#10 In Which Someone Has Unmasked You

Kids come in dribs and drabs after their games and some cry, some are greeted with hugs some shrug off their losses and play on their iPads.  PS 6 is not a school we frequently come to for chess tournaments and the crowd seems a little edgier to me today. I hear ratings being thrown around, or maybe I hear them because I am trying so hard not to think about the numbers and what they mean. 

Before we entered the auditorium I saw my daughter’s rating listed on a sheet and she had dropped over 100 points. I tell her.

She’s 9 and I know can handle it.

“So.” She says. “I don’t care.”

After her first game she comes into the auditorium and tells me that she lost. She didn’t feel like notating.

“It distracts me.” She says.

Parents mill around and I go into the cafeteria and see another parent from her school who asks if we are going to National’s.

“No, I didn’t sign her up and it’s a big trip.”

I feel myself holding back tears.

There are more moms and more happy kids and I feel myself sinking. Quicksand.

They all look so perfect.

I walk back into the auditorium and gaze around at the wooden seats filled with kids and insane parents.

She saunters in with her scraggly hair in her face.

She lost game 2.

“It’s only a game.”

I am furious at myself for caring, and at her for not.

The kids are glued to their iPads and she asks to play some stupid game like Angry Birds and my friend’s 3-year-old hands her his. He is practically sitting on top of her as she plays her game. Eyes glued to the screen.

The old Russian guy starts to announce the next round for her section. My kid isn’t listening.

“Hey!” I say.  “He called your section. Stop with the iPad.” 

She reluctantly hands it over to my friend’s son and heads to her next game.

“Good luck, Sweetie.” I say half- heartedly.

“Thanks.”

I walk back into the cafeteria and see my friend who is standing with her daughter.  I approach her. She looks up at me.

“J, can we talk?”

“Sure!” She easily leaves her kid and follows me to the hallway.

I slip down the wall and start to cry.

“Why doesn’t she care about her rating? Why does she lose all her games? What is wrong with her? Is she stupid? Her rating dropped over 100 points. What the fuck?”

I am sobbing now. Snot is running down my lips and I am wiping my nose on my sleeve. Parents and kids are passing right by me, and J is as sweet as can be.

“Noooo! She is awesome! Your kid is the greatest! I understand!”

“Your kid is a 1300!” Your kid is smart. Mine is a....!" I burst out laughing through my tears.

“NOOOOO! Your kid is brave. She doesn’t give up when she loses. Most kids do.” J is a pillar of friendship and deserves an award for sitting with me through this. I know she gets it, but her kid is a genius.  Face it.

She rubs my shoulder, like a real friend does, and I thank her.

We both laugh and hug.

I walk into the miniature bathroom with tiny toilets and blow my nose. I cannot get over how much mucus my head can produce. Women and girls walk in and out and ignore me. I am relieved.

I go back to the auditorium and my kid comes in.

“I won.”

I know I am insane and nothing can stop me.

The heavens open and I ascend.