“— chess drama is usually boring, but this one might actually be juicy. Could you explain to our audience what’s going on in the World Championship?”
“Here is the deal, Mark: out of the ten people who make it into the Challengers tournament, nine are selected because of ratings, or because they win qualification tournaments. The tenth—the wild card— is chosen by FIDE. It’s usually a way to include a top-ten player who for some reason didn’t make it in. This year, everyone thought that the wildcard would be Antonov. Or Zemaitis. Or Panya, though he’s due to have a baby in February, when the championship will be on, and probably would have declined. Instead, last week the committee selected a low-rated, inexperienced player. Now, to be fair, Greenleaf is a talented player with great promise. But she’s only played professionally for a couple of months, and is still unproven. Her performance at the Olympics was remarkable, but choosing her for the Challengers is akin to asking a third grader to play an NFL game. The tournament is happening the week after Thanksgiving in Las Vegas, and many doubt that she can hold her own against other stratospheric players.”
“Some say she was chosen because she’s a woman?”
“There has been lots of conversation over the lack of female representation in professional chess, and Greenleaf ’s invitation could be a response to that. But there are many women with higher rankings and more
experience who earned that spot. Which had some people speculating that it’s not because she is a woman, but because she’s the woman of a particular chess player.”
“Juicy!”
“Yup. Nolan Sawyer— You’ve heard of Sawyer, right?” “Of course.”
“He’s chess royalty, a bona fide rock star. So influential in the sport, he might have pressured FIDE into choosing a specific player for the Challengers. And he has been photographed with Greenleaf in positions that are . . .”
“I see what you mean.”
“I bet you do! So people are wondering if— ”
“You should stop torturing yourself, Mal.”
I look up from my iMac to find Defne leaning against the doorframe, silver septum ring gleaming as she gives me a worried look.
“And if you decide to continue torturing yourself, could you use your headphones?” Oz glares at me from his desk. “Some of us are not unlearned prodigies mistakenly assumed to be Nolan Sawyer’s new concubine. Some of us have to actually practice chess.”
“I just . . .” I massage my temple. “Why’s the Today show talking about chess? Shouldn’t they cover important stuff? Fracking, or the sustainable terraforming of Mars, or Malala’s book club?”
Oz blinks. “Have you literally ever watched cable television?” I groan and head- desk.
I know I’m being Sabrina-level sullen, but I earned the right, because November has been sucking: everyone thinks I’m some Nolan groupie who slept her way into chess. Easton loves Colorado too much to come home for Thanksgiving— a scary ellipsis at the end of the dangling sentence that’s our friendship. And someone I went to middle school with texted to ask if I’m “really a professional softball player now, pregnant with a Dutch underwear model’s triplets?” A game of telephone, but still a clear sign that my name’s going around too much, and that Mom or Sabrina might come across my secret career any day.
So, yeah. Sullen is now my defining personality trait. I’m more sulk than woman, ready to brood with reckless abandon at a moment’s notice.
“I should have refused the invitation,” I mumble against the polished wood.
“The prize is one hundred thousand dollars,” Oz reminds me acidly. “We’ve been over the tax withholdings and the net earnings and the amounts of mortgage payments you’ll be able to afford when you were moping all over yourself last week. I did not whip out the calculator app for you to step back now.”
“It’s just . . . mortifying. People are saying on national television that I’m too weak to survive the winter.”
“People have said on the same national television that the California wildfires were started by space lasers.” Oz rolls his eyes. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t want to provide scaffolding for your delicate nerves, but as I mentioned before, I’d rather die impaled by a harpoon while farming beets than engage with the fungus of human emotions— ”
“Oz,” Defne interrupts, “could you leave us for a few minutes?” “What?”
“Mallory and I need some privacy. To talk about mushrooms and such.” “But all my stuff is here. What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Go farm beets? Find a harpoon? Come back in half an hour. Chop chop.”
Defne’s my boss, but she’s never felt like my boss so much as she does now, rounding my desk with a serious expression, sitting on it with an agile hop, a cloud of merrily jingling earrings and citrus and tobacco. She stares like we’re about to have a solemn talk, and it occurs to me that the misery of the past few days could be exponentially more pukeworthy if I were to be fired.
Crap.
“I know I’ve been whining, but I promise— ” “They’re right, Mal.”
“Who is right?”
“FIDE did choose you because you are a woman.” She pauses, letting her words land. “The Nolan thing is bullshit, of course. He doesn’t have nearly as much sway on FIDE, and FIDE must have made the decision before those pics came out. I don’t know what’s happening between you two— ”
“Nothing!”
It’s true enough. I haven’t seen Nolan since I ran out of his apartment three weeks ago in an internet- induced panic, though he did get my number (from Emil, I assume) because he’s been texting me. Initially stuff like Ran away again, did you? and Mallory. Are you okay? and I just want to talk to you. Then, a few days later, while I was watering Darcy’s chia porcupine, Cormenzana always opens with the Ruy Lopez. It was followed by many similar messages, with little advice (Kotov vs. Pachman, 1950) and big (Make sure you hydrate).
I don’t reply. I never reply, because . . . Because I don’t want to.
Because we’re not friends.
Because I woke up on his couch and my first instinct was to burrow into him. A horror story in fifteen words.
