Check & Mate

I push my frozen fingers into my pocket, take a deep breath, and fail at not sounding too impatient when I say, “I promise your hair looks perfect and the scrunchie matches your top. Can we leave now?”

Sabrina takes her sweet time to fluff her hair, fix her lipstick, and grab her backpack, and pauses in front of me on her way to the door. “Amazing, how you were gone for”— she checks a watch she doesn’t wear— “weeks, and we managed to function perfectly and be late for school”— another pretend check— “a grand total of zero times.” She taps her chin. “It’s almost as though we don’t need you to boss us around. Food for thought, hmm?”

She slides past me. I sigh and follow, stepping over crunchy snow on my way to the car.

It’s almost like she’s not happy with me.

Then again: no one is happy with me. Darcy spent the three nights since Defne dropped me off sleeping in Sabrina’s room— apparently, her rage at me for deciding not to go to the World Championship healed the years- long rift between them. Mom’s a mix of tired, worried, and suspicious of me for being back weeks before my “double- pay night shifts at the senior center” were supposed to be over. Even Mrs. Abebe glared at me, for shoveling our shared driveway too early and waking up her toddler.

But it’s A-OK. It’s actually pretty fitting, because I’m not happy with anybody, either. Screw Easton for leaving that Adam Driver Wall Punch meme I sent her on read, and rebuffing my attempts to reconnect. Screw Sabrina and Darcy for making me feel unwelcome in the home whose mortgage I pay. Screw Tanu, Emil, and Defne for being all in on the puppeteering of my life, and screw Nolan for . . .

He doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s just me now. And the people who hate me, the people whom I hate, and of course, the auto-mechanic certification tests I finally registered for. The one thing I promised myself I’d do during my fellowship— not learn the Stafford Gambit, not fancy myself half in love with some manipulative liar, but secure my family’s future.

I’m back on track. Over chess. Free from distractions. In control.

My mornings are spent at the testing center, neck- deep in multiple choice options about heating and air- conditioning. Automatic transmission. Engine repair and performance. Brakes, suspension, and steering. Electronic systems.

Then I go get boba and smuggle it into the library. In a new low, I’m now lying to my family about going to my fake job, which means having to kill time till 5:00 p.m. At least I’m finally catching up on the García Márquez readathon. The rest of the online group moved on to Haruki Murakami in December, but I’m no quitter.

I don’t think so, at least.

DARCY AND I HAVE BEEN WAITING IN THE CAR FOR TWENTY minutes when I decide that I’ve had enough.

Any other time, I’d be happy to let Sabrina hang out with her derby friends in fifteen- degree weather while Darcy and I shoot the shit and bellow KIIS FM songs, changing every instance of love into fart. But Darcy’s either too angry at me for refusing to engage on the topic of chess with her (day four of silent treatment— she really is maturing) or too taken with reading You Should See Me in a Crown to pay attention to me. I could pass some time on the phone, but I’ve learned my lesson: when there is a surge of media interest in you, it’s probably wise to stay off socials.

So I get out of the car and yell across the half- empty gym parking lot: “Sabrina. Time to go.”

“Yeah.” She’s giggling and staring at her friend McKenzie’s phone. “Give me a sec— ”

“I gave you a second ten minutes ago. Get your ass in the car.”

The eye roll, the shoulder- heaving sigh— those, I barely notice. But the way McKenzie leans forward to whisper something in her ear, Sabrina’s murmured response, the fact that they both giggle while looking in my direction . . . that’s hard to overlook. I feel a pit of something that could be anger deep- fill my stomach, and remind myself that she’s fifteen. Her frontal lobe? Just a mass of cookie dough. And if she and Darcy spend the ride chatting about Riverdale, without including me in the conversation, it’s okay.

I’m plenty busy white- knuckling the steering wheel.

“I need a ride to Totowa for a meet on Saturday,” Sabrina says once we’re home, while I dig in the freezer for leftover chicken.

“How about a please?” I mutter.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Well, Mom is not up for— ”

“I’ve been really good with the new meds, Mal.” Mom smiles. At Sabrina. “I’ll drive you.”

“Awesome.” She kisses Mom on the cheek, and they both disappear down the hallway. I’m left in the kitchen, cutting up veggies for the Crock-Pot, wondering if while I was gone, my family outgrew its need and its want for me.

Wondering what else chess has taken away from me.

Mom, Darcy, and Sabrina are chatting in the living room— a new post- school ritual, seemingly— when someone knocks. I wipe the scallions from my fingers and get the door, expecting Mrs. Abebe to ask me to move the car.

It’s worse. So much worse, I slip out and slam the door shut behind me. I’m wearing only a T-shirt and it’s freezing cold, but desperate times, hypothermic measures. “What are you doing here?”

Oz looks around my porch, hands stuffed in his Burberry pockets, upper lip curled in what looks a lot like disgust. “Is this where you live?”

