“Interesting,” Mom says.
“I don’t know.” Dad shakes his head.
“I would encourage you to hold off on making any decisions right now. Give yourself time to think through this information over the weekend and take home some reading material.” Dr. Gold picks pamphlets off her desk and hands one to each of us. “There will be some trial and error. And whatever plan you decide on doesn’t have to be forever. The goal is to figure out what Clea needs to manage her ADHD. You can always commit to one approach and then reevaluate if the plan isn’t working.”
“That makes sense,” Dad says.
“How long does the trial-and-error part take?” I ask, because even though I don’t want to try medicine, I really do need things to get better in school.
“It’s different for everyone,” Dr. Gold says. “The plan we come up with first could help right away—”
“That would be great,” I say.
“It would be,” Dr. Gold says. “It might also take a little time to figure out exactly what you need. But if you are open to the options and willing to work with Ms. Curtis and with me, we will find a plan that makes school much more manageable for you.”
Even though I’m scared, I know Dr. Gold wants to help me and I need to try as hard as I can to trust her. “Okay,” I say. “I am.”
“Good,” Dr. Gold says. “We’ll start implementing an education plan right away. That will help you a lot. And we can talk more about medicine next week.”
“It would have to be Monday morning,” Dad says. “I leave for the airport at ten.”
Dr. Gold picks up her phone and scrolls through her schedule. “Does seven thirty work?”
Mom and Dad both nod.
She types something and then says, “Okay, well, then I’ll—”
“Wait,” I shout, before she can end our session. Everyone looks at me. “Remember before when you said my intelligence test was good. Are you sure? Can you check my answers one more time?” I ask, because the test is the reason Dr. Gold thinks I’m smart, which means the results have to be wrong.
“Dr. Sharma is extremely thorough, so I’m very confident that the score is right,” Dr. Gold says. “Clea, I think it’s important for you to hear that ADHD and intelligence are not connected. They’re completely separate. When you can concentrate and you aren’t distracted, your brain is very capable.”
I nod, because I can see what she’s saying, and I want to believe her.
When our appointment is over, Mom rushes out of Dr. Gold’s office, because she needs to pick Henley up from speech therapy.
By the time Dad and I get outside, she’s already gone.
We walk over to the car, and as soon as I get in and close the door, Dad turns on Kiss 108, because he knows it’s my favorite station.
“How was California?” I ask before he has a chance to question me about ADHD or medication or anything else.
“Not as good as home. I always miss my girls.” I already know Dad doesn’t like being away for work, but it feels good to hear him say that we’re the reason. It’s the kind of thing that never gets old, like plain cheese pizza. It makes me think that maybe I’m not the only one who gets an empty pit in my stomach when he leaves.
“What did you have to do this time?” I roll down the window a little and breathe in the fresh air as we drive home.
“I spent the last few days meeting with people who run different parts of the company we’re thinking about buying, and then this morning I toured the factory. Now I have to review the information and the numbers—do some math—and figure out what else I need to know in order to decide if it makes sense for my company to buy this company.”
“That sounds really boring,” I say. “I mean, no offense.”
He smiles. “I think you’d like my job. It’s a big puzzle. I have to figure out if the pieces fit together.”
“But you have to do math,” I say. “Ick.”
“That part is easy.”
“Not for me.”
“I know school has been hard for you, but you’re a lot better with numbers than you think you are.” Dad’s voice is steady, like he really believes what he’s saying. I try to let his words sink in, because maybe if I think I’m good at algebra, I will be. It can’t hurt. “I can help you with your math homework this weekend.”
“Tonight? After dinner?” I know I need to schedule a time if I want it to happen, which I do, since Dad is the best at explaining math to me in a way I can actually understand.
“Isn’t Red coming over?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. It’s fine,” I lie.
“Let’s go over your math problems tomorrow,” he says. “I have some work I need to finish up tonight.”
“We’ll be home from the tournament after lunch,” I say. “Mr. Lee said I might get picked to play, because I’m really good.”
“That’s great, kiddo,” Dad says. “I have a few calls in the early afternoon, but we’ll find a time. Sunday might be better.”
I nod and try not to get my hopes up too high, because this is what always happens. Dad wants to help me, but then he can’t because of work or Henley or something else that needs him more than I do.
* * *
When we pull into the driveway, Red is on our back steps, like we’re supposed to hang out.
“I called you a million times. Why didn’t you check your phone?” His voice sounds shrill and his eyes look sad.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My dad was sitting in the kitchen when Edie and I got home from school. He expects us to drop everything and go to some stupid lake in New Hampshire with him and Barf. I mean, we have a tourney tomorrow. And I’m never going anywhere with her.” Red’s voice is loud. “I want her to stay in Colorado where she belongs. I hate her face. It looks like it’s made out of plastic. And she’s always smirking, like she’s so happy about ruining my life.” He looks right at me with his dark blue eyes. I’ve never seen him like this—angry and loud, like he’s about to explode.
