Focused Page 2

  “Can you stop biting your nails?” I mutter.

  Layla glares at me. “What’s your problem?”

  “Nothing,” I whisper. “You’re just so loud.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Everyone needs to be listening to what I’m saying right now. Not talking. Is that clear?” Mr. Lee looks at me.

  I nod and swallow hard.

  Everyone is staring at me, like they know I have a defect that makes it impossible for me not to mess up.

  Mr. Lee tucks his hands into his pockets and walks across the room. “We all want to win the championship this year, and your performance in practice is a big part of how I’ll decide who will be competing. We have five regular season tournaments starting next Saturday. I expect all of you to be present and prepared to play.”

  “And you have to actually show up on time, Clea,” Dylan says under his breath, but loud enough so everyone around us can hear. He leans back in his chair, pushing the front legs off the ground.

  My face and neck feel hot, and I’m pretty sure I’m turning red, but I don’t say anything back to him, because I don’t want him to ask why I was late. I need to forget about the quiz so I can play my best and win.

  “Any questions before we start?” Mr. Lee asks.

  No hands go up.

  “Okay. Get to work,” he says to everyone, and then he walks over to me. “Let’s chat for a minute.”

  I stand up and follow him away from the tables. My heart is beating hard inside my chest. I read the secret T-shirt he’s wearing under his thin plaid button-down—Death Cab for Cutie. I think it’s a band that’s really good. All of the T-shirts he wears have music or plays or books on them. They’re kind of hard to see hidden under his teacher clothes, but I usually find a way. I think it’s the second coolest part about him. The coolest part is that he’s a National Master, which is a really high ranking in chess. Our matches aren’t officially rated, because our middle school is in a league with other private schools where that isn’t allowed, so I don’t know where I stand exactly, but I’m aiming to be a National Master in high school.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” I say before Mr. Lee has a chance to point it out first. “I—it won’t happen again. I swear.” I don’t want him to think I’m full of excuses or bad at school and horrible at following rules, even though I really am. I had a tutor this summer—Chloe-Louise. She tried to help me with reading comprehension and being organized, but it obviously didn’t make a difference, because I’m still the same.

  “Clea, I want you to understand why you need to be on time for chess,” Mr. Lee says. “If I’ve selected you to play in a tournament and you’re late for the first round, you might be forced to forfeit the game, and every point counts. Or I could decide to replace you with one of our alternates. Being picked to represent our team is an honor for top players, who have shown they’re serious about chess. I need to be able to trust that you’re going to be here or I won’t be able to pick you to compete. Does that make sense?”

  I nod. “You can count on me,” I say, because I want that to be true more than anything.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he says and smiles, like he understands that it was a mistake and it’s okay this one time, as long as it never happens again.

  When I sit back down, I hit the clock. Sanam is playing white, which means she has the first move, but I get to start the game. And I’m ready. I don’t need more time. I want to play chess so I can stop thinking about everything else.

  Sanam slides the pawn in front of her king up two squares. She taps the clock and writes down the first move in her scorebook.

  It’s a trap. A classic Sicilian setup. I memorized the top ten chess traps of all time so I’d be able to use them in tournaments, but I never thought about what would happen if someone tried to corner me. Now my time is ticking away, and I’m not sure what to do. I don’t mirror Sanam’s move, because that feels really right, and traps play on instincts, which means it can’t be a good decision. Instead I move my pawn on the queen’s side up two squares, tap the clock, and write down what I did. Move. Let go. Tap. Write. I hum the words in my head as a way to sing them into my memory. I need to remember all the steps if I’m going to win. Mr. Lee treats every match like a tournament, where we’re disqualified if we don’t keep a record of the game. He wants everything about playing chess to be second nature.

  Sanam’s forehead folds up. I’m pretty sure she was expecting something else from me, because she doesn’t do anything for almost a minute. It’s weird to watch her stall. She clears her throat, taps her perfectly painted yellow fingernails on the table, and glances at the clock. She takes a deep breath and develops her knight—up two squares and over one—clop, clop, clop.

