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“Zach’s in the highest, too. Third highest for myself,” she continues, ignoring me. Then she looks at Josh and pauses for effect. “The lowest for you.”
Josh bursts into his wholesome, golden boy laughter. “Joking aside, what bracket did you . . .” Easton keeps staring, serious as death and taxes, and he lowers his eyes to the floor.
“Does the PCC have your browser history?” I ask Easton once it’s just the two of us, heading toward the hall.
“Why?”
“There’s no way you’re here of your own free will, not with those two. So either they found out about the tentacle porn, or— ”
“There’snotentacle porn.” She gives me a scathing look. “The manager of the club asked me to put together a team. I couldn’t say no, since he wrote me a rec letter for college. He was just exploiting the fact that I owe him a favor.” She shoulders past two older men in suits to get to the tournament area. “Like you did when you sicced your sisters on me.”
“It’s what you deserve for bringing Zach and the rook he shoved up his ass.”
“Ah, Zach. If only we could know what his FIDE rating is.”
I laugh. “Maybe we should ask him and . . .”
We walk through the doors, and my voice trails off.
The noise in the bustling room dims, then quiets.
People walk around me, past me, into me, but I stand still, frozen, unable to step out of the way.
There are tables. Many tables pushed together to form long, parallel rows— rows and rows, covered in white- and- blue cloth with plastic, foldable chairs tucked into each side, and between each pair of chairs—
Chessboards.
Dozens of them. Hundreds. Not good ones: I can tell even from the entrance that they’re old and cheap, the pieces chipped and poorly cut, the squares dirty and discolored. Ugly, mismatched sets all around me. The smell in the room is like a childhood memory, made of familiar, simple notes: wood and felt and sweat and stale coffee, the bergamot note of Dad’s aftershave, home, belonging, betrayal, happiness, and—
“Mal? You okay?” Easton tugs at my arm with a frown. I don’t think it’s the first time she’s asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I . . .” I swallow, and it helps. The moment breaks, my heart slows, and I’m just a girl—perhaps a slightly fawn-kneed one. It’s just a room that I’m standing in. The chess pieces— they’re just stuff. Things. Some white, some black. Some can move in any number of unoccupied squares, others not so much. Who cares? “I need a drink.”
“I have Crystal Light. Strawberry.” She hands me her CamelBak. “It’s disgusting.”
“Guys.” Zach comes up to us from behind. “Don’t freak out, but I’ve spotted some preeetty big names walking around. I’m talking international.”
Easton lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Harry Styles?”
“What? No.”
“Malala?”
“No.”
“Oh my God, Michelle Obama? Do you think she’ll sign my pocket constitution?”
“No— Rudra Lal. Maxim Alexeyev. Andreas Antonov. Yang Zhang. Famous chess people.”
“Ah.” She nods. “So regular, not-at-all- famous people?”
I do love watching Easton mess with Zach, but Ihaveheard these names. I wouldn’t be able to pick them out of a lineup, but at my most fervent, chess- obsessive stage I’ve studied their games on books, simulation software, YouTube tutorials. Old impressions surface quickly in my brain, like long- unused synapses sputtering awake.
Lal: versatile openings, positional
Antonov: tricky, but technical
Zhang: calculating, slow