I wish I knew what to do or say to make it better for him, but I can’t think of anything. He doesn’t look away. He stares at me, like he wants what I want—for me to be able to fix his family. “I’m so sorry,” I say. I sit down next to him on the steps, even though there’s barely enough room for both of us.
“Everyone kept telling me to calm down—even my mom. And now I feel like maybe they’re right and I totally overreacted.”
“No way. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say firmly, because I know I’m right. “Your dad is the one who messed up by moving away and flaking on you, and he can’t just expect you to go on a last-minute trip with him and his barf-y girlfriend. So, no, you don’t have to be calm if you don’t feel like it.”
Red nods, like he’s trying hard to believe me. He takes a deep breath and lets out all the air in one big, long sigh, like he’s deflating, and then leans forward and puts his head in his hands. I don’t notice right away, but his back is pulsing, and every few seconds he rubs his eyes. I’m pretty sure he’s crying. I’ve only ever seen Red cry one other time, when he got hit in the leg with a baseball during gym, but that was a different kind of crying. He was hurt on the outside, and after the bruise healed, we never talked about it again, because it didn’t matter. Not like this.
I put my hand on his shoulder, and then I don’t know what to do with it. If Henley were upset, I’d rub her back and tell her it was going to be okay, but this doesn’t feel the same, and not just because this situation probably won’t be okay for a long time, maybe forever. Something about rubbing Red’s back feels awkward now that my hand is there. Only before I can move away, he leans into me, like he’s so tired he can’t hold himself up anymore. His head is heavy against my shoulder. I leave my hand where it is on his fleecy jacket, because I want him to stay next to me, until he feels better.
When he finally sits up, his eyes are red an
d swollen. He looks down at his phone. “Edie is picking me up soon,” he says. “She needs to drive me to Dylan’s now, because she’s sleeping over at a friend’s house tonight, too.”
I ignore the sleepover comment. I don’t want to think about the fact that Red is leaving to hang out with Dylan instead of staying to eat pizza and watch movies with me.
“What does Edie think about everything?” I ask.
“She acts like it’s not happening, which isn’t fair at all. I mean, she’s the only one who gets what it feels like to have our dad move across the country and, you know, not be around and stuff. We’re going through the same thing. But it’s almost like we’re not. Ugh, I’m sick of talking about my stupid family.”
“I know,” I say.
“It feels like it’s never going to get better.”
“I’m sorry.” I want to tell him it will, but I’m not sure if that’s true and I don’t want to lie.
“Wait—where were you before?” he asks. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“I was at the doctor,” I say.
“Oh yeah. I forgot that was happening today,” he says. “So, do you have ADHD?”
“Yes,” I say, picking at my nails.
“But do you think you really have it?”
“I have it.” I say it like it’s a fact, because Dr. Gold said it was. “There are three different kinds. One where you jump out of your seat a lot, and one where you can’t pay attention because your brain is being distracted, like, every three seconds. I have that one. And the third kind is where you have the first and second type at the same time. Dr. Gold said once we have a plan and I can concentrate, I’ll be good at school again.”
“Cool,” Red says. “I mean, a plan sounds good. If school weren’t so hard, it would be way better.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It will be.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Henley opens the door to my bedroom, puts her finger up to her mouth, and tiptoes across my room. “Be quiet,” she whispers to Hilda.
I keep my eyes mostly closed, because I don’t want her to know that I’m already awake. I have been for about ten minutes, ever since she stomped up the stairs, stood on the other side of my bedroom door, and started telling Hilda about her plan to sneak into my room and leave me a surprise that she made for me in school yesterday when they learned about origami.
Henley puts the gift on my bedside table and scampers away, forgetting to close the door behind her. I pull myself out of bed and look to see what she left me. It’s a paper fortune-teller. I pick it up and slip my fingers into the pockets. There are four sides and each one is a different color—purple, pink, blue, and green. I pick blue and pull the corners apart. There are numbers inside—one through eight. I choose five, open the tab, and read the message written in Henley’s slanted pink handwriting: You are going to win today! There are hearts and stars and exclamation points.
I can’t help but smile.
I start over. This time I pick purple and the number three. I open the flap and read the message: You are going to win today!
I pull open all the flaps. It says the same thing eight times. And even though I know Henley made the fortune-teller for me, it feels like magic that there’s a person in the world who thinks I’m definitely going to win, no matter what, just because I’m me.
My phone starts buzzing, but I can’t find it. It’s not in any of the places I usually put it, so I follow the rumbling over to my dresser. Only it’s not there, either. I stand still and listen for the buzzing to start again. The sound is muffled, but I know I’m close. I open the top drawer and rummage around the socks and T-shirts until I find it all the way in the back. It’s Red: Ready to win?
Don’t jinx me, I write back.
Impossible. What are you thinking?
I’m scared to play and more scared not to play. Are you okay? What ended up happening with your dad?
Don’t change the subject, he texts. That seems right to me. Your first tournament is a big deal. But you’re going to be great. I know it.
Thanks, I tell him.
See you soon .