  I move my pawn.

  Sanam moves her pawn.

  Once I get into the rhythm, all I see are answers everywhere. There are patterns on the board that make it clear where each piece is supposed to go next, like a bunch of connected mazes that all lead to one place—the enemy king. My heart beats faster. I can’t stop tapping my toes. I’m stuck in a word-proof, sound-proof, everything-proof tunnel.

  All that matters are the pieces in front of me.

  I started playing chess last year. It was Red’s idea. He thought I’d be a natural. We’ve never been in the same class, except for homeroom, which doesn’t count, because there are no grades or assignments or homework. I’ve told him about all the problems I had in school last year, and he still thinks I’m smart like he is. I want to argue with him about that, but he won’t let me.

  The reason I said yes to joining the chess team in the first place was that last year was hard-slash-bad for Red. His parents got divorced and his dad moved to a fancy, faraway ski town in Colorado with his girlfriend, Barb (aka Barf), and I wanted to be a good friend.

  At first, I thought chess would be boring and way too hard for me, like math. But once I started playing, I realized it was actually fun. It’s sort of like a video game and a puzzle and tennis all put together, except so much better.

  My next move against Sanam is obvious—take her pawn out with my pawn—and for a second it seems too good to be true. I stop myself and think through all the possibilities to make sure I’m not being trapped into something that might appear like an awesome idea now, but isn’t. Once I’ve played through the next few steps in my mind and I’m confident, I let go of my piece.

  Sanam uses her knight to take out my pawn. Good. I was counting on that.

  I move my knight and tap the clock.

  When I look up, Sanam is placing her knight down.

  I move my other knight out, because I think I can win this way—I know I can.

  A few people on the team are whispering behind me, but I don’t look up. I’m too busy thinking about the board and Sanam and making the right next move.

  Sanam captures another one of my pieces and taps the clock without realizing that she’s left my rook on an empty file with direct access to her king. I slide my rook in a straight line across the board. Checkmate! I did it! I won!

  “Wooo-hoooo!” Red shouts.

  I look up and he’s standing there grinning at me.

  There are fireworks going off in my brain—green and red and blue and yellow.

  I reach out to shake Sanam’s hand. “Good game.” My words sound happy, like they’re bouncing off a trampoline and flying around in the air.

  She shakes my hand back, but doesn’t say anything. She gives her score sheet to Mr. Lee as fast as she can, like she can’t wait to get rid of it.

  “You dominated that game,” Red says.

  “You should have seen Sanam’s opening. I dodged a serious trap.”

  He puts up his hand, and I high-five him.

  “Nice job, Clea.” Mr. Lee pats my back. “I can tell you’ve put in a lot of time. It’s paying off. Keep up the hard work.”

  I can’t stop smiling, because I won and Mr. Lee noticed that I’m even better than before. For a few m
inutes, I’m floating on a cloud of victory, until I remember everything else that happened today.

  * * *

  After school, I sit outside on the curb by the main pickup area and wait for Mom. There are no other students left. It’s just me. Some of the teachers are even starting to leave. Mom was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago, which means I should be doing my homework right now. Even though I’m the one who made up the rule that I have to get started by 4:00 p.m., it still feels like I’m behind. And after today, I need to find a way to make sure that never happens again.

  I drop my bag and start pacing, until Mom finally pulls up at 4:05 p.m. “Sorry I’m so late,” she says when I open the car door.

  “I’m saw-weee, too,” Henley squeaks from the backseat. “Ms. B had a special surprise for Mommy!”

  “Really?” I turn around to face her. “What was it?” Her dirty-blond hair is sticking out in every direction and her cheeks are red and splotchy, like she’s been running around outside on a snowy day. Henley is all dimples and soft, sweet features. I’m hard lines and lots of reddish-brown hair.

