“I don’t really . . .”
She follows my gaze to her badge. “I’m not here for— I’m just an intern.”
“Oh.” I relax.
“Well, for now. I hope one day I’ll get to cover chess for the BBC. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, your play at this tournament was amazing. I’m already a fan! Between us, the BBC’s current chess correspondent is a boring old-school guy who only writes about the same three dudes, but I’m going to try to pitch my first article about you. Well, not you you, but your chess style. It’s so engaging and entertaining!”
I’m bewildered by her enthusiasm. With no clue how to reply, I’m almost relieved when Russel interrupts us and asks for a moment alone. “So sorry about earlier.” He hands me an envelope. “Here is the semifinalist prize.”
I open it, expecting . . . I’m not sure. A brochure on how to effectively use the Sicilian Defense. A coupon for two hours of counseling with a sports psychologist. Lilo & Stitch stickers.
Not a check. For ten thousand dollars.
It’s clearly a mistake. And yet my first greedy, ugly instinct is to pocket it. Conceal it. Abscond with it.
I want this money. Oh, the things I could do with it. I could be zero months behind with our mortgage. Set up a savings account. Pay for my auto-mechanic certifications. Say yes to Darcy and Sabrina next time they ask for whatever trivial crap they’ve fallen in covet with. Roller skates. Slime. Piano lessons. A cotton-top tamarin plushie.
God, how I want this money. So much so, I need to get rid of it. Immediately.
“I have to tell you something,” I say to Defne. She’s washing her hands in the unsurprisingly deserted ladies’ restroom. “I— They gave me a check. By mistake, I think. Ten thousand.”
“It’s the semifinalist prize.” She briefly struggles with the soap dispenser. “Didn’t you see the info on the tournament website?”
There is a tournament website? “I . . .” I blink. Ten. Thousand. Dollars. Oh God. But— I can’t. It should go to her. “Here.” I hold the check out. “You sponsored me. You have it.”
“Nuh-uh. You earned it. Though you might have to pay taxes on it. Check with your accountant.”
My accountant. Right. The one currently on vacation in Seychelles with my hedge fund manager.
“I’ll go get the car so we can head home, but Mal.” She gives me a loaded look. “The prize for the World Championship is two million dollars. The Challengers, a hundred thousand. Just making sure you know, since you hate tournament websites.” She leaves with a wink, and I stare down at my check for a long time.
Plan Fake Your Way Through Chess is going to need some serious reworking.
Defne orders me to stay home on Monday, to sleep off my “chess hangover” and the “tournament crud.” It’s a rare free day without my sisters underfoot, and when I go to bed on Sunday night, I’m fully committed to drooling on my pillow till midmorning, then going to the Krispy Kreme drive-through in my PJs to purchase my weight in donuts, then eating 90 percent of them with Mom while we watch Hoarders on YouTube.
I fail miserably.
For reasons that may have to do with the check hidden in the inside pocket of my hobo bag, I’m up at six thirty, scrolling down ChessWorld.com, browsing through every game Malte Koch has ever played.
There are a lot, and he’s a damn good player.
But, also: he’s not without exploitable weaknesses. I’m half comatose, eyes full of sleep boogers, and yet I’m finding blunders in his games.
Also, also: I have a new archenemy. I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. My life mission is to repeat the words back to him while I checkmate his useless, bloated king.
“Pleeeease, drive us to school!” Darcy asks after giving me her back to fart in my direction— her new favorite morning ritual. In the car she talks my ear off: male seahorses carry the offspring, jellyfish are immortal, pigs’ orgasms last thirty minutes （mental note: install parental control software）。 Sabrina sits quietly, headphones in her ears, head bent to her phone. I try to remember whether she has said anything this morning. Then I try to remember the last time I’ve had a conversation with her.
Mmm.
“Hey,” I tell her at drop-off, “you get out an hour before Darcy, right?”
“Yeah.” She sounds defensive.
“I’ll come get you early, then.”
“Why?” Now she sounds defensive and dubious.
“We can do something together.”
“Like what?” The defensiveness is still there, but laced with something else. Hope, and maybe a bit of excitement. “We could get coffee at that place on the corner.”
“Okay. Decaf, though,” I add.
She frowns. “Why?”
“You’re too young for caffeine.” The frown deepens. I’m losing her. “I can help you with your homework,” I offer, trying to revive her enthusiasm.
“I drink coffee all the time. And I’ve been doing my homework alone for years. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not nine anymore, Mal.” She rolls her eyes, and I know I’ve lost her. “I’ll just hang out outside school with the other derby girls so you don’t have to do two trips.” She slips out of the car without saying goodbye, and I seethe about the youths till I get to the credit union.
I’d love to deposit the check to the family account, but I can’t think of a believable excuse that won’t involve me mentioning chess. Mom, I won the Powerball. I microwaved Darcy’s oatmeal for too long and it turned into a diamond. I have a secret writing career in furry erotica. Yeah. No.
I pay outstanding bills, deposit what’s left in my account, and run errands that would usually fall on Mom. And if in the grocery line, at the recycling center, by the library’s return desk, while I wait for Mom to finish working to have lunch with her— if whenever I have ten minutes to myself I spend them analyzing Koch’s games on my phone, well . . .
I shouldn’t. Boundaries and all that. Chess is just a job, and today I’m off. I made a promise to myself.
But it’s okay, a voice rebuts. You’re thinking of prize money. You’re not falling in love with chess again. You’re firmly out of love.
Yeah. Exactly. Precisely. That.
I pick up my sisters midafternoon and I’m aggressively thrown into the Grade 7 Cinematic Universe, which is more riveting than a Brazilian soap opera.
“。 . . so Jimmy was like, ‘Pepto pink makes me throw up,’ and Tina was like, ‘My shirt is Pepto pink,’ and Jimmy was like, ‘No, your shirt’s a good pink,’ and Tina googled Pepto pink and it was the same color as her shirt, and Jimmy was like, ‘What do you want me to say?’ and Tina was like, ‘Admit that you hate my shirt.’ ”
“And what did Jimmy say?” I ask, pulling up our driveway, genuinely entertained.
“He was all, like— ”
“There’s a guy on the porch,” Sabrina interrupts us.
“Probably the mailman,” I say distractedly. “What did Jimmy do?”
“That’s not the mailman,” Sabrina says. “I mean, I wish.”