I nearly drop my phone.
Okay: I do drop my phone, but I save it before it splashes into a beaker full of ammonia. Then I glance around the chemistry classroom, wondering if anyone else heard.
The other students are either texting or puttering around with their equipment. Mrs. Agarwal is at her desk, pretending to grade papers but probably reading Bill Nye erotic fanfiction. A hopefully- not- lethal smell of ethanoic acid wafts up from my bench, but my AirPods are still in my ears.
No one is paying attention to me or the video on my phone, so I press Play to resume it.
Time I am expecting to see Zendaya. Harry Styles. Billie Eilish. The entirety of BTS, crammed on the couch of whatever latenight show the YouTube autoplay algorithm decided to feed me after the pH experiment tutorial ended. But itâs just some dude. A boy, even? He looks out of place in the red velvet chair, with his dark shirt, dark slacks, dark hair, dark expression. Intensely unreadable as he says in a deep, serious voice, the hostâ Jim or James or Jimmyâ asks.
the guest says.
The audience eats it up, clapping and hooting, and thatâs when I decide to read the caption.
, it says. Thereâs a description explaining who he is, but I donât need it. I might not recognize the face, but I canât remember a moment in my life when I didnât know the name.
His tone is so dry, it has me wondering how his publicist talked him into this interview. But the audience laughs, and the host does, too. He leans forward, obviously charmed by this young man whoâs built like an athlete, thinks like a theoretical physicist, and has the net worth of a Silicon Valley entrepreneur. An unusual, handsome prodigy who wonât admit to being special.
I wonder if Jim- Jimmy- James has heard what heard. The gossip. The whispered stories. The dark rumors about the golden boy of chess.
ChessTok, â the host has to look down at his card, because normal Grandmasters are not as famous as Sawyerâ â
Sawyer nods, once.
Three days ago, turned sixteen.
Ten years and three days ago, I received my first chess setâ plastic pieces, pink and purpleâ and cried with joy. Iâd use it all day long, carry it everywhere with me, then snuggle it in my sleep.
Now I canât even remember the feel of a pawn in my hand.
Sawyer says. The host looks taken aback, like he didnât think Sawyer would go , but recovers quickly.
âAm More audience laughter. I roll my eyes.
The hostâs eyebrow lifts.
Sawyer doesnât hesitate.
âMallory?â A hand settles on my shoulder. I jump and tear out one pod. âDid you need any help?â
âNope!â I smile at Mrs. Agarwal, sliding the phone into my back pocket. âJust finished the instruction video.â
âOh, perfect. Make sure you put on gloves before you add the acidic solution.â
âI will.â
The rest of the class is almost done with the experiment. I furrow my brow, hurry to catch up, and a few minutes later, when I canât find my funnel and spill my baking soda, I stop thinking about Sawyer, or about the way his voice sounded when he said that he never wanted anything as much as chess. And I donât think of him again for a little over two years. That is, until the day we play for the first time.
And I wipe the floor with him.