How (Not) to Find a Boyfriend

by Allyson Valentine

  Nora Fulbright, dealmaker extraordinaire, is on fire. Why can’t I always operate with this kind of confidence whenever I’m near Adam? I should make a movie of me in my Adam-free moments and send it to him. But instead he will observe me in real life, in my role as chess goddess. I skip to practice. All the pieces are in place except for one: As much as I’d rather not do it, I need to play some chess.

  Eighteen

  BACK AT HOME, JOSHIE RACES to his bedroom, then skids back into mine with the chessboard. He arranges it on my desk and dumps the pieces from where he’s been storing them in Phil’s old Pokémon backpack. “This is exciting! You never want to play chess!” he gushes.

  “Things have changed.” I tell him about the upcoming tournament.

  “But you hate chess,” he reminds me.

  “I know. And I’ll probably still hate it once the tournament is over. But for right now, I need to get good, and the only way to do that is to play, right?”

  “Right.” Joshie spins the board so he’ll be white. We play a couple of games. I go easy on him, but still, I beat him every time. While I’m impressed with how much he’s learned, I’m more impressed with the fact that he doesn’t cry when he loses.

  He credits Eric for his newfound resilience.

  “And does Eric also get the credit for teaching you to play so well?” I ask.

  “Not all the credit.” Joshie holds up three fingers. “I’ve read your chess book five times. And I’ve done eighty-six of the one-move-to-checkmate puzzles. And I play chess at recess with Theodore and Pratik.”

  I need to read the book. I need to do the puzzles. And I need some nerdlets to play on a regular basis.

  Joshie cups my ear with his hands and whispers, “Plus I have a secret weapon.”

  A secret weapon? I’m intrigued. “And are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “No. Because then you’ll beat me even more. Want to play again?”

  “Only if you let me in on your secret weapon.”

  He politely declines my offer. But not for long. At eight o’clock I wrap up my biology reading as Joshie bounds into my room. His freshly washed hair is slicked and parted, and he smells like he has rolled in baby powder. He hops onto my bed and a fine white dust flies up out of his Spider-Man pajamas. “I’ve decided to tell you my secret weapon.” He hands me a manila folder filled with papers. I flip it open. Chess notes. Pages and pages of notes about strategies and play-by-play game descriptions, each with a detailed analysis that could only have been put together by one person.

  “Phil is your secret weapon?”

  Joshie nods. “I stole your idea and searched for ‘chess’ on his computer. I’ve learned a ton of stuff from him. You can borrow his notes.”

  Bill appears at the doorway. “There you are. Time for bed, mister.”

  “Okay.” Joshie leans in close and we rub noses Eskimo-style.

  “Thanks for the secret weapon,” I say.

  His face gets serious—which is tough to do with no front teeth. “You need it more than I do.” He’s right. But he’s given me an idea. I toss the folder onto the bed—I’ll read those later. I can’t believe that I have totally overlooked the fact that I have a secret weapon of my own just a phone call and a mouse click away.

  It’s a little past eight o’clock—after eleven in Boston, but Phil answers my call on the second ring. After the usual “hi, how are you” stuff, Phil asks how cheer is going.

  “Cheer is good. How’s school?”

  “Good.”

  He loves his classes. He loves Boston. He loves being in love.

  “What about you?” he asks. “Guys must be banging down the door to check out your pom-poms.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Come on. You’re a cheerleader now. I thought they could go out with any guy they wanted.”

  “Well, that’s kind of why I called. Got a minute?” I spill the whole sordid story—it takes way more than a minute. I leave out details about precisely whose papers I shared with whom. “So what do you say? Will you give me long-distance lessons and be my secret weapon?”

  Phil laughs. “Do you know how many times I’ve begged you to play chess with me?”

  “Counting the times you wanted me to play with that little magnetic board on the airplane trips to visit Dad? Approaching googolplex. You didn’t stop hounding me until you found Zeebo and Louis in middle school.”

  He laughs. “They were as chess obsessed as I was.”

