Eric tucks a piece of licorice behind his ear for later. “Relax. You’re taking my spot, and since Adam and I are officially ranked as the top two players, we’re both scheduled to play bottom-ranked players in the first round. You never have the best players face off at the bottom tier.”
“But what about the fact that I’m not actually one of the best players?”
Eric grins. “Who knows? Maybe you are.”
Maybe I am. And maybe I’m not. What if I mess up and lose the first round? This could prove to be the dumbest swap of all time. The cheerleader who shows up in her uniform to publicly suck at chess.
“Your first match is over there,” Eric says, pointing.
The large rectangular tables usually located in the periodicals section of the library have been replaced with smaller ones from the commons. On each table are a chessboard and a game clock. The table he’s pointing to has one empty chair, and one that’s occupied, by Little Nate.
“It’s hard to believe he’s a sophomore,” I say. “He looks like he was busy playing with Legos when the puberty bus rolled through town.”
Eric laughs. “And watch out. He cries when he loses.”
I muster a confident smile. “I’m used to reducing the opposition to tears.” It’ll be like playing the nerdlets all over again. Eric talks to another player, and I stroll over and check out the whiteboard diagramming the tiers of play. Only the bottom tier is filled in with names. Eight games, sixteen names. I locate the box that still says “Eric versus Nathaniel.” Adam’s name is all the way at the other end of the chart. He’s playing Corinna, the only other girl in the tournament. I trace the flow of play with my finger. The way our names are arranged on the board, Adam and I will play only if we each win three games. Then, we would face off in the final match. Could I possibly make it that far?
My stomach clenches and I remind myself that I don’t need to play the final match. I don’t need to play against Adam to make the point that I, Nora Fulbright, am worthy of his respect—and more. I could do that by winning just one game, right? All I need is to advance to the second round. I just need to make Nathaniel cry.
Someone taps my shoulder. I spin around to face the Teapot. “Hey! I thought that was you!” She says it so big and loud that everywhere heads turn. I force myself to avoid eye contact with Adam, who has got to be wondering why I’m here—in my cheer uniform, no less.
“I’ll be cheering on my little buddy Nate,” says the Teapot. “I think I can guess who you’ll be shaking your pom-poms for.”
“Actually, I’m here to play. In fact, I’m playing against Nate in the first round.”
She gasps. “Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit! For real?”
I nod. She looks quizzically from my sneakers to my hair bow and I explain why I’m dressed this way. She does an enthusiastic little victory jiggle at the news that we won the football game.
“Well, now I don’t know who to cheer for,” she says. Then, in a whisper, “Just so you know, he cries when he loses.”
“So I’ve heard.”
The Teapot motions for me to step in closer. “Nate came to my house for a little homecoming shindig—my aunt Jean-Louise was here from out of town and I wanted her to meet some of my fellow thespians. Anyhow, we played a little game of gin rummy. Turns out Auntie Jean-Louise is about the best rummy player in all Louisville. Well, she dusted Little Nate’s feathers and let me tell you, that boy cried like a wet baby.” She shakes her head ruefully.
I grab her shoulders. “Wait. Your aunt is from Louisville? The cheer coach from Louisville?”
The Teapot nods, then rolls her hands, one around the other, her voice rising to a crescendo as she cries, “Go-o-o-o-o, Louisville!” She finishes with a fist punch over the head.
I drape my arm over the Teapot’s shoulder and lead her away. “Sarah, I wonder if I could interest you in a little swap.”
Meanwhile, Eric moves to the whiteboard. “All right, everyone, let’s get things started.” I slide into the seat across from Little Nate. Adam is at the table farthest from me. The parents and friends who have come to watch find seats set up in rows near the reference desk, though I suspect that once we get under way they’ll move around and watch the games up close. Suddenly the library doors fly open and Krista races in.
“Woohoo! Go, Nora!” Krista blows me a kiss and rattles her pom-poms.
She’s not alone.
“Win that match!” says Becca.
