“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she says, which is cool, but also weird, because if I were Sanam, I would never want to work with me.
We walk over to an empty station, divide the list of supplies in half, and split up to collect everything faster. Once we have all the materials, I read the directions out loud and Sanam follows along. She measures the correct amount of agar and water and stirs the mixture. Then we both walk over to the microwave and wait in line until it’s our turn to boil the solution. When we get back to our station, we have to wait for the agar-and-water mixture to cool before we can pour it into petri dishes.
Quinn walks over to our table. “I have a question,” she announces, like she’s going to ask us about something related to the lab. Instead she leans in and whispers, “So who do you think it is?” She glances across the room to where Ms. Curtis is sitting, writing in her notebook. I wonder how long she’s been in the corner like that, scribbling away. “Any guesses?” She looks right at me. My heart starts pounding.
“No clue.” I try to sound confident, but don’t.
“Well, I’ve narrowed it down to Jack and the two of you,” she says, tapping her pencil against her notebook, like she’s really put a lot of thought into her investigation. “You’re the only ones who have been in every single class she’s been trailing. Other than me, but I’m smart. So, no.”
“I’m pretty sure we would know if we were being watched,” I say back, because I’ve already decided I’m going to deny that it’s me to anyone who asks. Even though I think I could trust Sanam to keep a secret, I can’t take that kind of chance right now.
“Mmm, probably not.” Quinn shakes her head. “Last year, I heard someone, who will remain nameless, was getting evaluated for multiple days before the teachers told that person.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“I’m really good at figuring out people’s secrets. It’s sort of a talent.” She twirls the end of her hair. “Want to know who I think it is?” Her eyebrows go straight up, and I’m not sure if I want to know what she’s thinking right now, so I don’t say yes, but I don’t look away from her, either. I keep waiting for her to say, Everyone knows it’s you.
She looks right at me and whispers, “Too bad. I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” Then she turns around and walks back to her table.
I pick up the mixture and start pouring the liquid into the petri dishes, because I’m pretty sure that’s the next step, and I want to go back to working on the lab and forget about everything that happened with Quinn.
“Want to know who I think it is?” Sanam asks.
I look at her. “Sure.” My voice cracks.
She mouths, “Quinn,” without letting any sound escape.
I want to ask Sanam why she thinks that, because Quinn always gets good grades. Only I know I need to change the subject, since I’m the one who’s actually being evaluated. I pick up the marker and hand it to her. “Your writing is better than mine. Can you do the labeling?”
“Um, okay,” she says, like she was expecting me to say something else, and I’m afraid I’ve accidentally made it obvious that it’s me.
* * *
When I get to last period, Ms. Curtis is already sitting in the corner of the multipurpose room, like she thinks no one can see her and her stupid notebook. Jack doesn’t play chess, which means the list of possible suspects has been cut down to three—Sanam, Quinn, and me.
There’s a pairing list taped to the wall, like at a real tournament. Most of the team is crowded around the piece of paper. I walk over and scan the names, looking for mine. I hope I’m playing white this match. Something about having the first move makes me feel like the game is mine, and my opponent better watch out. Before I break the news to Mr. Lee that I’m missing chess next week, I need to prove I can help the team win.
I’m playing white. YES! And Dylan. UGH. I need to ignore him and win.
Board #7 is okay. I mean, it’s not great. It would be better if I were at board #1-6. But it’s definitely not horrible. I take my seat and look at the pieces in front of me. I try to visualize my opening and think through all the moves I’m going to use to take charge.
“Well, this should be easy.” Dylan sits down across from me, pushes his hair out of his eyes, and smiles, showing off his dimples, which would be cute if he weren’t such a jerk all the time.
I don’t say anything back, because I know he’s trying to throw me off so I don’t play my best.
“It’s too bad you’re missing practice next week,” he says. “There’s no chance you’ll ever play in a tourney now.”
How does he know that?
“Don’t look so worried. Red didn’t tell me why you’re going to be out. Not that I care. He just asked me to take it easy on you, which I’m clearly not doing.”
“Good,” I shoot back. “I don’t need your pity.”
“You kind of do. I mean, even Red thinks so, and he’s your only friend.”
“Well, he’s wrong.” I really hope Dylan can’t tell how much his words hurt.
“So why are you going to be out?” he asks.
“Why do you care?” I sound as angry as I am, and not because of Dylan. He’s always rude to me. I’m mad at Red for telling him that I’m missing chess and for thinking I couldn’t beat Dylan on my own.
“I didn’t before, but now that it’s a big mystery I need to know.”
“Good luck with that,” I say.
“I don’t need luck.” He smirks. “I have sources.”
Mr. Lee claps his hands to get our attention. “I want everyone to stay focused and give this game your all. Let’s get to work.”
I take a deep breath and zone in on the board. Dylan taps the clock. I focus on making the easy moves first, developing my pawns, my knights, queen, and bishops. That’s the only way I’m going to win. I try to imagine my plan playing out before Dylan makes his next move to save on time. I stay aware of his choices and double-check that all my pieces are safe. Every time I make a move, I repeat the same words in my head—Move. Let go. Tap. Write.