  “All you ever wanted to do was play chess,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “I’ve thought about that. I think that, for me, chess kind of filled the hole that Dad left. It never made sense to me that you didn’t feel the same way—that you became so chess averse. I mean, chess had really been your thing much more than it was mine.”

  Chess averse. That’s me. I pick up a little ceramic Ben Franklin chess piece and roll him around in my hand. “I guess for me it was the opposite. Since Dad left, every time I look at a chessboard it reminds me that there’s this gaping hole that needs to be filled. You know? Pawn to e2: Dad left. Bishop takes pawn: Teaching at MIT beats having a daughter. Queen takes bishop: If I was really as good as Judit Polgár, he would have stuck around. I managed to safely avoid chess for years, then Dad goes and sends me that stupid Revolutionary War chess set for my birthday and it was like he ripped the scab off a gaping wound.”

  “Nice metaphor, Nora, but don’t go all high drama on me. I think Dad was just trying to make peace with you by sending you that set. And you know as well as I do that you could have been a grandmaster by age seven and Dad still would have gone to MIT. His leaving had nothing to do with you. Or with me.”

  “Exactly,” I say, my jaw tight. “He didn’t think about me and he didn’t think about you. All he thought about was himself.”

  Phil sighs. “Look, that’s a conversation you can have with Dad.”

  “Then it’s a conversation that is never going to happen!”

  “Jeez—calm down, Nora. You know, I see him at least once a week for lunch. He misses you. He said that when he calls, you always keep it short. And I know it’s been years since you’ve come out to see him. I don’t know if you remember, but you and he were pretty tight back in the old days. He gets that you’re still hurt, but you need to get over it. If you want to kick lover boy’s ass in chess, it’s Dad you should be playing—not me.”

  I set Ben Franklin back on the board. “Are you finished?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay. Maybe someday I’ll be ready to play chess with Dad. But that’s not today. So, are you going to help me out or not?”

  “I’m in,” says Phil. He laughs. “But I have to say, I find it pretty damn funny that you, a cheerleader, are hoping to win a guy by flaunting your chess prowess.” In the background I hear Phil tapping on his keyboard. “Okay. Your secret weapon is online and ready to play. Go ahead and open up your browser.”

  Phil directs me to an online chess site. We keep a window open where we can see and talk to each other. We mostly play chess, but we also talk. About Dad. About Mom. About life. When it’s one o’clock in the morning Boston time, we sign off.

  “When is the tournament?” Phil asks.

  “Two weeks.”

  Phil whistles, long and low. “You won’t stand a chance unless we do this every night.”

  He’s at Harvard studying premed. I’m taking three AP classes plus precalculus. Neither of us really has the time for this.

  “So does that mean I stand a chance?” I ask.

  Phil yawns loudly. “Yup. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  We meet online every night. Plus, Phil shows me a chess app and we keep a game going all day long, making moves from our phones whenever we have a couple of minutes to spare. Openings Dad taught me come rushing back. I recall long-forgotten attacks and counterattacks. I read the book Dad sent cover to cover, get a couple more books from the library, and study Phil’s game notes. I start to feel like I mig
ht, indeed, stand a chance.

  Joshie is unhappy about my newly rediscovered skills as I beat him by wider and wider margins. “How did you get so good?” he demands, his face set in a firm frown.

  I cup his ear with my hands and whisper, “I have a secret weapon.”

  “No fair! You need to share it with me. I gave you mine!”

  I tell him my secret. “And Phil promises that after the tournament he’ll help you, too.”

  Joshie leans into me. “I won’t need Phil. I have you.”

  One day, Joshie brings the nerdlets over for a match and it’s like one of those Bruce Lee movies where I am the chess ninja surrounded by an onslaught of bumbling assailants. When Theodore leaves the house in tears, I decide it’s time for a more age-appropriate opponent. As enormously as the online games with Phil help, I needed some face-to-face chess time with someone who’ll be hard to beat. I find Eric’s phone number on the Chess Kings handout.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Eric, it’s Nora.”

