“You’re staying after today, right?” Jack asked me during English class. He rolled the edge of his paper into a thin tube before unrolling it again.

“Yeah. You’ve only reminded me every day for the last two weeks that I need to be there,” I said.

Jack leaned forward in his chair. “I just want to be sure.”

“You make it sound like I skip meetings on a regular basis. I’ve only missed a few for test retakes or yearbook assignments,” I said.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Yes, but you might have one of those other commitments today. I want to be sure you don’t leave me hosting on my own. You’re the one who met the guy. He’s expecting you there.”

I’d arranged for someone to come and talk to the club: a Candidate Master who graduated from our high school and had played competitively since college. We’d met at one of the weekend tournaments.

“Whether I’m there or not, I doubt he’ll care. He’s a nice guy. You’d be fine. Maybe I should just go home right after school . . .”

Jack glared at me. “Don’t even joke about that.”

I shook my head. Jack was always nervous when we did anything out of the ordinary for the club. He wanted things to be perfect.

“See you later,” I said.

After school, I walked into the library conference room and set my bag on the long table in the back.

Jack was pacing back and forth across the length of the room.

“That’s new,” I said, pointing to the podium at the front.

Jack jumped at the sound of my voice as if I’d appeared from nowhere. “They brought it in for the guest speaker.”

“Anything else we need?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I think we’re all good. Someone’s bringing the cake, so that’s taken care of.” Then he glanced up at the clock. “He should be here already. He didn’t contact me to say he was running late. Did you check your messages? Maybe he’s not coming.”

“He’s not late. Nobody’s even here yet.” I gestured at the empty room. “I’m sure he won’t be here until after the buses leave. Parking is impossible.”

“Right. Right.” Jack resumed his pacing.

One of the seniors walked in carrying the sheet cake we’d ordered. “Where do you want this?” she asked.

I waved her toward one of the empty tables.

“Where are the plates?” she asked.

Jack froze. “Um . . . the plates?”

“I can’t believe you forgot,” I said with a laugh. “You’ve been so worried about all the little details.”

“This isn’t funny.” Jack looked like he was going to be sick.

I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. You’re in charge of welcoming our guest. He’s a great guy. Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Jack asked.

“Theater kids. I’m sure they’ll have some we can use.”

As I walked toward the auditorium, I saw Dylan and his buddies out of the corner of my eye. I was an idiot. I should have sent someone else. I quickened my pace, hoping they hadn’t spotted me.

Too late.

“Hey, Trissy, where are you going in such a hurry?” It sounded like Dominic’s voice, but they all sounded kind of similar.

Why did they always ask where I was going? Where I was going was usually away from them. In any direction.

Without a conscious thought, I turned into the mathematics wing and ducked into Ms. Nelson’s room.

Marcos was there again. He lifted his head up from the desk and squinted up at me as I entered the room. The door closed behind me with a definitive click.

“Tristan.” It wasn’t a question.

“Um . . . yeah.” There was no use denying it. He knew who I was.

Footsteps sounded near the door. Dylan opened the door a crack, but once he determined I wasn’t alone, he closed it quickly.

I let out a big breath once the sound of footsteps faded away.

“I’m taking it they are not friends of yours.” Marcos twirled a pencil between his fingers.

“Not really. No.”

Marcos nodded. “They’re assholes.”

I gave a short laugh that sounded more like a hiccup.

“Where are you headed?” Marcos asked, pulling papers from the desk and putting them in his backpack.

“Where?” He was asking the same question that Dylan had, but I felt the need to answer this time. “I need to get plates. And napkins. From the theater. For the chess club.” My sentences came out all short and choppy.

“That’s on my way,” he said, shoulding his backpack.

I wondered why that mattered.

Marcos gestured for me to leave the room.

So there I was, walking down the hallway with Marcos Grayden several steps behind me. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. When we got to the lobby of the auditorium, I expected him to leave, but he didn’t. He stood waiting in the background. Was he waiting for me? Why?

“Hey, Tristan,” one of the theater kids said. “Need something?”

“Yeah. I . . .” Suddenly my mind went blank. Between the near miss with Dylan and the strange behavior from Marcos, I wasn’t entirely focused on my mission.

It was Marcos who spoke. “Plates and napkins.”

The person who’d greeted me was startled. She hadn’t seen him standing behind me, despite the fact that he was toweringly obvious.

“Oh. Of course. Of course,” she stuttered. “What’s the occasion?”

Marcos looked to me for an answer.

“Guest speaker for the chess club,” I said.

The girl disappeared and came back with a stack of plates and a roll of paper towels. “Couldn’t find the napkins.”

“No problem. This will be great. Thanks.” I took the supplies off her hands.

She nodded. “If you need more . . .”

“No, this is more than enough,” I said.

Marcos followed me down the hallway towards the media center. I’d expected him to leave the building, not continue to keep me company, but for some reason he was still several steps behind me. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I half turned to face him. “You don’t need to—”

“I heard there was cake,” Marcos interrupted, his voice a low rumble.

“Yeah.” I tried to smile, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t work.

To say Jack looked shocked when I walked through the door with Marcos Grayden in tow would be an understatement. In fact, it seemed like everyone in the room froze and turned in unison.

Their eyes slid over Marcos and landed firmly on me as if to ask: “What have you done?”

One of the girls in the club found her voice enough to ask, “Is he our speaker?”

I choked.

Marcos smiled, but it wasn’t the easy smile he used with his brother. It was a dangerous smile—one that could be used to frighten small children away and make anyone think twice before crossing him. The girl shrank back, disappearing into the small crowd still awaiting our guest.

I brought the plates and napkins over to the table with the cake. Nobody made a move to serve themselves even after Jack said, “No need to wait until the speaker arrives. Help yourselves.”

After a few moments, Marcos took a plate and served himself a slice of cake. Other people followed, although they gave him plenty of space. Shortly after everyone had their cake, the Candidate Master showed up.

“Hello, Mr. Rush,” Jack greeted him.

“Hello.” Mr. Rush shook Jack’s hand before turning to me. “Good to see you again, Tristan.” The man was tall and thin, with pale brown hair and startling blue eyes. We weren’t the most diverse crowd, but he was probably the whitest person in the room. “Where do you want me?”

Jack pointed to the podium. “Do you need a projector?”

“No, but I’ve got a few things to put on display. Is there a table we could bring up?”

Jack dispatched people to drag one of the folding tables up to the front of the room.

“I brought some of my favorite chess sets and a few books I recommend,” our guest said, pulling things out of a box and setting them up on the table. “Obviously the sets are just for fun, but these books are all excellent resources.”

People crowded around the table and took pictures with their phones.

“I thought I could start out with questions and then go on from there,” Mr. Rush said as he took his place behind the podium. People went back to their seats and raised their hands to ask questions.

“What’s it like competing nationally?”

“How is it different from local competitions?”

“When did you become a Candidate Master?”

“How long have you been playing chess?”

Honestly I had a hard time paying attention to the speaker with Marcos Grayden sitting right there in the audience. He seemed to be listening carefully to everything Mr. Rush had to say. He was paying better attention than I was.

I wondered if Marcos had ever played chess, not that it mattered one way or another.

He stayed until the end.

What was his game?