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Chapter no 5

Check & Mate

โ€ŒI am surrounded. Under siege. Relentlessly attacked from all sides.โ€Œ

Honda Civic leaking coolant? On top of me.

Mortgage letter from the credit union? In my backpack. Sabrinaโ€™s text reminding me that her derby fees are due on Friday and if I donโ€™t pay them, her life will be in shambles? On my phone.

Bobโ€™s supervillain presence, raging because I refused to push an early brake job on a high school junior? Hovering all over the garage.

Easton, whining at me nonstop like Iโ€™m her local congressman?

Somewhere next to the Civic.

I successfully avoided her for three days. Now itโ€™s Wednesday, sheโ€™s shown up to the garage, and I have nowhere to retreat. Except under a steady stream of coolant.

โ€œYouโ€™re acting like a total weirdo,โ€ she says for the twentieth time. โ€œWinning against Sawyer and thenย running away? Refusingย moneyย to play chess?โ€

โ€œListen,โ€ I say, and then stop. Partly because the leaking has intensified. Partly because I exhausted my explanations ten minutes ago.ย โ€œI need a stable, long-term job that allows me to pick up extra shifts when money gets tight. I need it to be here in Paterson in case something happens to Mom and my sisters need me. I have no interest in getting sucked back into

chess.โ€ย Thereโ€™s a limited number of ways I can paraphrase these three simple concepts. โ€œYouโ€™re leaving next Wednesday, right?โ€

She ignores me. โ€œPeople areย talkingย about your game. Theyโ€™re analyzing it onย ChessWorld.com. Theyโ€™re using words likeย masterpiece, Mal. Zach keeps sending me links!โ€

I patch the radiator and roll from under the Civic, take in Eastonโ€™s University of Colorado crop top, and scrunch my nose. Seems a bit premature. โ€œDid Zach ever end up playing against Lal?โ€

โ€œNowย youโ€™re interested in the tournament?โ€ She rolls her eyes. โ€œNo. But thatโ€™s probably for the best, since he lost every single game.โ€ I smile my schadenfreude, but she wags her finger at me. โ€œHeyโ€” at least Zach didnโ€™t leave me without a player because he freaked out when Nolan Sawyer winked at him.โ€

I huff. โ€œFirst of all, I seriously doubt Nolan Sawyer has ever winked, will ever wink, or even knows the meaning of the wordย wink.โ€ I stand, wiping my hands on the butt of my coveralls. Sawyerโ€™s serious, intense expression is not something Iโ€™ve been letting myself think about. Okay,ย maybeย I dreamed of him staring at me from across a chessboard that spontaneously burst into flames. Of him pushing the chess clock at me, smiling faintly, and saying with his deep voice, โ€œDid you know that Iโ€™m a Gen Z s*x symbol?โ€ Of him tipping me over like people do with their kings when they resign, and then stubbornly holding out a hand for me, eager to help me up. Okay,ย maybeย in the past week Iโ€™ve had three separate Nolan Sawyer dreams. So what? Sue me. Send the sleep police. โ€œSecondly, I had an emergency.โ€

โ€œForgot to turn on the Crock-Pot, did you?โ€

โ€œSomething like that. Hey, I want to come to the airport when youโ€” โ€ Bobโ€™s voice rises in the main garage, and I frown. โ€œWait here a sec,โ€ I say, running to check on the too-familiar noise.

My uncle used to co-own the garage with Bob, and I was working here during summers since well before he should have agreed to have me underfoot. Iโ€™ve always been intuitive about fixing stuffโ€” figuring out how the different pieces are connected in a larger system, visualizing how they

work together as building blocks of a whole, calculating how changing one could affect the others.ย So much like chess, Dad used to say, and I donโ€™t know if he was right, but Uncle Jack was happy to have me around. Untilย heย wasnโ€™t around anymore: the week after I graduated and began working for him full- time, he made the unfortunate decision to sell his share to Bob and move to the Pacific Northwest โ€œfor the Dungeness crab.โ€ As a consequence, I now have the pleasure of answering only to Bob.

Lucky me.

I find him standing in front of a woman I donโ€™t recognize, flanked by his other two mechanics, hands on his hips. They all look angry.

Pissed, even.

