Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

Sabrina stiffens. “I don’t start until next week. Actually, I’m never going to start if someone doesn’t sign me up for the Junior Roller Derby Association, which is due next Friday— ”

“I’ll pay the dues by Friday,” I reassure her.

She gives me a skeptical, distrustful look. Like I’ve broken her heart one too many times with my paltry auto- mechanic’s salary. “Why can’t you pay right now?”

“Because I enjoy toying with you, like a spider with her prey.” And because I’ll need to pick up extra shifts at the garage to afford them.

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t have the money, do you?”

My heart skips a beat. “Of course I do.”

“Because I’m basically an adult. And McKenzie has been working at that froyo place, so I could ask her to— ”

“You’re not an adult.” The idea of Sabrina worrying about money is physically painful. “In fact, rumor has it that you’re a douchewad.”

“Since we’re requesting and obtaining things,” Darcy interjects, mouth full of toothpaste, “Goliath is still lonely and depressed and in need of a girlfriend.”

“Mmm.” I briefly contemplate the number of turds two Goliaths could produce. Yikes. “Anyway, Easton kindly offered to drive you guys to camp next week. And I’m not going to ask you to be good, or normal, or even decent for her, because I enjoy toying with her, too. You’re welcome.”

I step out of the bathroom and close the door behind me, but not before noticing the wide-eyed look my sisters exchange. Their love for Easton is historied and intense.

“You look cute today,” Mom tells me in the kitchen.

“Thanks.” I show her my teeth. “I flossed.”

“Fancy. Did you also shower?”

“Whoa, calm down. I’m not a fashion influencer.”

She chuckles. “You’re not wearing your jumpsuit.”

“They’re called coveralls— but thank you for the make- believe.” I look down at the white T-shirt I tucked into a bright yellow embroidered skirt. “I’m not going to the garage.”

“Date? It’s been a while.”

“No date. I promised Easton I’ll . . . ” I stop myself.

Mom’s fantastic. The kindest, most patient person I know. She probably wouldn’t mind it if I told her that I’m going to a chess tournament. But she’s using a cane this morning. Her joints look swollen and inflamed. And I haven’t used the c-word in three years. Why break my streak?

“She’s leaving for Boulder in a couple of weeks, so we’re hanging out in New York.”

Her expression darkens. “I just wish you’d reconsider continuing with your schooling— ”

“Mom,” I whine, tone as hurt as I can make it.

After several trials and many errors, I finally discovered the best way to get Mom off my back: to imply that I want to go to college so little that every time she brings up the topic, I’m tragically wounded by her lack of respect for my life choices. It might not be the truth, and I’m not a fan of lying to her, but it’s for her own good. I don’t want anyone in my family to think that they owe me anything, or to feel guilty about my decisions. They shouldn’t feel guilty, because none of this is their fault.

It’s exclusively mine.

“Right. Yes, sorry. Well, it’s exciting that you’re hanging out with Easton.”

“Is it?”

“Of course. You’re being youthful. Doing eighteen- year- old stuff.” She gives me a wistful look. “I’m just happy you took a day off— YALO and all that.”

“That’s YOLO, Mom.”

“You sure?”

I laugh as I pick up my purse and kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll be back tonight. You’re okay alone with the ingrates? I left three meal options in the fridge. Also, Sabrina was a total pain last week, so if McKenzie or another friend invites her, don’t let her go to their place.”

Mom sighs. “You know you’re my child, too, right? And you shouldn’t be stuck co-parenting with me?”

“Hey.” I mock- frown. “Am I not doing a good job? Should I crush more prescription- strength Benadryl into the harpies’ breakfasts?”

I want Mom to chuckle again, but she just shakes her head. “I don’t like it that I’m surprised that you’re taking a day for yourself. Or that Sabrina looks at you when she needs money. This doesn’t— ”

“Mom. Mom.” I smile as earnestly as I can. “I promise you, it’s fine.”

It’s probably not. Fine, I mean.

There’s something supremely un-fine about the fact that my family has the Wikipedia entry on rheumatoid arthritis memorized. That we can tell whether it’ll be a bad day by the lines around Mom’s mouth. That last year I had to explain to Darcy that chronic means forever. Incurable. It won’t ever go away.

Mom has a master’s degree in biology and is a medical writer— a damn good one. She has written health education materials, FDA documents, fancy grant proposals that have won her clients millions of dollars. But she’s a freelancer. When Dad was around, and when she was able to work regularly, it wasn’t much of an issue. Unfortunately, that’s not an option anymore. Some days the pain is so bad that she can barely get out of bed, let alone take over projects, and her impossibly convoluted Social Security disability application has now been denied four times. But at least I’m here. At least I can make things easier for her.