Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“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.”





I can think of several things to say to Mom.

Sadly, they’re all swallowed by my hiccups.

Fortunately, Mom seems to be able to read my mind.

“Yes,” she says calmly, pushing my wet hair back from my eyes. “I know.”

“H-how?”

She smiles. “Darcy told me the moment she found out. But I knew something was up long before then.” She shrugs. “Your hours didn’t make any sense, your stories sounded like what someone who’s never been in a senior center would make up from reading pamphlets. And . . . there is something about you when chess is on your mind. You feel like another person. A much happier person.” Her smile turns rueful. “Mal. They talked about you on Good Morning America. Did you think I wouldn’t have gotten phone calls from every distant cousin of mine about how you should really perm your hair?”