โ€œโ€” for an oil change, and I was told that it would cost around fifty bucks, not two hundredโ€” โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s because of the engine flush.โ€ โ€œWhatโ€™s an engine flush?โ€

โ€œSomething cars need, lady. Maybe we forgot to tell you when you brought yours over. Who did you talk to?โ€

โ€œA girl. Blond, a little taller than meโ€” โ€

โ€œI did the intake.โ€ I smile at the client and step inside, ignoring Bobโ€™s glare. โ€œIs there a problem?โ€

She scowls. โ€œYou didnโ€™t mention that my car would need an engine . . . whatever. I-I canโ€™t afford this.โ€

I glance at the cars around the shop, trying to place her. โ€œItโ€™s a 2019 Jetta sedan, right?โ€

โ€œYeah.โ€

โ€œYou wonโ€™t need an engine flush.โ€ I smile reassuringly. She looks distraught and rattled over moneyโ€” something I can relate to. โ€œThe carโ€™s well under fifty thousand miles.โ€

โ€œSo the engine flush wasย notย necessary.โ€

โ€œNot at all. Iโ€™m sure itโ€™s a mistake, and . . .โ€ I trail off as I realize what she said.ย Was. โ€œExcuse me, do you mean that the engine flush hasย alreadyย been done?โ€

She turns to Bob, steely. โ€œIโ€™m not paying for a job that evenย your own mechanicย says wasnโ€™t needed. And I wonโ€™t be using this garage again. But nice try.โ€

It takes her less than a minute to settle the fifty- dollar bill. The tension in the garage is thick and ugly, and I stand by the counter, feeling painfully awkward, until the Jetta has driven off. Then I turn to Bob.

Surprise surprise, heโ€™s fuming.

โ€œIโ€™m sorry,โ€ I say, a mix of contrite, defensive, and gloating. Working with Bob clearly arouses complex, multilayered emotions within me. โ€œI didnโ€™t know youโ€™d already done the flush or I wouldnโ€™t have told her it wasnโ€™t necessary. She seemed like she didnโ€™t have the money forโ€” โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re fired,โ€ he says without looking at me, still fiddling with the credit card transaction.

Iโ€™m not sure I heard him right. โ€œWhat?โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re fired. Iโ€™ll pay you what I owe you, but I donโ€™t want you back.โ€ I blink at him. โ€œWhat are youโ€” โ€

โ€œI amย sick of you,โ€ he yells, turning to me and coming forward. I take two steps back. Bobโ€™s not tall and heโ€™s not large, but heโ€™sย mean. โ€œYouย alwaysย do this.โ€

I shake my head, glancing at the other mechanics, hoping theyโ€™ll intervene. They just look at us stone- faced, and Iโ€”

I canโ€™t lose this job. Iย canโ€™t. I have a letter in my purse and a text in my phone, and apparently guinea pigs get depressed if theyโ€™re not living in damn pairs. โ€œListen, Iโ€™m sorry. But Iโ€™ve been working here for over a year, and my uncle wouldnโ€™tโ€” โ€

โ€œYour uncle ainโ€™t here anymore, and Iโ€™m done with you. Not only do you never upsell, but you also donโ€™t letย meย do it? Get your stuff.โ€

โ€œBut thatโ€™s not my job! My job is to fix peopleโ€™s cars, not sell them stuff they donโ€™t need.โ€

โ€œAinโ€™t your job anymore.โ€

โ€œSheโ€™s right, you canโ€™t fire her like that.โ€ I turn around. Easton is standing behind me with her bestย I will now correct your grammarย face.

โ€œThere are regulations in place that protect employees from unjust terminationโ€” โ€

โ€œLuckily, Blondie here was never on the books to begin with.โ€

That shuts Easton up. And the realization that Bob can do anything he wants with meโ€” that shutsย meย up, too.

โ€œGet your stuff and leave,โ€ he says one last time, rude and obnoxious and cruel as always. I canโ€™t do anything about it. Iโ€™m completely, utterly powerless, and I have to clench my fists to stop myself from clawing his face. I have to force myself to walk away, or Iโ€™ll tear him apart.

โ€œAnd Mallory?โ€

I stop, but donโ€™t turn around.

โ€œIโ€™ll be deducting the cost of the engine flush from what I owe you.โ€

 

 

STRICTLY SPEAKING, I HAVE NEVER BEEN ENGULFED BY A MUD-slide and had

my seizing body dragged down the jagged, rocky face of a mountain to be summarily deposited at its foothills and fed to the wild boars. However, I can imagine that if I were to find myself in a similar scenario, it would be no more painful than the week that comes after I get fired.

There are several reasons. For one, I donโ€™t want to worry Mom or my sisters, which means not telling them that Bob fired me, which means finding a place to hide during the day while I search for another job. Not easy, considering that itโ€™s still August in New Jersey, and that free places with AC and Wi-Fi are not common enough in the year of our Lord 2023. I find myself rediscovering the Paterson Public Library: itโ€™s changed very little since I was seven, and welcomes me and my battered laptop to its underfunded bosom.

