Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

On the twin bed next to mine, Darcy snores like a middleaged man with sleep apnea. Goliath is in his cage, wandering aimlessly. The fact is, competitive chess is a sport, and like other sports, there’s little room at the top. Everyone knows who Usain Bolt is, but no one gives a shiitake mushroom about the fifteenth- fastest person in the world— even though they’re still pretty damn fast.

The diner where I used to wait tables has a full roster, and the local grocery store might be looking for help, but starting positions are minimum wage. Not enough. I contemplate the news on Tuesday and whine about it on the phone.

“Listen, you stubborn bitch: just take the fellowship and fake your way through it,” Easton says, exasperated, affectionate, and suddenly I’m afraid again. That she’ll forget all about me, that I’ll never measure up to Colorado and the people she’ll meet there. I’m about to lose her, I know I am. It seems such an inevitable, predestined conclusion, I don’t even bother voicing my fears.

Instead I ask, “How do you mean?”

“You can take the money for a year and play your best, but also not care about chess. Don’t think about it after hours. It doesn’t have to be obsessive or consuming like it used to be before your dad . . . Just clock in, clock out. In the meantime, you can get those mechanic certifications.”

“Ha,” I say, impressed by her more-or-less devious plan. “Ha.”

“You’re welcome. Can you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Not be a total lunatic weirdo about something?”

I smile. “Unclear.”

She leaves on Wednesday, after stopping by my place to say goodbye. I just figured it’d be different. I expected a TSA farewell and to stare at her plane as it flew off, but it doesn’t make sense: we’re eighteen. She has parents— a non- bedridden, stilltogether set that takes care of her, and drives her to the airport, and pays for a nice dorm room with the 529 that did not need to be cashed out when the old water boiler sputtered to its timely but heart- wrenching demise.

“You have to come visit,” Easton says.

“Yeah,” I say, knowing that I won’t.

“When I’m back, we’re going to New York. Get that macaron you don’t deserve.”

“I can’t wait,” I say, knowing that we won’t.

She just sighs, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and hugs me, and orders me to text her every day and watch out for STDs. Darcy, who’s been hovering around us with heart- shaped eyes, asks her what that stands for.

I watch the street long after the car has disappeared. I take a deep breath and empty my mind of everything, allowing myself a rare, beautiful, luxurious moment of peace. I think about a deserted chessboard. Only the white king on it, standing on the home square. Alone, untethered, safe from threats.

Free to roam, at least.

Then I go back inside, open my laptop, and write the message I knew I’d write ever since this mudslide of a week started.

Hey Defne,

Is that fellowship still on the table?





PART TWO


Middle Game





8:55 am— Arrive at Zugzwang! There’s coffee & bagels in the lounge room— help yourself! (Do not eat the rainbow bagel: it’s Delroy’s, one of our resident GMs. He gets cranky when his food has less than five colors.)

9– 10 am— Memorize assigned list of opening variations

10– 11 am— Memorize assigned list of end- game positions

11 am– noon— Go over assigned list of old games/tactics

noon– 1 pm— Break. I’ve included a list of nearby food places you might like. (Gambit, the club’s cat, will meow at you like he hasn’t been fed since the Weichselian glaciation; it is but a well- practiced, devious act. Do not feel obliged to share your meat lunches with him.)

1– 2 pm— Analyze assigned opponents’ games

2– 3 pm— Logical thinking and positional chess review

3– 4 pm— Training with software/databases

4– 5 pm— W– F Meet with GM trainer to go over weaknesses

Make sure to take a short break as needed to keep your focus. Workout schedule: 4, 5 days/w, ~30 mins. Keep hydrated and wear sunscreen, at least 30 SPF (even if it’s cloudy— that’s not how sunrays work).

I glance over the schedule Defne just handed me to make sure that I really read what I just read. Then I look up and say,

“Um.”

She smiles wide. Today her lipstick is pink, her shirt Spice Girls themed, and her pixie haircut has me wanting to grab the closest utility knife and hack my own hair off. She looks cool in a vintage, effortless way. “Um?”

“Just, this is an awful lot of . . .” I clear my throat. Bite my lip. Scratch my nose. “Chess?”

“I know.” Her smile widens. “Great, right?”

My stomach knots. Why don’t you just fake it? Easton said, and this morning on the New Jersey Transit, during my brandnew one- and-a-half- hour commute, I repeated it to myself like a mantra: This is a job. Just a job. I won’t think about chess one second past 5:00 p.m. Chess and I broke up years ago, and I’m not some simpering girl who’ll take back her cheating ex after being dumped during the slow dance at prom. I’m only going to do the necessary amount of it.