energy to spend much time with her. Plus, telling the truth would open a whole silo of worms. And I’m reasonably confident that neither Mom nor Sabrina will be looking me up on the internet.
“Okay,” I say. It’s a terrible idea, but Darcy fist- pumps. Then her face takes on a calculated expression.
“But it’ll cost you.”
My eyes narrow. “Really? Are you going to blackmail me?”
“I just think that my morning oatmeal could use one more tablespoon of Nutella. Half? A teaspoon?Please?”
I shake my head and go in for a hug.
I DON’T SEE NOLAN AGAIN.
Not like, ever. But not for weeks, and I don’t hear about him, either, with the exception of a Tuesday afternoon when he trends on chess Twitter, after forgetting about a virtual tournament and showing up on camera five minutes late while still pulling a Henley over his chest (#KingkillerSoHot). The fact that I notice his absence from my life has me slightly rattled. I might be evenmorerattled, but it’s the busiest I’ve ever been.
After Philly Open, Defne changes my routine. She schedules more time for me with the GMs (including Oz, wholovesit) to focus on specific weaknesses in my play. She also has me play online chess to increase my rating, and daily matches with Zugzwang’s patrons. “It suits you better— learning by doing,” she tells me.
She’s right. My game improves quickly, positions and strategies easy at my fingertips. “Who’d have guessed that deliberately cultivating a natural talent would lead to the betterment of said talent,” Oz says tartly. In retaliation, I chew an entire bag of kettle chips at my desk.
A huge chunk of my time is spent replaying old games. “Thanks fornotbuying the creamer I asked for,” Sabrina huffs after I spenda hazy hour drifting through the grocery store aisles, wondering if Salov could have unpinned his knight in ’95. I’m training so much, I can’t seem to turn it off, not even in my sleep. Chess positions are taking over the back of my head, and after nights spent tossing and turning to Karpov’s end games, I almost welcome fleeting dreams of dark, deep- set eyes glaring at me in frustration.
In the last week of September the morning air gets chilly, and I break out my favorite blue scarf, the one Easton made for me during her short- lived knitting phase.(“Some stitches are missing. Poetic license and that.”)I snap a selfie and send it to her, scowling when her only response is a lazy heart emoji. I realize that we haven’t talked in over a week, and I scowl harder when she doesn’t reply to myHow have things been?When my phone pings an hour later, I feel a burst of hope, but it’s just Hasan, asking if I’d like to meet up over the weekend.
I’m not sure why, but I leave him on read.
For the first time, when I walk into the office, Oz is not at his desk.
“He’s at a tournament,” Defne explains.
I nearly pout. “Why didn’tIget to go?”
“Because your rating is at the core of the earth. Most tournaments are either invitation- only or have strict access criteria.”
Ifullypout.
“You’re in an unprecedented situation, Mal. Most players grow in the game, and their ratings grow with them. But even if you do nothing but win at chess and eat tuna straight from the can, it will still take you a couple of years to get to a point when your rating represents your actual skills.” She pats my shoulders. “I did sign you up for the Nashville Open in mid- October. Prize is five thousand, but you’re going to win— top playersdon’t show up for that.” She bites her lower lip, hesitating. “I’ve been approached with another opportunity, but . . .”
“What opportunity?”
She chews on her lip. “You know the Chess Olympics?”