God bless libraries.

โ€œUpon exhaustive investigation,โ€ I tell Easton on the phone on Thursday night, after a day of less- than- fruitful research, โ€œI discovered that youย cannotย pay bills with Candy Crush gold bars. A travesty. Also, to be hired

as an auto mechanic by someone whoโ€™s not your crab- enthusiast uncle, you need fancy things like certifications and references.โ€

โ€œAnd you donโ€™t have them?โ€

โ€œNo. Though I do have thatย Mallory the Car Mechanessย comic Darcy drew me when she was eight. Think that might count?โ€

She sighs. โ€œYou know you have another option, right?โ€

I ignore her, and spend the following day looking for something elseโ€”ย anythingย else. Paterson is the third- biggest city in New Jersey, dammit. There has got to be a job,ย anyย job for me, dammit. Though it also happens to have the third- highest density in the United States, meaning lots of competition. Dammit.

Also, dammit: the red numbers that blink at me later that night when I peek at the online bank account Mom gave me access to once Dad wasnโ€™t in the picture anymore. My belly knots over.

โ€œHey,โ€ I tell Sabrina when I find her alone in the living room. I shove my hands down into my pockets to avoid wringing them. โ€œAbout those derby fees.โ€

She looks up from her phone, eyes scared wide open, and blurts out, โ€œYouโ€™re going to pay them, right?โ€

My eyes are scratchy from staring at a screen all day, and for a moment

โ€” a horrible, terrifying, disorienting momentโ€”I am angry with her. With my beautiful, intelligent, talented fourteenyear- old sister who doesnโ€™t know, doesnโ€™t understand how hard Iโ€™m trying. Whenย Iย turned fourteenโ€” on the very stupid day of my stupid birthdayโ€” everything changed, and I lost Dad, I lost chess, I lost the veryย meย Iโ€™d been, and since then all Iโ€™ve done is try toโ€”

โ€œMal, can you please not screwย this one thingย up for me?โ€

The โ€œunlike everything elseโ€ is unsaid, and the swelling bubble of anger bursts into guilt. Guilt that Sabrina has to ask for what is due to her. If it hadnโ€™t been for my stupid decisions, weโ€™d have had no problem affording her fees.

I clear my throat. โ€œThereโ€™s been a mix-up at the credit union. Iโ€™ll go check tomorrow, but could you ask for an extension? Just a couple of days.โ€

She gives me a level stare. โ€œMal.โ€ โ€œIโ€™m sorry. Iโ€™ll pay as soon as I can.โ€

โ€œItโ€™s okay.โ€ She rolls her eyes. โ€œDeadlineโ€™s next Wednesday.โ€ โ€œWhat?โ€

โ€œI just told you a few days earlier because Iย knowย you.โ€

โ€œYou littleโ€” โ€ I gasp, relieved, and flop on the couch to tickle her. In thirty seconds I have maneuvered her into a hug, and she laughs while sayingย yikesย andย grossย andย Seriously, Mal, youโ€™re embarrassing yourself.

โ€œWhy do you smell like old books and apple juice?โ€ she asks. โ€œDo we have apple juice?โ€ I nod silently and go to the kitchen to pour her a glass, choked in my throat because of how much I love my sisters, and how little I can give them.

That night, my Gmail snoozes an unanswered message fromย [email protected].ย Received 5 days ago. Reply?ย I stare at it for a long time, but donโ€™t open it.

On Saturday and Sunday I get a lucky break: a couple gigsโ€” yard work for a neighbor I sometimes babysit for; dog walkingโ€” and itโ€™s nice to have some cash, but itโ€™s not sustainable, not long term and not with a mortgage.

โ€œIt just needs to be paid,โ€ the credit union teller says on Monday morning, when I show her theย reminder, urgent,ย you are behind and failing at taking care of your family, you useless member of societyย letter. โ€œPreferably, all three overdue months.โ€ She gives me an assessing look. โ€œHow old are you?โ€ I donโ€™t think I look younger than my age, but it doesnโ€™t matter, because eighteenโ€™s plenty young, even when it feels anything but. Maybe Iโ€™m just a child playing at grown-up. If thatโ€™s the case, Iโ€™m losing. โ€œYou should probably let your mom handle this,โ€ the teller says, not unkindly. But Momโ€™s having a terrible week, one of the worst since the nightmare of her diagnosis started, and we probably need to change her meds again, but thatโ€™s expensive. I told her to rest, that I had everything under control, that I was picking up extra shifts.

You know, like a liar.