I only have an hour before the match, and even though I should start my homework, I don’t want to. I push my backpack farther into the closet and shut the door, trying to block out everything I have to do after chess. I sit on the carpet and take a deep breath. I need to stay focused and positive if I want to win, and I do more than anything, but I keep wondering if I’m even going to get a chance to play. I try to pretend that it’s already been decided, but the information won’t stick. Maybe I should do my Spanish homework. I could get it over with quickly, and then I’d feel better about everything else. Or worse. That could happen. I don’t know. I could bring my bag to the tournament and try to do some work while I’m at school if I don’t get picked. There’s no way Mr. Lee is going to choose me. I missed practice. I know he said it didn’t matter, and he wouldn’t hold it against me, but I’m not that good. I mean, I’m better than I was last year and I keep performing in practice. That must mean something. But I’m not Red or Sanam or someone the team actually needs to win the tournament. How could I be? I’ve never played in one before. I guess maybe I could be. Red thinks I am. And deep down I sort of think I am, too.
I can’t find my phone again. I retrace my steps—dresser, closet, and then floor. It has to be here, because I just had it in my hand, and I haven’t left my room. I don’t remember putting it down, which is not a good sign. I need to settle down, because if I do get picked, I want to be ready to play my best. I spot my phone on the rug under the dresser. But I can’t stop wondering what’s going to happen. So I take out my computer and open up my chess tactics. I press start, and I can feel myself zone in on what I need to do to win. I’m free. And out of my head and my real life. It feels so good, like I’m somewhere else. I never want to stop, but after way too many rounds, I know I need to pull myself away or I’m going to be late, because I still need to shower, get dressed, and eat. Only, I can’t look away. I just want to solve one more problem. I press start. I can’t help it. No. I need to stop. I shut my computer as fast as I can, put it away in my desk where I can’t see it. Then I walk out of my room and into the bathroom to shower.
I’m still thinking about how badly I want to play one more round when I walk back into my room, but I don’t let myself go anywhere near my desk. I open my dresser, take out my chess team jersey, and pull it over my head. It’s green with yellow writing, because those are our school colors. I glance at myself in the mirror. It looks good. The bright green makes my eyes pop the way makeup should, but never does. I look smarter. Okay, I know that’s not really possible, but I swear I do, at least I do to me. I look official and ready, like a real chess player, who could maybe even play in a tournament and win.
Mom, Dad, and Henley all drive me to school and walk me inside. I’m so excited that I have to stop myself from sprinting ahead of my family. There are people I’ve never seen standing in the parking lot and near the entrance to school. I don’t want to look unsophisticated or like I’m a flailing mess. First impressions are important, especially in chess. I want everyone to know I’m a serious competitor and a future Master.
There are a lot of people I don’t recognize in the hallway leading to the cafeteria—parents, players, and coaches with clipboards—and it’s louder in here today than I remember it being last year. I wonder if that’s because I’m nervous, since I actually have a chance to play.
I glance into the cafeteria. There are long empty rows of tables with chessboards. My heart speeds up, beating faster and faster inside my chest.
Everywhere I turn I see different team jerseys—red and royal blue and purple. But no one is wearing green and yellow like me. That’s when I remember I’m supposed to go straight to the team room. Families aren’t allowed in the playing or team rooms during the tournament, because of distractions and also because sometimes parents fight about the results, so even though I probably won’t see Mom, Dad, or Hen
ley again until it’s all over, or maybe between rounds, it feels good to know they’re here. “I have to go meet everyone,” I say.
Mom smiles. “We’ll be cheering for you!”
“Good luck,” Dad says. “Come find us if you need anything.”
Henley grabs on to my hand. “Win,” she says, like she’s putting a spell on me.
“Thank you,” I say, looking at all of them.
I take a deep breath and walk to the end of the hall and into our team room, which is actually the lower school music room. There’s a keyboard and xylophones in the front, triangles hanging from the ceiling, and no chairs. Mr. Lee is standing by the keyboard when I walk in, staring at his clipboard. He’s wearing his chess team jersey, like the rest of us. The material is thick, so there’s no way to tell what his secret T-shirt says today. Everyone else is either sitting on the floor or huddled in small groups.
Sanam isn’t here yet and neither is Red, which is especially weird, because Dylan is here. I’m about to get my phone out to see if Red texted me when Sanam walks in, drops her bag and coat, and stands next to me. “Nervous?” she asks, twirling the end of her short black hair.
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
“I hate waiting to find out. I feel like I’m going to puke.”
“You’re definitely playing,” I say.
“I don’t think so.” She shakes her head. “I only won one game.” She lowers her voice, like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear our conversation. I get that losing isn’t fun, but if I were smart and one of the best players on our team, like Sanam, I would never be embarrassed about losing one or two games. It’s not like a reminder that there’s something wrong with her, like it is for me.
“You’re so good,” I say. “There’s no way you’re not getting picked.”
“There’s no way you’re not getting picked,” she says.
“I really hope you’re right.”
“I am.”
Mr. Lee claps his hands together, and everyone gathers around him. “These are some of the most determined teams we’ll compete against all year. I want you to stay positive for one another throughout the entire tournament.”
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