  Pause. “Cheerleader Nora?”

  “Chess Champion Nora.”

  He laughs. “Okay. What’s up?”

  “It’s just a few days until the tournament and I need some solid competition. Could you meet me at the mall for some chess?”

  Long pause. “Look, you’re going to get taken out in the first round. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “Do you still want to be the mascot?”

  He assures me that he does.

  “I’ve done a lot of work on my game,” I tell him. “I’ve got this private coach and, yes, I still want to go through with the tournament. But there’s actually another reason we should get together.”

  I remind him that the mascot does more than just stand around in a fish suit. The mascot knows all the sideline cheers, and he spends a lot of the game cheering right there beside us.

  “So how about this?” I say. “You play chess with me, I’ll give you some cheer lessons so you don’t stand up there and flounder. Pun intended. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  We agree to meet by the fountain at the mall at six o’clock. Eric is easy to spot in a red-and-white-striped shirt that makes him look like he’s trying out for a part in a Where’s Waldo book. He sees me and waves. We go outside to an empty corner of the parking lot and run through six of the standard sideline cheers, keeping our voices low. Eric has surprisingly great stage presence and is way more coordinated than I would have guessed. It turns out he did dance and gymnastics when he was a little kid but stopped because other boys teased the crap out of him.

  I give him a pep talk like the one I gave Vanessa. I tell him about the dancercise club Krista and I did last spring when gymnastics was over. “There were a couple of guys in there and, yeah, they were a little out of shape, but the girls didn’t give them any crap. In fact, we all thought they were totally cool because they were even giving it a try. You should sign up. And here’s something else to think about. Geoff is a senior. It’s time for a new fish to swim onto the scene. You totally have what it takes. What do you think?”

  Eric types “dancercise club” onto his phone’s notebook. He looks up at me and smiles. “Glub, glub.”

  It’s chess time. We set up a board on one of the small square tables in the food court. Eric is suitably impressed with my playing. I don’t beat him, but I come dangerously close. Close enough that I won’t thoroughly embarrass myself at the tournament. I tell him about my secret weapon.

  He pulls back his head like he needs to see me from a different angle. “You’re Phil Fulbright’s sister? I never put it together.”

  “You know him?”

  “I sure do. He was the regional champ for two years running. But he didn’t go to Riverbend.”

  “No. We moved my freshman year so my little brother could go to the all-day freakishly-smart-kid kindergarten over at Cascade.”

  He nods. “And here you are. Proof that brains run in the family.”

  I take this as a compliment. “You know, I’d sort of purposely forgotten that once upon a time I was actually pretty good at chess,” I tell him. “Even better than Phil. And I still have a few more lessons with him before the tournament. I think I’ll be okay.”

  “You’ll definitely make it past the first round,” he assures me. “And who knows? Maybe a cheerleader at a chess tournament will command the same respect that chubby guys get at a dancercise class.”

  We finish chess and still have a half hour till the mall closes. There’s something I need to know. I hesitate, then ask, “Who picks out your shirts?”

  Eric studies the hem of his Waldo shirt. “My mom.”

  Nooooo kidding.

  “They’re just shirts,” he says. “Mom brings home clothes, I wear them.”

  “Obviously it’s up to you,” I say. “But I think Eric the Fish should have some say in what he wears. Want to look at some shirts?”

  The concept intrigues him, and by the time the bell chimes to announce that the mall is closing, Eric has four new shirts. I’m pleased to find him drawn toward solid colors.

  On the way home from the mall I stop by Krista’s house. She’s in her room doing homework and is stuck on a math problem, which I help her figure out. She works at her desk. I grab my books from the car, then flop onto her bed to read for a while. Krista’s room is like a shrine to Dex, with pictures everywhere. Dex doing a layup at last year’s championship game. Dex sitting beside the giant troll under the Fremont Bridge. Dex and Krista grinning beside the ice sculpture of a football helmet–wearing fish at last year’s homecoming dance.

