“I’m not ruining . . .” I hug myself. My goose bumps are fat little hills on my arms. “I’m not.”
“She acts as your trainer and manager. Which means that FIDE has been hounding her for confirmation that you will attend.”
“Well, I’m done with chess and everyone involved in it. She can tell them that I won’t.”
“Oh, yes, sure. She’ll just tell them that. ‘Sorry, guys, Mal had a domestic with her boytoy and is outta here.’ It won’t in any way impact her credibility or her standing in the chess community, the fact that the player she vouched for disappeared from the face of the earth. That the player she bent over backward to get into tournaments turned out to be the selfish, flaky— ”
“Wait, what? She didn’t. I only ever participated in open tournaments.”
He scoffs. “Open doesn’t mean walk-ins welcome. There’s still a selection process, and people need to prove their credentials— of which you had none. Defne made sure you could play in Philly and Nashville. She paid for you to go there, and let you keep one hundred percent of your earnings. And now FIDE is considering unaccrediting Zugzwang, because Defne’s star player is refusing to be in the World Championship, because . . .” He gives me a withering look. “Why?”
Anger bubbles up. “Defne lied to me.”
“Ah, yes.” He rolls his eyes. “How, precisely?”
“She didn’t tell me Nolan gave her the money.”
“Even though you asked. Despicable of her.”
“I didn’t ask, but— ”
“Of course you didn’t. You were told that the money came from donors, did not ask follow-up questions, and now you’re high-horsing her into the ground.”
I glare. “Oz— why are you even here? How do you know all this stuff? Why would Defne tell you . . .” He’s looking at me like I’m the dimmest bulb in the cookie jar. And I am. “Wait. You and Defne aren’t . . . ?”
He ignores me. “Do you think chess clubs are a lucrative enterprise? That Defne makes bank? Rethink that. She bought Zugzwang because she wanted to create an environment in which everyone felt welcome in chess. To prevent others from feeling the way she had. And she has to rely on donors. Sawyer has been one of those donors for years, and here’s what happened: yes, he gave her the funds to track you down and offer you the job. But when you refused the fellowship, Defne started looking into other possible players to sponsor. Because Sawyer’s donation was just that— a gift with no strings attached.”
I swallow. “He was involved in me losing my job. I’m sure of it.” Almost.
“Maybe.” Oz shrugs. “I wouldn’t put it past him. But Defne? She never wanted anything from you except to see you succeed. Which is the reason she’s not here pointing out how much of a whiny little bitch you’re being, or suing you for breach of contract. But I have no such qualms, Mal. I don’t care if you come back to read Love in the Time of Cholera while you should be studying Modern Chess Openings. You owe it to Defne to see this year through. And to have a conversation with her about the World Championship. To help her deal with FIDE without losing face.”
He takes a step back. His perennial belligerent air deflates a little, and for once he seems more open than irritated. “Listen. I try hard not to learn things about the people around me, but . . . I’ve heard about your father. I know you take care of your family. I know you’re dealing with stuff like”— his chin points at my yard— “that rusty trampoline. But if you unzip your asshole and pry your head out of it, you might realize that there’s more to life than feeling sorry for yourself.” He nods once and then turns around, hopping gracefully down the slippery porch steps.
I watch him walk away, a confused mix of anger that feels a lot like guilt swirling through me. I didn’t ask Defne to train me. I didn’t ask Nolan to sponsor me. All I ever asked was for Dad to not cheat on Mom in front of me, for him not to die, for Mom not to get sick, for my life to be normal. How dare Oz, from his Alps of privilege, treat me like I am the spoiled little girl?
“You don’t know me,” I yell after him. A cliché— that’s who I am.
“And I don’t particularly care to.” He opens the driver’s door of his Mini. “Not if this is who you are.”
When I slump against the inside of the door, the house feels impossibly hot. I take a deep breath and order myself to calm down.
It’s irrelevant, what Oz thinks of me, because he and chess are out of my life. Maybe I’ll call Defne at some point. Let her know that I’m out for good. But two nights ago I dreamed that every single person I met in the past six months was pointing at me and laughing: I’d been moving the rook across diagonals, thinking it was a bishop. No one corrected me, not even Defne. She was in the first row, sniggering with Nolan.
So, yeah. Not ready to reach out.
I press my palms into my eyes and go back into the kitchen to finish making dinner. I stop at the entrance, and no one notices me.
“— kind of gross,” Darcy is saying, peeking at the Crock-Pot. “Like . . . ew?”
“Super unhealthy, with all that oil,” Sabrina points out. “Maybe she needs a cooking class for her birthday, Mom.”
“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.”