“Do you think I can win the Challengers?” I ask her, trembling a little at the prospect of the answer.
She takes my other hand, and I feel held. I feel comforted. I feel stronger. “Mallory. I think you can win the World Championship.”
A sedan picks us up from the Las Vegas airport and brings us to the Westgate. In the elevator, a businesslike FIDE employee tells me about the press conference room, the VIP lounges, and a daily meal expense allowance that thoroughly humiliates the Greenleaf monthly grocery budget. There is a black embossed letter on my pillow: an invitation for an opening gala— Nevada governor in attendance. The US ambassador to Azerbaijan, too, since he’s scheduled to make the ceremonial opening move.
That’s how big of a deal the Challengers is. So big, I have to wonder if the current world champion is present. Then promptly slap myself for it.
Since thinking about Nolan has only been a source of problems.
“Are you sure there isn’t a dress code?” I ask Defne across our neighboring balconies. I wish Darcy and Sabrina were here. Mom, too, would love making fun of the ridiculous extravagance. But they’re back home, nursing the lie I’ve left them with （“visiting Easton in Boulder”）。 Mom’s relieved that I get to hang out with her again. Sabrina hates me because I am “more self-centered than a dartboard.” Darcy is googling me hard enough to make Silicon Valley stocks rise two hundred points.
And I’m here alone. Well— almost.
“No dress code,” Defne says. “Though it’ll probably be a blazer-over- button-down parade. Lots of grays.”
“Should I buy a black pencil skirt?”
“If you want. But I’d miss seeing you onstage in your primary colors crop top.”
I grin, feeling a sudden surge of affection. “Lucky for you, I packed it.”
For the gala, I put on a sheath dress Easton bought me at Goodwill for seven dollars. Because my life is a shit McMuffin, and because I’ve given up on any attempt not to eat it, I’m not surprised when the first person I meet is Koch.
“Well, well, well,” he says, like a poorly written Austin Powers villain. “Look what Sawyer’s dick and FIDE’s pity toward the less fortunate dragged in.”
“Is it very expensive, Malte?” I ask, plucking a chocolatecovered strawberry from a tray.
“What?”
“The vintage sexism you wear all the time.”
His eyes narrow and he steps closer. “You don’t belong here, Greenleaf. You’re the only player who didn’t earn her place in the Challengers. You’re nobody.”
I want to push him away. I want to punch him. I want to stuff the strawberry in his nose. But the room is full of press. I spot PBS cameras, cable TV mics. ChessWorld.com is going to milk the shit out of this event, probably live stream the players plucking their eyebrows. There is no margin of error.
So I smile sweetly. “And yet, the last time you and this nobody played, this nobody won. Food for thought, huh?”
I whirl around and look for an alcohol-free drink, cherishing the image of Koch’s eyebrow twitching. I can’t find Defne, or anyone else I know, but I’ll get acquainted with the other players soon enough: the tournament is round robin, one game per day. A lively piano song plays, and I drift to the table, eager to stuff my face, where someone hugs me from behind.
“Hiiiii!”
“Tanu!”
“This dress,” she tells me, looking at the bright green embroidery. “Daddy likey.”
“Tanu, we’ve been over this.” Behind her, Emil shakes his head and leans in to hug me. “I cannot take her anywhere, Greenleaf. I don’t know why I persevere.”
“Guys, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“School, shmool.” Tanu waves her hand. “We live freely. We’re not chained by the obligations of modern mundanity.”
“Winter break,” Emil explains.
“Ah.”
“We’re here to study. For when Nolan preps for the World Championship.”
“Oh. Is Nolan here?”
“Mal, we’d love to help you, too,” Tanu says. Not answering me.
“Help me?”
“Most players are here with a team of seconds. You only have Defne, right?”
Seconds are players’ assistants who help them train and debrief, analyze old games, come up with new attack and defensive strategies. “Defne, yeah. And . . .” And Nolan. Nolan’s texts. Which seem to answer my questions before I ask them. Not that I’ll admit it. “Oz Nothomb said he’d be available to talk strategy.”
“Then let us help. We could meet in the mornings. Go over your opponent’s weaknesses and strengths. Some openings. Mal, you’re so talented, and this stuff— it could make a difference.”
“Did Nolan put you up to this?”
They exchange a short look. “Listen,” Emil says, “Nolan might want you to win, but so do we.” He pouts like a child. “Did that poutine we shared in Toronto mean nothing to you?”
And that’s how I find myself walking into an IHOP with Defne at seven the following morning. Tanu and Emil are already sharing a custard-filled French toast, and if Defne needs an introduction . . . she doesn’t. She hugs them tight and asks Tanu how Stanford is treating her, when she got bangs, and what about her cat? I’m considering demanding a drawn schematic of how everyone knows everyone else when Emil whips out a board and says, eyes NFL-coach sharp: “Thagard-Vork. Danish. Thirty-six. Excellent positional player, though well past his prime. He loves opening with d4 and c4.”
“But sometimes he does some weird queen stuff, e4, c5, qh5. You gotta see this, Mal. It’s nuts.”
It is nuts. And three hours later, when he does some weird queen stuff and I know exactly how to answer, it’s even more nuts.
My name, and the US flag next to it, are everywhere. Not taped pieces of paper, but embossed on the side of the table, the panels, the chair, like someone spent a whole lot of money at Kinko’s. There are five tables on the stage and five hundred deadly silent people in the audience. Live-stream screens are everywhere, and ominous graphics run during idle moments.
10 players.
9 days.
45 matches.
1 winner.
Zum zum zuuuum.
The press crowds every corner, but in a respectful, distanced way, as though the players are not to be disturbed. I glance at the monitor while Thagard-Vork eyes my knight. All the players look the same, little soldiers in neutral colors frowning down at little boards in neutral colors. Except for the girl at the fourth table, who sticks out like a sore thumb with my white-blond hair and teal sweater.
I smile, close my eyes, and win without ever being in jeopardy. It takes me eighteen moves.
“She was a million miles ahead of me,” Thagard-Vork says at the post-game analysis press conference. My first interview. I tried to skip, but one of the directors showed me his fancy badge and said, “It’s mandatory.” “When she sacrificed her knight . . .” He shakes his head, looking at the replay screen. I notice a weird cowlick on my forehead. “She was a million miles ahead,” he repeats.
“It was a challenging game,” I lie to the host.