โ€œYou look tired,โ€ Gianna tells me when I show up at her place later that night, in desperate need of a distraction from thinking about money. She

and I used to take calculus together. Weโ€™d have study sessions in this very house thatโ€™s probably a McMansion, and would spend approximately one minute working on functions and two hours having lots of fun in her room. Her parents are out of town on a sailing trip, and sheโ€™s leaving for some small liberal arts college in less than a week. Hasan, my otherย goodย friend, the week after.

โ€œTired is my default state,โ€ I tell her with a forced smile.

When I get home, not nearly as relaxed as Iโ€™d hoped, I find Eastonโ€™s text (Just take the fellowship, Mal) and force myself to look at the sample contract.

Itโ€™s good money. Good hours. The commute wouldnโ€™t be ideal, but not impossible once my sistersโ€™ school starts. Defne might allow for a flexible schedule, too.

Still, thereโ€™s lots to consider. My feelings about chess, for one, which I cannot disentangle from my feelings for Dad. They are twisted, knotted together. Thereโ€™s pain. Regret. Nostalgia. Guilt. Hate. Above all, thereโ€™s anger. So much anger inside me. Mountains of it, entire blazing landscapes without a single furyless corner in them.

Iโ€™m angry with Dad, angry with chess, and therefore I cannot play it.

Pretty straightforward.

And setting that aside, am I even good enough? I know Iโ€™m talentedโ€” Iโ€™ve been told too many times, and by too many people not to. But I havenโ€™t trained in years, and I honestly believe that beating Nolan Sawyer (who in my latest dream broke off a piece of his queen and offered it to me like a KitKat) was nothing more than a stroke of luck.

On the twin bed next to mine, Darcy snores like a middleaged man with sleep apnea. Goliath is in his cage, wandering aimlessly. The fact is, competitive chess is a sport, and like other sports, thereโ€™s little room at the top. Everyone knows who Usain Bolt is, but no one gives a shiitake mushroom about the fifteenth- fastest person in the worldโ€” even though theyโ€™re still pretty damn fast.

The diner where I used to wait tables has a full roster, and the local grocery storeย mightย be looking for help, but starting positions are minimum

wage. Not enough. I contemplate the news on Tuesday and whine about it on the phone.

โ€œListen, you stubborn bitch: just take the fellowship and fake your way through it,โ€ Easton says, exasperated, affectionate, and suddenly Iโ€™m afraid again. That sheโ€™ll forget all about me, that Iโ€™ll never measure up to Colorado and the people sheโ€™ll meet there. Iโ€™m about to lose her, I know I am. It seems such an inevitable, predestined conclusion, I donโ€™t even bother voicing my fears.

Instead I ask, โ€œHow do you mean?โ€

โ€œYou can take the money for a year and play your best, but alsoย not careย about chess. Donโ€™t think about it after hours. It doesnโ€™t have to be obsessive or consuming like it used to be before your dad . . . Just clock in, clock out. In the meantime, you can get those mechanic certifications.โ€

โ€œHa,โ€ I say, impressed by her more-or-less devious plan. โ€œHa.โ€ โ€œYouโ€™re welcome. Can you do that?โ€

โ€œDo what?โ€

โ€œNot be a total lunatic weirdo about something?โ€ I smile. โ€œUnclear.โ€

She leaves on Wednesday, after stopping by my place to say goodbye. I just figured itโ€™d be different. I expected a TSA farewell and to stare at her plane as it flew off, but it doesnโ€™t make sense: weโ€™re eighteen. She has parentsโ€” a non- bedridden, stilltogether set that takes care of her, and drives her to the airport, and pays for a nice dorm room with the 529 that did not need to be cashed out when the old water boiler sputtered to its timely but heart- wrenching demise.

โ€œYou have to come visit,โ€ Easton says. โ€œYeah,โ€ I say, knowing that I wonโ€™t.

โ€œWhen Iโ€™m back, weโ€™re going to New York. Get that macaron you donโ€™t deserve.โ€

โ€œI canโ€™t wait,โ€ I say, knowing that we wonโ€™t.

She just sighs, like she knows exactly what Iโ€™m thinking, and hugs me, and orders me to text her every day and watch out for STDs. Darcy, whoโ€™s

been hovering around us with heart- shaped eyes, asks her what that stands for.

I watch the street long after the car has disappeared. I take a deep breath and empty my mind of everything, allowing myself a rare, beautiful, luxurious moment of peace. I think about a deserted chessboard. Only the white king on it, standing on the home square. Alone, untethered, safe from threats.

Free to roam, at least.

Then I go back inside, open my laptop, and write the message I knew Iโ€™d write ever since this mudslide of a week started.

Hey Defne,

Is that fellowship still on the table?

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