Fantastic. I’m going to be tested.
I look at the list again— all the things I’m supposed to do every single day for the entire year. I think about my plan to phone it in. About Fermina’s questionable romantic choices. About Defne’s expectant, encouraging smile.
I want to head-desk. But I just sigh, and nod at her.
Oz doesn’t talk to me for two weeks— then he does, and I want to kill him.
It’s a Thursday morning. I’m at my desk, staring at the Zen garden, replaying a Fischer– Spassky 1972 game in my head, when he says, “So you’re coming to the Philly Open.”
I startle. Then hiss: “What?”
I’m supremely, virulently, irrationally annoyed that he’s interrupting me this close to a breakthrough. Earlier today, while making Darcy’s oatmeal （Call it what it is: Nutella with oats sprinkled on top, Sabrina muttered while biting into a Granny Smith） I realized that Fischer made a mistake, one that Spassky could have exploited. I’ve been thinking about it ever since, sure that if Black used the knight to—
“I’ll drive,” Oz says. “We leave at six.”
Why is he talking? I am so irritated. “Drive where?”
“To Philly. What’s wrong with you?”
I ignore him, go back to focusing on my replay until my afternoon session with Defne. I’ve started looking forward to my meetings with her— partly because she’s the only human adult I interact with aside from Mom, but also because I genuinely need her to parse chess stuff with me. The more effort I put into learning technical stuff, the harder it hits me how little I know, and how much I need a sounding board. I guess that’s why GMs have coaches and trainers and whatnot.
“Can we go over a play?” I start the second I step into the library, sliding my notebook in her direction. “I’ve been stuck on— ”
“Let’s first talk about Philly Open.”
I stop. “Philly what?”
“Philly Open. The tournament. Your first tournament— this weekend.”
I blink. “I . . .”
She cocks her head. “You?”
Oh. Oh? “I doubt . . . There’s no way . . .” I swallow. “Do you think I’m ready?”
She smiles cheerfully. “Honestly, not at all.”
Lovely.
“But, it’s too good an opportunity. Philly’s close by, and this is a very reputable open tournament.” I only have a vague idea of what that means, which must be why Defne continues. “It attracts elite players, the top ten in the world, but also allows unrated players like you in the rated section. And it’s a knockout tournament— the loser of each match is eliminated, the winner moves forward. So you won’t be stuck with mediocre players just because you’re currently unrated. Provided that you keep winning.” She shrugs. The single feathered earring she’s wearing tinkles happily. “I’ll come with. Worse comes to worst, you just make a fool of yourself.”
Super-duper lovely.
And that’s how I find myself in the passenger seat of Oz’s red Mini Hatch on a Saturday morning. In the back seat, Defne lists tournament rules as they come to mind, her voice too loud for 7:00 a.m. “Touch-move and touch-take, of course— if you touch a piece during your turn, you’ll have to move it. You must record all your moves on the score sheet, in algebraic notations. No talking to your opponent unless it’s your turn and you’re offering a draw. When castling, use only one hand and touch the king first. If there’s a conflict or a disagreement, call one of the tournament directors to solve it for you, don’t ever fight with— ”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Oz barks. I follow his eyes to the foil-wrapped PB&J I just took out of my bag.
“Um— want a piece?”
“Eat that— or anything else— in my car, and I will chop your hands off and boil them in my urine.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Then starve.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Honestly, I think I’m growing on him. “But this is my emotional support sandwich.”
“Then have a mental breakdown.” He turn-signals and swerves to the right so hard, I almost hit my head against the window.
Philly Open is nothing like the NYC charity tournament, and my first clue is that there’s press. Not a ridiculous amount, like the paparazzi on Taylor Swift ca. 2016. But a sizable gaggle of journalists with camerapeople and photographers in tow crowds the hall of the Penn State engineering building, where the tournament will take place. It’s vaguely surreal.
“Was there a homicide or something?” I ask.
Oz gives me his usual you’re too dim to live glance. “They’re covering the tournament.”
“Are they under the misconception that this is the NBA?”
“Mallory, at least pretend to have some respect for the sport that is your livelihood.”
He’s not wrong. “The tournament won’t start for another hour, though.”
“They’re probably just hoping to get a glimpse of— ”
Someone enters the lobby and Oz turns that way— together with everyone else. There’s some commotion as the journalists spring into action. I can’t see much: a tall head of dark hair, then another tall head of dark hair, both peeking through the cameras and the boom mics and heading straight for the elevator. I can’t quite make out what the press is asking, only vague words that make little sense together— in shape, prize, Baudelaire, win, breakup, candidates, World Championship. By the time I’ve pushed to my toes, the elevator doors have swished closed. Journalists murmur their disappointment, then slowly scatter about.
Part of me wonders who that was. Another part, the one that’s been having odd, invasive dreams of dark eyes and large hands wrapped around my queen, is almost certain that—
“Your registration’s all set, guys.” Defne appears to hand us lanyards with name tags. “Let’s go to the hotel, leave our stuff, then come back for the opening ceremony.”
I nod, hoping to sneak in a micronap, when an older man with a mic takes a few steps toward us. “GM Oz Nothomb?” he asks. “I’m Joe Alinsky, from ChessWorld.com. Do you have time for a short interview?”
“Oz is currently number twenty,” Defne whispers in my ear while Oz affably answers questions about his shape, training, hopes, favorite pregame snacks （surprisingly: gummy bears）。
“Twenty?”
“Twenty in the world.”
“Twenty in the world of . . . ?”
“Chess.”
“Ah, right.”
Defne smiles encouragingly. Considering that I lived and breathed chess for nearly a decade, and how much I still remember about the game itself, I know surprisingly little about the nitty-gritty of professional chess, probably because of Mom’s moratorium on rated play. But Defne never makes me feel like I’m a total idiot, even when I ask totally idiotic questions. “The top twenty in the world is important. They’re the ones who manage to make the shift from competitive chess to pros.”
“Are those not the same?”
“Oh, no. Anyone can be a competitive player, but pros make a living from chess. They support themselves through cash prizes, sponsorships, endorsements from companies.”