My opening is solid, and I only need extra time figuring out one of my moves. I still have eight minutes to win. I’d rather have eleven like Dylan, but I think I can beat him in the time I have left.
The only problem is that I need to distract him so he doesn’t notice my knight making its way to the other side of the board.
I move my bishop on the king’s side up one square on the diagonal, let go of the piece, and hit the timer as fast as I can.
Dylan does exactly what I want. He moves his pawn up one square, then taps the clock. I wonder if he knows what I’m doing and has a bigger plan, or if he’s actually falling for it. I move my knight up and over, capturing the pawn he just moved and setting myself up to win.
Dylan moves his knight over two and down one, next to mine.
I castle king-side, which means my king slides over and swaps places with my rook, tap the clock, and glance at the time—four minutes left. I can do this. I can win.
He takes my bishop out with his knight, and I take his knight out with my queen.
Then he sends his bishop across the board, like he’s ready to take out my knight.
It’s hot in the room, and I’m sweating under too many layers. Winning is taking longer than I expected. I’m running out of time. I move my knight up and over, cornering Dylan into checkmate.
I did it. I won!
I take a long deep breath and fall back into my chair, letting the happy victory feeling sink in and take over. Everything is going to work out. That’s when I realize—I forgot to stop the timer!
I pull myself up as fast as I can and slam my hand against the clock. Only I’m too afraid to look. I can’t be out of time or I’ll lose the match.
“You still won,” Dylan says. I keep waiting for him to follow up with something rude. Instead he reaches out to shake my hand.
I force myself to look at the clock, because I f
eel like he’s messing with me.
He’s not. I won—with twenty seconds left. Phew.
“Good game,” I say, shaking his hand—it’s warm and a little unsteady, like he’s nervous or embarrassed or something else that makes me almost feel bad for him … until I remember it’s Dylan.
“Good game,” he says back.
Most of the team is standing on the other side of the multipurpose room. Dylan walks over to Red and whispers something to him—I really hope it’s not about me.
“Great win today, Clea,” Mr. Lee says.
“Thank you.” I can’t help but grin. It feels good to be noticed for doing something right. I take a deep breath. This is my chance to tell Mr. Lee about next week. “I just found out that I need to—” I look around to make sure no one else is near us, listening to me. “I’m getting tested for, um, ADHD on Monday and Tuesday, so I’m not going to be at practice. I’m really sorry. I know being out hurts the team, and I don’t want to do that. I love chess and I want to play in the tournament so badly. But it was the only appointment for a long time. So I was wondering if maybe you would let me do something extra to make up for it, because I’m ready to play. I know it.”
Mr. Lee pauses like he’s thinking. “As you know, I always try to do what’s in the best interest of the team and that usually means having everyone at every practice.” I cross my fingers on both hands and hold my breath, because there’s a sinking feeling in my stomach, like he’s about to say something that’s not good for me and I really don’t want him to. “In this case, being tested is more important than being at chess. So I expect that when you’re here, you’ll give practice your all, and if I see that commitment from you, then I’ll make sure you have the same chance of playing in the tournament as everyone else. And I won’t hold these absences against you or the team.”
I let out all of the air and the fear I’ve been holding inside. “I’m going to work really hard. I promise.”
“Good,” he says. “If I were you, I’d take some time over the next few days to practice on my own. There are only eight players who have won two games in a row—soon to be nine.” He glances at Quinn and Isaac. “And we aren’t playing one-on-one on Monday, which means you’re only missing one game. So if you win next Wednesday, you have a good chance of playing in the tournament.”
“Really?!” I ask.
He grins. “There are no guarantees, but I think you should be prepared.”
“I am! I will be!” I smile so big it hurts.
I walk over to the other side of the room. I want to tell Red what Mr. Lee just said, because he was right about everything and I’m so excited. I’m not sure I can hold it in. But I’m too mad at him, so I lean against the empty wall and stare at the floor.
A few minutes later, Red walks over and stands next to me.
“You won,” he says. “That’s awesome.”
“I can’t believe you told Dylan that I’m missing practice.” I try to keep my voice low, but it doesn’t matter that I’m talking softly—I still sound as angry as I am.
“I didn’t tell him why,” Red says, like that makes it okay. “I just wanted him to go easy on you so you’d win, because you deserve to play in the tournament. And I knew he’d be cool about it, since he’s definitely going to win the rest of his games.”
“You didn’t think there was any chance I could actually beat him on my own?” I ask.
“You know I think you’re really good. But his brother is almost a Candidate Master, and he’s basically coaching Dylan every night. I think it’d be hard for anyone on the team to beat him.”
I hate that no matter what I say right now, Red is going to think Dylan let me win, when he didn’t.
I want to tell him what Dylan said to me, but I stop myself, because they’re friends now—for real. And I have no idea where that leaves me.
* * *
On Friday, Mr. Lee invites me to the front of the room to redo my author presentation. When I stand up, Quinn covers her mouth with both hands, like she’s trying not to laugh at me. There are knots in my stomach getting tighter with each step. I need to ignore her. If I get an A on round two, I could end up with a B. That could be okay. I’d still be on the chess team.