I don’t reply, but I do read. And in between bouts of sulking, I do what he recommends, because it’s irritatingly good advice. I tell myself that he’s helping me only because he hates Koch, but I don’t bother trying to believe it.
It’s not like I’m going to win the Challengers anyway. After all, they only chose me because . . .
“Did you say FIDE did choose me because I’m a woman?”
Defne nods. Then amends, “Not only. But it played a big role.” “Why? Tons of women play.”
“What do you know about women in chess?”
“Not much.” I remember Koch’s sneer in Philly. I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. “Just that there are separate tournaments, only for women.”
“Bigger than that— there are separate leagues, separate rankings. It’s a controversial topic: some say these leagues shouldn’t exist, because they hold women back and imply that they cannot hold their own against male players. Others disagree, and want to preserve a space in which we’re not harassed or made to feel like we’re less.”
“What do you think?”
She sighs. “I think it’s damned if you do, damned if you don’t. There’s no winning here, and that’s part of why I stopped playing competitively and chose to focus on . . . still chess, but the part of it that doesn’t make me want to stab a down pillow with a cutlery knife. That stuff’s expensive.”
I’m no stranger to overt and covert s*xism— I used to work in a garage, for Bob— and dudes with moronic takes have been a constant in my life, so
—
Except that, no. They haven’t.
“I don’t remember it being like that when I played as a kid,” I tell Defne. “Maybe because I was unrated, or my dad shielded me from it, but chess wasn’t always a male- dominated sport.”
She nods. “When you were young, everyone was fascinated with chess and no one really commented on gender, right?”
“Yes.”
“You probably narrowly missed the interesting part. When kids grow up, start looking up to the greats, and find out that Kasparov, their fave, once said that no woman could ever sustain a prolonged battle.”
I stiffen. “Are you serious?”
“Once, after a tournament, I went to dinner with other players. Someone pulled up a YouTube video— an old interview of Fischer saying that women are stupid and bad at chess. Everyone thought it was hilarious.” Defne looks down at her shoes, uncharacteristically subdued. “I was seventeen. And a GM. And the only woman at the table.”
“I— Screw that, Defne.” I stand, livid. She was younger than I am now. Alone with dickheads. “Fischer was a raging antisemite anyway. He doesn’t get to— ”
“The hurtful part wasn’t Fischer, but the guys in my age group who thought that wearing a Female chess player is an oxymoron shirt might be a fun joke. The hurtful part was FIDE not doing anything about it. And I’m there, going to tournaments, losing more and more, often to these chess bros who joke about how female brains are too folded to really comprehend king safety, and I start wondering if they’re right. Female GMs are what, one percent? That’s nothing. Maybe we really are less. Maybe we do need our special league.”
“Do you . . .” I blink at her, betrayed. “Do you really think that?”
“I did. For a while. And the more I did, the more I lost. I took a chess break, actually. Went to college, got my MBA— did you know I have an MBA? Now you do, please don’t tell anyone, it’s my most shameful secret. Anyway, I thought I was done with chess. Then, one day, I read about a study.
“Some scientist in Europe took a bunch of women and had them play online chess against male opponents in their same rating bracket. When the female players didn’t know the gender of their opponent, they won fifty percent of the games. When the female players were led to believe that their opponent was a woman, they won fifty percent of the games. When they were told that they were playing against men, their performance dropped. But in truth, their opponents were always the same.” She shrugs. Her earrings jingle again, despondent. “If you’re a woman, this system tears you down. Makes you doubt yourself and drop out of the chess club to leave room for the ones who are actually talented. Oz, Emil, Nolan . . . even the good ones, they don’t know how it feels. They don’t know what it’s like, being told that you’re inherently destined to be second best.” Suddenly, Defne’s expression shifts into an impish smile. “But it’s not true. And once we know it, they cannot take it away from us. The day after I read about the study, I went to get this.” She slips her arm out of the sleeve of her cardigan. The chessboard tattoo curves against her biceps.
“What is it?”
“Moscow, 2002. The final position of the game Judith Polgar won against Garry Kasparov. Despite that pesky thing he once referred to as her
‘imperfect feminine psyche.’ ”
I laugh. I laugh, and I don’t stop for a good minute. “This is— this is
amazing.”
“I know.” Defne laughs, too. Then her face grows serious, and she takes my hand. “Mallory, I grew up in this world, and I know how these assholes think. There has been a reckoning. The old farts at FIDE realize that they can’t keep women out of chess, and they saw you as an opportunity. An outsider who made a big splash at high- profile events. Unlike with other women who’ve been around for years, they can justify their choice by saying that your score is only low because you’re new— but that you’re also promising enough to invite. They can use you to virtuesignal. But I know them. I know that they also think that you can’t be that good. That your victories were probably a fluke, and that you won’t win the Challengers.”
Something tightens low in my gut. Isn’t it the same thing I’ve been telling myself for weeks? That I cannot compete. That I’m unprepared. That I’m not as good. I’m not going to win has been the default status in my brain. Because . . . I’m inexperienced. Because I don’t want it or deserve it. Because I’m a woman?
Do you know how incredible you are? Nolan asked me in Toronto. I told him yes, while still believing deep down that I wasn’t anything special after all. Which one is it, then?
I look Defne in the eye. She has always encouraged me. Always been honest. No relentless, toxic positivity with her.
“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.”