“Rook that guy’s prawn right to the moon!” shouts Chelsey, punctuating her cheer with a straddle jump.
I manage a pained smile as everyone in the room looks from the cheer squad to the lone cheerleader sitting in front of a chessboard. Adam looks confused, but amused, as my personal cheer squad settles noisily into the spectator section.
“Quiet down, quiet down,” orders Eric. “We need to get started, but first let’s go through a few rules.”
Becca reaches over and draws a little imaginary zipper across Chelsey’s lips with her index finger and thumb.
Eric turns to the players. He gives a brief lecture about sportsmanship. He explains that all eight games will start at the same time, and that clocks will be set for forty minutes. Players who finish their games in under that time are free to watch other games. “We’ll start the second round of games five minutes after the last players in round one finish,” he says. “Wish your opponents ‘good luck,’ and white players, begin your games.”
We’ve been randomly assigned white or black, and in my game against Nathaniel, I make the first move. The library becomes strangely quiet. The only sounds are the slap of chess players hitting the buttons on their clocks, the creak of chairs as people cross or uncross their legs and the tap of chess pieces being put into position. We’re only twenty-six minutes in when Corinna walks by and watches us play.
“Did you win?” Nate whispers to her.
“Not a chance,” she says.
She heads out to the hall and I become acutely aware that we are still being watched. I slowly turn my head to find Adam right behind me, smiling, his hands clasped behind his back. I turn back to the game as Little Nate slides a knight into position. My heart thumps in my ears. Distracted, acting too fast, I respond by moving my bishop, and instantly lose him to a pawn. Crap! Behind me, Adam releases a breath like he’s been punched. We play on, and twelve minutes later I say, as calmly as I can manage, “Checkmate.” I’ve done it! I’ve made it to the second round. I turn to see the look on Adam’s face. Surprised? Impressed? Awestruck? But he’s nowhere in sight.
From the seats over by the reference desk a rustling noise breaks the stillness as Krista, Becca and Chelsey shake their pom-poms and mouth a silent cheer. I give them a thumbs-up and hurry to the restroom before it’s time for the next match.
I come out of the bathroom and find Adam at the water fountain. He’s with Corinna, discussing what she could have done differently in their game. When he sees me, he excuses himself and comes over to me. I have successfully avoided any semblance of a conversation with him since the dance, and now, maybe, just maybe, I have redeemed myself.
“I didn’t know you played chess,” he says.
I give him my most nonchalant shrug.
Eric steps into the hallway. “Second round is about to start,” he says, before ducking back inside.
“Look, I’m playing Marty the next round,” says Adam. “It’ll be a good game if you want to stick around and watch it.”
It takes me a moment to process his words. Wait. What? The only way I could watch his round-two match is if I’d just lost to Little Nate. He assumes I lost my match! Would he think differently if I’d had time to change out of my cheer uniform before I got here? I struggle for a clever reply, but before I find it, Little Nate arrives on the scene. He may not be a very good chess player, and he may be a crybaby, but he’s a crybaby with flawless timing. He brushes past us, weeping loudly, and disappears into the boys’ room. The Teapot is right be
hind him. She bangs on the boys’ room door. “Nate, honey? Come on out of there and let’s have a little chitty-chat. It’s only a game, remember?”
Corinna, who has been hovering, congratulates me.
“Wow. Yeah. Congratulations,” says Adam. “I thought—” He hesitates. We both know what he thought—that I lost.
I politely thank them both. The Teapot, waiting patiently for Nate to emerge, glances from Adam to me. “I just don’t know who I’ll root for if y’all face off in the final round.”
Adam regains his composure. He sizes me up. “That could be an interesting game.”
“Very interesting,” I say.
My skirt flares as I turn on my toes and head back to the library. I’ll show him that I’m not just a chess player—I’m a chess champion.
I win round two in thirty-one minutes. Round three takes twenty-nine. It has gotten desperately warm in the library. Instead of getting more pumped with each successive victory, my cheer section seems to be running out of steam. Adam has peeled off his sweatshirt. The Teapot fans herself with a copy of Hot Rod magazine. And me? It could be snowing in here and I would still be on fire!
