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.
So maybe, just maybe, it will be. Fine, I mean.
“Rest, okay?” I cup her face. There are about seven gray circles under her eyes. “Go back to bed. The creatures will entertain themselves.”
When I let myself out. I can hear Sabrina and Darcy kvetching about their oatmeals in the kitchen. I make a mental note to stock up on nail polish remover, and when I spot Easton’s car rounding the corner, I wave at her and jog up to the street.
And that, I guess, is the beginning of the rest of my life.
“It’s a Swiss-system tournament. Kind of. Not really, though.”
Easton gathers our team around her, like she’s Tony Stark briefing the Avengers, but instead of quippy one-liners she hands out Paterson Chess Club pins. There must be three hundred people on the second floor of the Fulton Stall Market, and I am the only one who didn’t get the business casual memo.
Oops.
“Each one of us is going to play four matches,” she continues. “Because it’s for charity, and because the tournament is open to amateurs, instead of using FIDE ratings, players are going to be matched according to self-reported ability.”
FIDE, the World Chess Federation （Why isn’t the acronym WCF? Not sure, but I suspect the French language is involved） has a complicated system to determine players’ skill levels and rank them accordingly. I knew all about it when I was seven, chess obsessed, and wanted to grow up to be a mermaid Grandmaster. By now, though, I’ve forgotten most bureaucratic stuff, probably to make room for more useful information— like the best way to crimp a wire terminal, or the plot of the first three seasons of How to Get Away with Murder. All I remember is that to get a rating one needs to sign up for FIDE-sponsored tournaments. Which, of course, I haven’t done in ages— because I haven’t played in ages.
Four years, five months, and two weeks, and no, I will not stoop to counting the days.
“So we have to self-report our level of skill?” Zach asks. He’s a Montclair freshman who joined the Paterson Chess Club after I left and has some ambitions of going pro. I’ve met him once at Oscar’s place and I’m not a fan, for reasons that include his penchant for derailing conversations with unrelated mentions of his FIDE rating （2,546）， his ability to carry out hour-long monologues on his FIDE rating （2,546）， and his lack of understanding that I’m not interested in going out with him, no matter his FIDE rating （2,546）。