“Yeah.” I frown. “Where do you live? A high- rise in Hudson Yards?”

“Yes.”

I don’t know what I expected. “Okay, well . . . congrats. Is there a reason you’re here, Oz?”

“I just stopped by to say hi. Chat a little.” He shrugs, eyes fixed on the broken trampoline. “See if maybe you’re ready to pull your head out of your ass.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Just checking in if you’re done acting like a big whiny shit who’s all alone against the world. Any updates?”

I blink again. “Listen, I know being mean is your whole shtick, but— ”

“I think it’s yours, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

His green eyes harden. “Have you, at any point in the last week, considered that deciding to ostrich your way through the biggest scandal FIDE has seen in the past thirty years might affect people who aren’t you?”

“What’s happening has nothing to do with me. Koch cheated. Good on him.” My breath paints the air white. “I’m done with chess.”

“Ah, yes. You are. Because boo- hoo, your boyfriend paid for your salary without asking for anything in return and didn’t tell you. Cry me the fucking Nile.”

I stiffen. “You have no idea what— ”

“And I don’t care. You want to be mad at Sawyer for not disclosing? Go ahead. Chuck his PS5 out of the window, I don’t give a shit.” He steps closer. “I’m here to talk about Defne, and the fact that after everything she has done for you, you’re ruining her life.”

“I’m not ruining . . .” I hug myself. My goose bumps are fat little hills on my arms. “I’m not.”

“She acts as your trainer and manager. Which means that FIDE has been hounding her for confirmation that you will attend.”

“Well, I’m done with chess and everyone involved in it. She can tell them that I won’t.”

“Oh, yes, sure. She’ll just tell them that. ‘Sorry, guys, Mal had a domestic with her boytoy and is outta here.’ It won’t in any way impact her credibility or her standing in the chess community, the fact that the player she vouched for disappeared from the face of the earth. That the player she bent over backward to get into tournaments turned out to be the selfish, flaky— ”

“Wait, what? She didn’t. I only ever participated in open tournaments.”

He scoffs. “Open doesn’t mean walk-ins welcome. There’s still a selection process, and people need to prove their credentials— of which you had none. Defne made sure you could play in Philly and Nashville. She paid for you to go there, and let you keep one hundred percent of your earnings. And now FIDE is considering unaccrediting Zugzwang, because Defne’s star player is refusing to be in the World Championship, because . . .” He gives me a withering look. “Why?”

Anger bubbles up. “Defne lied to me.”

“Ah, yes.” He rolls his eyes. “How, precisely?”

“She didn’t tell me Nolan gave her the money.”

“Even though you asked. Despicable of her.”

“I didn’t ask, but— ”

“Of course you didn’t. You were told that the money came from donors, did not ask follow-up questions, and now you’re high- horsing her into the ground.”

I glare. “Oz— why are you even here? How do you know all this stuff? Why would Defne tell you . . .” He’s looking at me like I’m the dimmest bulb in the cookie jar. And I am. “Wait. You and Defne aren’t . . . ?”

He ignores me. “Do you think chess clubs are a lucrative enterprise? That Defne makes bank? Rethink that. She bought Zugzwang because she wanted to create an environment in which everyone felt welcome in chess. To prevent others from feeling the way she had. And she has to rely on donors. Sawyer has been one of those donors for years, and here’s what happened: yes, he gave her the funds to track you down and offer you the job. But when you refused the fellowship, Defne started looking into other possible players to sponsor. Because Sawyer’s donation was just that— a gift with no strings attached.”

I swallow. “He was involved in me losing my job. I’m sure of it.” Almost.

“Maybe.” Oz shrugs. “I wouldn’t put it past him. But Defne? She never wanted anything from you except to see you succeed. Which is the reason she’s not here pointing out how much of a whiny little bitch you’re being, or suing you for breach of contract. But I have no such qualms, Mal. I don’t care if you come back to read Love in the Time of Cholera while you should be studying Modern Chess Openings. You owe it to Defne to see this year through. And to have a conversation with her about the World Championship. To help her deal with FIDE without losing face.”

He takes a step back. His perennial belligerent air deflates a little, and for once he seems more open than irritated. “Listen. I try hard not to learn things about the people around me, but . . . I’ve heard about your father. I know you take care of your family. I know you’re dealing with stuff like”— his chin points at my yard— “that rusty trampoline. But if you unzip your asshole and pry your head out of it, you might realize that there’s more to life than feeling sorry for yourself.” He nods once and then turns around, hopping gracefully down the slippery porch steps.

I watch him walk away, a confused mix of anger that feels a lot like guilt swirling through me. I didn’t ask Defne to train me. I didn’t ask Nolan to sponsor me. All I ever asked was for Dad to not cheat on Mom in front of me, for him not to die, for Mom not to get sick, for my life to be normal. How dare Oz, from his Alps of privilege, treat me like I am the spoiled little girl?