Eric announces that it will be Adam versus me in the final round amid groans of disapproval from some of the other players. It was bad enough that Eric gave me his spot. I am an interloper. They don’t want me to take down one of their own.
We have a ten-minute break before the last game and someone brings out a platter of sandwiches. The chess players swarm the food. My cheering section takes advantage of the break in action to put on an impromptu halftime show. Krista invites me to join them but I need a few minutes away from the action to get ready for my final match. I grab my gear bag and head to the girls’ room.
The large glitter star that encircled my left eye has smeared, so I wash the whole thing off. I let down my hair, brush it, and put it back into a ponytail. I consider changing out of my uniform into the outfit I’d planned to wear all along, but no. It’s okay for me to be dressed like a cheerleader—that’s who I am.
I brush some fresh color onto my face. Give my lips a quick coat of gloss. I’m zipping up my bag when I spot the reading I’d brought along in case the bus trip got boring. There are Phil’s chess notes. A book on openings from the library. And, of course, there’s the chess book from Dad with the pages by Ben Franklin that I have read so many times.
With great hope I reread Ben’s closing paragraph on what to do if you find yourself obliterating your opponent:
Snatch not eagerly at every advantage offered by his unskillfulness or inattention . . . you may, indeed, happen to lose the game to your opponent; but you will win what is better, his esteem, his respect, and his affection.
Adam has shut down each of his opponents in under twenty minutes—I don’t stand a chance of winning, let alone beating him badly. But how I want Adam’s esteem! I want his respect. And more than anything, I want his affection.
I join Adam at the table and he sweeps an open hand toward the empty chair. I sit and fold my hands onto my lap. The spectator section empties as the chess club guys crowd around us to watch the final game up close. Eric makes them move back to give us breathing room, then clears his throat. “Shake hands, and white player, make your first move.”
Adam reaches out for my hand, and I am reminded of that first day out on our front lawn. His hand folds around mine and, zap! A pulse travels up my arm and whacks me in my prefrontal cortex.
“Good luck,” he says. He studies me. Reads me. “I must admit, I’m kind of surprised to find myself sitting here with you.”
His smile disarms me. Dimples should not be allowed at a chess match.
“Good luck to you,” I say. “You’re going to need it.”
Adam, who is playing white, cocks his head and stares at me. I now know how it feels to be a bug in Joshie’s tank. His eyes drift to the board and narrow as he contemplates an opening. Finally, he slides a pawn to e4 and presses the button on his clock.
Game on. Suddenly, it’s like when I cheer, or when I did floor exercise routines at gymnastics meets. It’s the same feeling I’ve had these past weeks playing with Phil, and I suspect it’s what made me play all the time back when I was a little kid. Snap! I am totally here, and I am here to win. All my focus is on the board, deciphering, considering. His opening play was pretty standard, moving toward controlling the center and freeing up his queen and his bishop.
I play an equally standard response and mirror his move. I slap the button on my clock. Adam’s next move will clue me in more about his opening strategy. Is he playing Ruy Lopez? Giuoco Piano? King’s Gambit?
Adam’s hand hovers over the board. He moves his bishop to c4.
I hesitate. Seriously? Could he really think he’s going to do me in with Scholar’s Mate? It’s only the lamest opening ever, used to put away some blowhard chess poseur by annihilating him and going to checkmate in four moves.
What would Ben Franklin do? Foresight: I’ll let him think he’s got me. It’ll rattle him all the more when I pull out of it at the last minute, and by looking a few moves ahead I see exactly how I’ll do that. I mirror him again and move my bishop to c5. I press the button on my clock with self-assurance and look up at him. He’s got a total poker face going, and as I suspected he would, he slides his queen to h5, putting pressure on the f7 square—the weakest square on the board.
Circumspection: I consider all my options and what he’ll do in response. He’s expecting me to move a knight, attacking his queen. Then he’ll shut me down, take the f7 square and put me into checkmate.