  My favorite picture of all is framed on Krista’s desk. It’s the one Mom took last year of me and Krista after our first gymnastics meet. You can tell by the way we’re looking at each other that even though we haven’t known each other long, we’re going to be best friends.

  Krista closes her math book and drops the pencil onto her desk. She stretches and lets out an earth-shattering yawn. “So. You’re not still going through with this whole chess thing, are you?”

  “Yup.” I tell her about the lessons with Phil, the matches with Joshie and the nerdlets, and tonight’s game with Eric. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but any chance I could talk you into coming to the tournament? I’m going to be pretty nervous, and it would be great to have you there, cheering me on.”

  Krista slings an arm over the back of her chair. “I still think it’s crazy, but okay. I’m in.”

  I hop to my feet and circle her, chanting a repetitive cheer:

  Way to go, Krista,

  Way to go (clap, clap)

  She shoos me away. “All I can say is that I sure hope Dex likes this Adam guy. The homecoming dance was a bomb, but at least we can all go to the sophomore prom together.”

  I pick up the stuffed plush basketball on her bed—an anniversary gift from Dex—and toss it to her. “So what’s the plan for Saturday?” she asks. “What time does the chess thing start?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  She looks at the heart-shaped clock hanging on her wall—a Valentine’s Day gift from Dex—and moves her finger in clockwise circles, counting backward. “Wow. It’s going to be a little tight. The football game starts at ten. And it’s an away game.”

  “Yeah, but it’s just over in Bellevue. We should be back by one o’clock, latest.”

  Krista looks again at the clock. “Yeah. I guess.” She studies me.

  I laugh. “What?”

  “Do you really think you’re ready for the tournament?”

  “I know I am. I think. I mean, I won’t win the tournament, but I’ll make it through the first round. I hope.”

  Mom texts to remind me that it’s almost ten thirty. I pack up my books, but can’t help myself from flipping to the section of the chess book that I recently bookmarked. I read again Ben Franklin’s thoughts about what to do when you’ve beaten a lesser opponent. Even if I don’t win the tournament, I should be prepared to win a game or
two, right? Ben says:

  You must not, when you have gained a victory, use any triumphing or insulting expression, nor show too much pleasure; but endeavour to console your adversary, and make him less dissatisfied with himself, by every kind of civil expression that may be used with truth.

  He gives suggestions about what you could say to console your opponent. I run Ben’s suggestions past Krista to see which she thinks I should offer my opponent if I win a game:

  “You understand the game better than I, but you are a little inattentive.”

  “You play too fast.”

  “You had the best of the game, but something happened to divert your thoughts, and that turned it in my favour.”

  Krista doesn’t like any of them. “How about, ‘Too bad you suck!’” She laughs and returns to her book.

  I moan and lie back on Krista’s bed for a moment. The chess book weighs heavily on my chest. I picture myself in my first game of the tournament, beads of sweat on my brow as the clock ticks down and I scan the board like mad trying to save my king.

  My opponent grins sadistically. Pointy little teeth part as his laugh echoes through the room and he cries, “Checkmate!”

  I gasp for breath. Adam looks up from across the room, his game still in progress. Our eyes meet just as my opponent points at me with a long bony finger. “Too bad you suck!”

  Nineteen

  FRIDAY NIGHT, PHIL AND I meet for our final official training session. I’m up in my room. Phil is in his dorm room. A couple of days ago he turned the computer around and gave me a walking tour of his room that lasted all of twenty-three seconds. Two beds, one neatly made (Phil’s), the other a wreck. Two desks, one meticulously organized (Phil’s), the other a war zone. Two dressers, one covered with a mountain of dirty laundry and a moldy apple core on top, one with nothing but a single framed picture of Phil’s girlfriend, Malinda, who is surprisingly cute.

  At five thirty my time, after we’ve been at it a while, I ask whether there isn’t anything he’d rather be doing on a Friday night. I’ve been feeling guilty about taking up so much of his time.