“You don’t know me,” I yell after him. A cliché— that’s who I am.

“And I don’t particularly care to.” He opens the driver’s door of his Mini. “Not if this is who you are.”

When I slump against the inside of the door, the house feels impossibly hot. I take a deep breath and order myself to calm down.

It’s irrelevant, what Oz thinks of me, because he and chess are out of my life. Maybe I’ll call Defne at some point. Let her know that I’m out for good. But two nights ago I dreamed that every single person I met in the past six months was pointing at me and laughing: I’d been moving the rook across diagonals, thinking it was a bishop. No one corrected me, not even Defne. She was in the first row, sniggering with Nolan.

So, yeah. Not ready to reach out.

I press my palms into my eyes and go back into the kitchen to finish making dinner. I stop at the entrance, and no one notices me.

“— kind of gross,” Darcy is saying, peeking at the Crock-Pot. “Like . . . ew?”

“Super unhealthy, with all that oil,” Sabrina points out. “Maybe she needs a cooking class for her birthday, Mom.”

“That’s a lovely idea, Sabrina. She’ll love that.”

“I’m not getting her a present,” Darcy grumbles.

“I see what she was trying to do. But it’s not a recipe that calls for thigh, you know,” Mom muses. “Maybe breast. Or pork.”

“I don’t wanna eat this,” Sabrina mumbles, and that’s the moment I feel it happen: like a tough little bubble, bloody and red, giving off the tiniest of pops inside my head.

“Then don’t,” I say. The three of them whip around at the same time, eyes wide. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you make dinner?”

Sabrina hesitates. Then rolls her eyes. “Jesus. Chill, Mal.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I will chill. I will stop doing the dishes. I will stop grocery shopping. I will stop earning money for food. Let’s see how you like it.”

“That’s totally fine.” Her hands come to her hips. “You were gone for weeks and we were doing amazing.”

“Oh, really?” It’s like a knife twisted in my rib cage. “You were doing amazing?”

“We were free of this weird dictatorship where we can’t even comment on dinner,” Sabrina says, and I see Mom’s mouth opening to chastise her, but I’m quicker.

“You are such a bitch,” I hear myself say.

It sounds horrendous in the silence of the kitchen. It shocks Mom into silence, and Darcy physically steps back. But Sabrina narrows her eyes and stands her ground. So I continue.

“You are an ungrateful bitch. Since all I do is chauffeur you around and make sure your fees are paid.”

“I didn’t ask for any of that!”

“Then don’t fucking take it, Sabrina. Go out and do the thing I did. Don’t go to school, quit your precious roller derby— let’s see how much your little buddy McKenzie likes you when she’s in college and you aren’t! Completely give up on every little thing you love so that you can take care of your bratty, ungrateful little sister”— I point at Darcy— “who, by the way, is also a high- functioning bitch.”

“Mallory,” Mom interrupts sternly. “That’s enough.”

“Is it, though?” I look at her. My eyes are blurry, burning with the same heat that’s in my stomach. “Not that you’re much better, since you’re currently also being a bitch— ”

“Enough.”

Mom’s harsh voice is followed by a thick, terrible silence.

It’s my undoing: suddenly, I’m in my body again. And with that, I can hear every vile thing I just said like a played- back tape, and it’s unbearable. I’m too horrified, too angry, too stricken to stay one second longer.

“Oh my God. I-I . . .”

I shake my head and turn around. Stagger to my room, vision fuzzy.

I just called my mom, my thirteen- and fifteen- year- old sisters whose lives I ruined— I called them bitches. I threw in their face what I’ve done for them— despite the fact that it wouldn’t have needed doing if it hadn’t been for me.

I close the door behind me, fold onto my mattress, and hide my face in my hands, ashamed.

I never cry. I didn’t cry when I told Mom about what Dad did. I didn’t cry when he packed his bags and left. I didn’t cry when we received that phone call from the highway patrol at five thirty in the morning. I didn’t cry when I declined my scholarship offers, when Bob fired me, in Defne’s car on my way back from Nolan’s house. I never cried, even when I wanted to, because when I asked myself if I had the right to those tears, the answer was always no, and it was easy to stop myself.

But I’m sobbing now. I hide my face in my hands and wail loudly, messily, fat drops sliding down my face, pooling in my palms. At once, the last few years all feel so real. All my failures, my mistakes, my bad choices. All the losses, the minutes, and the hours spent going in the opposite direction of life, the fact that Dad is not here anymore . . . It’s all stuck in my throat, dirty rags and broken glass, suffocating, gut wrenching, and all of a sudden I don’t know how I’m going to bear the hurt of what being me has become for even half a second longer.

And then the mattress dips, right next to me.

A warm, thin hand settles on my shoulder. “Mallory,” Mom says. Her voice is patient but firm. “I’ve tried to give you as much space as you needed. But I think it’s time for us to talk about the World Championship.”