Caution: I need to be sure that whatever piece I move, I place myself in the strongest position possible.
I let my hand drift toward the pawn. Before touching anything, I look at Adam. His teeth rest on his lower lip. His eyes focus on my hand. He thinks he’s got me. I wiggle my fingers, then settle them onto my queen instead, and slide her to f6. Adam’s eyes narrow as I deliberately press the button on my clock. I give him my wryest smile. “Did you really think you could take me with Scholar’s Mate?”
The look in Adam’s eyes is mischievous. “I had to make sure your first three games weren’t just beginner’s luck.”
After that little exchange we are both heads-down-nothing-but-chess. We play a slow, cautious game. There’s too much at stake to risk making a single ill-planned move. As we take turns sliding our pieces around the board, the clock seems to quicken its pace. By the time we’re each down to about twelve minutes remaining, surprisingly few pieces have left the board. The worst would be if I ran out of time before he did and he won simply because it took me longer to make each move. Still, if there was anything Phil cautioned me about these past few weeks, it was to not freak out about the ticking clock. Take time to look ahead, he said. Consider the ramifications of each move. Proceed with caution.
But it’s time to throw caution to the wind. I speed up my moves, and so does Adam.
It’s his turn. He grinds his teeth as he considers the board. Sweat blooms on his forehead. Over by the reference desk Chelsey has fallen asleep with her head on Becca’s shoulder. Krista, thumbs flying, is busily texting. Time ticks on. There are stifled groans from the chess club when I make a clever play, and unstifled clapping whenever Adam shines. No guesswork about who the favorite is here.
Usually by this time in a game I have a really clear sense of who is going to win and how they’re going to get there. With this game, I am at a loss as to how it will end. It’s my move. I narrow my eyes and focus on the lay of the board.
Tick-tick-tick. Bishop? Rook? I slide my knight one square forward and two to the right.
Adam catches me completely off guard when he leans in, and ever so slightly whispers, “You know, I can’t figure you out.” He makes a move.
“You’re trying to distract me,” I whisper back.
“I’m not. It’s just that I really don’t get what you’re about. Ever since I met you, you’ve had me totally baffled.” W
ith the rest of the chess club hovering, he speaks so I can barely hear him.
It has worked. I’m distracted. Not just by what he’s said, but by the fact that this is the closest we’ve come to having an actual conversation since the dance. Full sentences with nouns, verbs, adjectives. But the silence these past few weeks has been totally my fault, not his. Every time he has approached me or tried to start a conversation, I’ve panicked, still mortified by how ridiculous I must seem to him.
I glance again at the clock and my throat tightens. I need to respond to his move. But more than that? I need to respond to what he’s just said.
“Is it really that hard to figure out?” I say. “I wanted to get to know you better.”
I push my bishop four squares down the diagonal and—No! I see my mistake instantly. But there are no take-backs in this game. If Adam’s ploy was to distract me, it worked.
Foresight. He could take me in three moves. I avoid his gaze. Surely he has seen it, too.
“Maybe I wanted the same thing you did.” He barely glances at the board before shifting his rook, not taking advantage of my last suicidal move, and instead making himself completely vulnerable!
My eyebrows meet in the middle. What is he up to? Is it a trap?
The chess club guys close in. They murmur. They shuffle. They breathe.
I study the board. I study Adam’s face. He doesn’t have the look I’ve seen in Phil’s computer-screen eyes when all he wants is to win. Instead, he looks at me to read my reaction, to his words and to his move.
Was that Adam’s plan? To say something utterly unbelievable so that I would lose my train of thought and let the clock run down? I tug hard on my ponytail. Focus, Nora. Focus! Foresight. Circumspection. Caution. Do I do the obvious and capitalize on his mistake when he didn’t capitalize on mine? Ben Franklin pops into my head. I consider what he said about not taking advantage of your opponent’s poor move:
How (Not) to Find a Boyfriend Page 24