  “Chocolate gummy bears!” Henley smiles with her whole face. “I saved one.” She holds out a mushy, chocolate-covered hand.

  “Thank you.” I smile and pop her present into my mouth.

  She looks out the window and lets her legs swing side to side. “I love speech,” she says softly to no one in particular. It’s more like a quiet announcement. Henley is my favorite person on earth. She makes me almost forget I’m mad at Mom for being late.

  Henley has a hard time hearing and speaking up and pronouncing words. It sounds like some of her letters get caught in a warm, sticky pot of caramel. They’re gooey and garbled and coated in sweetness. Her speech therapist, Ms. B (for Blumenthal), told Mom that she has to practice using her own voice more. She said I make that hard. I guess it’s because Henley doesn’t have to say very much to me. She can point and make a face, and I pretty much always know exactly what she wants. I didn’t realize the whole special sister mind-reading thing was hurting her or I never would have done it in the first place.

  “Henley, as soon as we get home, you’re going straight into the tub,” Mom says.

  “NO! No bath!” she shouts. “I want to play with Clea!”

  “I have to do homework, but we can play chess or whatever else you want this weekend,” I say. “Promise.”

  “Chess! Teach me!” she says, forgetting about her bath. “Can you, me, and Hilda play togefer?”

  “Duh!” I say. “We’d never leave Hilda out.” It doesn’t matter that Hilda is our dog, and can’t play chess. Henley doesn’t like to exclude anyone.

  “Duh!” Henley imitates me.

  “Thank you,” Mom mouths to me.

  I shrug. I don’t like it when she thanks me for being nice to my sister, like it’s a chore, when it’s not.

  Once we get home, I go straight upstairs to my room and turn on the thunderstorm soundtrack Chloe-Louise gave me. It’s supposed to make homework easier. So far, all it does is make me feel like it’s raining. But apparently I need to “be patient” and “give it a chance,” because any minute now it’s going to start helping.

  Hilda scurries into my room and jumps onto my bed, digging and circling three times before she finally gives in and folds herself into a tiny black fluff ball. That’s been her thing for the last three months, ever since Mom let me visit the rescue dogs at the MSPCA. I wanted to adopt every single dog in the entire place, because I love animals, but Mom flat-out rejected that idea, and said I had to pick one. As soon as I saw Hilda, I knew she belonged in our family.

  My first choice to rename Hilda was Pumpernickel, because her fur reminds me of pumpernickel bread, which is my favorite, even if Red thinks it’s disgusting. But I felt like coming into a new home with a new family would be a lot of change at once, and Hilda might want to keep her old name, since it was all that was left from her past.

  Homework. I have to do homework. Although first I have to put on more comfortable clothes.

  Then I sit down on the floor and look through my planner, because starting right now, I’m going to be super organized and prepared and on top of everything. I take out Spanish and math. I need to finish both assignments before dinner, and then, after I eat, I’ll do history and science and practice my author presentation for Mr. Lee’s English class until it’s perfect.

  My phone is buzzing somewhere. It’s not next to me or in my pocket. I check my backpack, and then I stand up and look all around my room, but I can’t find it. UGH. Seriously? Where did I leave it this time? I know it’s probably Red calling me, and I can’t flake out on him again. I promised I wouldn’t, so I need to find my phone now, before he stops believing me. I open my closet. The dress I wore all day is on the floor. I kick it away, but my phone isn’t there. That’s when I remember—I didn’t have it at school. It’s still on my bed where I left it this morning! I grab it and call Red back.

  “I hate waiting for my dad to call,” Red says as soon as he picks up. “He’s always late. And I don’t need to be reminded that he doesn’t care about me. He moved to Colorado, so that’s pretty clear.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “The worst part is that I was actually excited to tell him about chess. And now I’m just mad that he’s late.”

  I sit back down on the floor next to my backpack. “That really stinks.”

  “Yeah, it does. Can you stay on the phone until he calls?”

  “Of course,” I say, because I’m glad there’s something I can do to help.

