Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“We all know you’re unable to say no,” Easton points out. “So just say yes.”

I check my phone— twelve more minutes in my break. Today’s hot as soup, I’m done scarfing down boba, and I eye her cup with interest. Honeydew melon: my second- favorite flavor. “I’m busy.”

“Busy how?”

“Date.”

“Who? Carnivorous plants guy? Or the Paris Hilton lookalike?”

“Neither. But I’ll find someone.”

“Come on. It’s a way to spend time together before college.”

I sit up, knocking my elbow against hers. “When are you leaving?”

“In less than two weeks.”

“What? We just graduated, like— ”

“Like three months ago? I have to be in Colorado by mid-August for orientation.”

“Oh.” It’s like waking up from an early afternoon nap and finding out that it’s already dark. “Oh,” I repeat, a little shocked. I knew this was coming, but somewhere between my sister’s bout of mono, my mom’s week at the hospital, my other sister’s bout of mono, and all the extra shifts I picked up, I must have lost track of time. This is terrifying: I’ve never not lived in the same city as Easton. I’ve never not seen her once a week to play Dragon Age, or talk about Dragon Age, or watch Dragon Age playthroughs.

Maybe we need new hobbies.

I try for a smile. “I guess time flies when you’re having fun.”

“Are you, Mal? Having fun?” Her eyes narrow on me, and I laugh.

“Don’t laugh. 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 one in our class. You’re a math whiz and can memorize anything. You had three scholarship offers— one to come to Boulder, with me. But you’ve decided not to go, and now you seem stuck here, 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 do one fun 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.”

“You just got here.”

“Yeah. Bob’s not a fan of humane schedules and work-life balance. Any chance you’re not planning 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 type no. I almost remind her why, 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 latest Dragon Age playthrough with some date who just wants to make out. I think 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