I unroll my poster, which is extra happy and glittery thanks to Henley. I do everything I can to not look at Quinn even for a second. She’s in the second row on the right side of the room, so I turn to the people sitting on the left and talk directly to them about the only author who no one else picked: Kelly Barnhill. She wrote The Girl Who Drank the Moon, which is about magic, aka perfect for me!
Even though I feel a little awkward about how I’m standing, it’s okay, because I don’t get distracted.
When I’m finished presenting, Mr. Lee says, “Thank you for sharing about Kelly Barnhill and for giving us such great context for this book.” He looks around the room, like he wants to make sure everyone knows I did a good job. I can tell by the way he smiles at me right before I sit down that I probably got an A, or maybe an A+.
* * *
After school, I’m sitting on the floor in the family room across the coffee table from Henley, teaching her about “promoting,” which is one of the coolest parts of chess, while I wait for Red to get here.
I want to text him and tell him not to bother coming over, because I don’t really want to see him tonight. I’m still hurt that he told Dylan I was missing school, and annoyed because all of a sudden it seems like they’re best friends, too. But we always hang out on Friday nights. We make pizzas with my dad and watch movies about magic. It’s been our thing ever since fourth grade when he moved from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts, and we became BFFs. We were in an achievement club called “magic” where we learned different tricks and talked about Harry Potter. Red and I were the only ones who picked magic as our number one choice. Everyone else was a hater who didn’t get into the club they really wanted, so we stuck together, and we have ever since. But now I’m afraid if I tell him not to come over, I’ll push him even further away.
I clear my throat. Hilda sits up, ears at attention, and then collapses into a fluffy ball by Henley’s feet.
Henley looks at the chessboard between us, like she’s confused. “Where are all the pieces I like? No horses. Or anything good.” She crosses her arms and huffs.
“They already got captured,” I say. “I’m going to teach you an end-of-game strategy.”
Her blue eyes look empty and glossed over, like she has no clue what I’m talking about, but doesn’t want me to know that.
“You’re going to learn how to win,” I clarify.
“Winning!” she says. “Like you.”
I smile. “This is a passed pawn.” I point to the white pawn that is on its way to the other side of the board. “It has no enemy pawns in front of it or on either side, so it can move straight ahead on the file, one square at a time, without being captured.”
“Boring.” She crosses her arms. “Pawns are slowpokes.”
“Don’t underestimate them. Pawns are important,” I say as confidently as I can. I want Henley to believe me, because it’s true. “When a passed pawn gets all the way to the other end of the board, it can turn into a different piece—any one you want.”
“No way!”
“Way!” I say.
“Pawns are cool! Abwa-cadabwa.” She points to the board, holding up an imaginary wand. “Poof. You’re a horse.”
“I know you like the knights the best,” I say, “but most of the time you’re going to want to turn your pawn into a queen.”
“Duh,” she says. “The queen moves fastest.”
“Exactly.” I try not to sound surprised, even though I am. I mean, I know she listens to me, but I didn’t realize until right now that sometimes when I’m with Henley it feels like I’m the queen, because anything I say goes.
I finish showing Henley a few other ways that pawns can help win the game, and then Red walks through the front door. He plops down on th
e sofa. “Want to watch Hocus Pocus with us tonight?” he asks Henley, like everything is fine and the same, even though it’s not.
Henley shakes her head, looking down at the carpet. She doesn’t want him to know she’s afraid of witches.
She keeps her eyes down and shuffles over to me.
I hug her. “Thanks for playing chess.”
“Welcome,” she whispers and then disappears down the hall with Hilda.
I usually love Friday nights the best, because Red is here and pizza is my number one favorite food and Dad is always home. His suitcase is unpacked and hidden in the back of the closet where it belongs, and I can almost trick myself into believing that he’ll be home forever. But tonight doesn’t feel like a Friday because Dad is still at his office, so we had to order pizza, and I sort of wish Red would leave.
“So, um, what do you think your test is going to be like?” Red asks.
I shrug and look down at the board between us. “No clue.” I start putting away the pawns, hoping my answer is enough to get him to change the subject, because for the first time, there’s a big important thing that’s happening to me and I don’t want to talk about it—not with Red.
“What do you think they’re going to have you do? Like how will they definitely know you have it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you being weird?” he asks.
“I’m not,” I say, even though I know I am. I don’t want to tell Red anything about me anymore, because he might tell Dylan. And even though I get that he was trying to help me play in the tournament, it feels like he thinks I’m not good enough to be picked on my own or to be his only best friend. And I want to say everything I’m thinking right now, like before, like always, so he can tell me all the reasons I’m wrong and promise he’ll never talk to Dylan about me again. Only, I’m too afraid he won’t. Or worse—he’ll say everything I want to hear and it will sound like a lie.
I know I need to say something, because we’re just sitting here in silence. “I’m nervous, and I guess I’m trying not to think about it,” I say, because that’s true, too, and easier, and right now, I don’t need anything else to feel hard.
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