  “It might be kind of a while. Last time, I waited forty-eight minutes.”

  “I’m not hanging up,” I say.

  “Thanks.” He takes a deep breath like he’s relieved.

  It’s already 5:06 p.m. I glance down at the blank worksheet in front of me. “But I need to do homework while we wait. I have kind of a lot.”

  “Me too,” he says. “There’s so much more this year.”

  “You think so, too? I thought it was just me.”

  “No way. Seventh grade is a lot harder.”

  It feels good to hear him say that, like we’re the same. And maybe if I work hard from now on, I can fix my grades and still play chess. I put my phone on speaker so I don’t have to hold it up to my ear while I start Spanish.

  “Clea, why is it raining in your room?” he asks.

  “Oh. I forgot that was on,” I say. “It’s supposed to help me concentrate or whatever.”

  “Does it?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, because that’s what I want the answer to be.

  “Cool.”

  I open my textbook. Imagine you can see into the future of a famous person you admire … I point to each word and try to block out the sound of Red breathing into the phone. Write at least five sentences in Spanish explaining what will happen to this person tomorrow morning, afternoon, and night. I make it to the end of the directions, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. The words don’t sink in. They fall away and disappear like raindrops off a thick plastic coat.

  I close my eyes and try to let the stormy sounds help me focus. I need to finish something before dinner. Only, Red is still breathing loudly, and Mom is rummaging around in the kitchen, banging pots and pans together and talking to herself or Henley or someone on the phone. I want to turn off all the noises, because it’s almost time to eat and I haven’t done anything!

  “He’s calling,” Red says. “I want it to be normal, like before.”

  “Maybe act like it is, and it will be.”

  “Okay. I mean, it can’t hurt,” he says. “Thanks for being the same.”

  “No problem,” I say, even though right now I really wish I could be different.

  “Clea!” Mom shouts.

  I put my pencil down on the blank piece of paper in front of me, shut off the thunderstorm, and walk out of my room.

  Downstairs it smells like butter and sautéed vegetables, and I know r
ight away that Mom made the number one best dinner of all time—pasta primavera with homemade spaghetti and vegetarian Caesar salad. Yes!

  Henley is dancing in the middle of the kitchen. “Clea’s favorite, Clea’s favorite. It’s your favorite.” She points both of her fingers at me and bounces to her own beat.

  “You know it,” I say, pointing back at her.

  Mom is standing next to the stove, stirring sauce and balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder. She isn’t saying anything, except, “Totally. I get that,” which means she’s probably listening to Mel, her roommate from when she lived in New York City. Mom looks up, smiles at me, and points to the empty table. “We’re on it,” I say.

  “Hey, munchkin, help me set things up.” I wave Henley over.

  “Don’t call me that, unless you are thinking about a jelly one. I hate chocolate glazed.”

  “Since when?”

  “I was bowrn,” she says, hands on her hips.

  “Get over here, jelly munchkin.”

  She smiles and follows my lead. I hand her the forks and napkins, and I carry the plates and knives, and we set the table together.

  “Dad!” Henley shouts as soon as he walks into the kitchen.

  “Kiddo!” he says, trying to match her enthusiasm, which is impossible for any human. He hugs her and then me. “It smells great.” He takes off his tie, kisses Mom hello, then reaches over her shoulder and grabs a piece of the pasta and drops it into his mouth without getting any butter on his blue suit.

  “You too,” Mom says into the phone and hangs up. She turns around and looks at us. “Thank you, girls, for setting the table.”

  Henley smiles so big her eyes squeeze together.

  Mom tucks her wavy brown hair behind her ears. She picks up the salad and pasta and puts both in the middle of the table, then tells us about her day.

  “How was everyone else’s day?” Dad asks after we’ve had a chance to eat. He glances at each of us, waiting for an update. I look into my lap to avoid answering.

  “Loose tooth.” Henley opens her mouth wide and wiggles one on the bottom. It’s hanging by a thread.