Disclaimer: There's no easy way to win a game of chess. But that’s only if by “winning” you mean cornering your opponent’s king until they’re gasping for air, their vision fading into the black and white static of the board as your opponent (Sarah, Luke, or Ava) resigns in defeat. Only gradually will you return to the hard seats and smudged tabletops of your school’s mediocre lunch counter. You’ll blink in a daze at your opponent’s face, remembering that, despite the game, they are still your friend outside of it.
If it’s Sarah, you know she’ll vent her frustration through a surprisingly articulate and extended middle finger. If it’s Luke, he’ll replay every move, analyzing where things went wrong. If it’s Ava, she’ll congratulate you with sad, pitying eyes that feel worse than losing. You wouldn’t want to cause them that pain, even if you could. You’re the kind of person who carefully catches bees in a jar and sets them free. That’s your excuse for all the games you've lost. No, to win at chess, you must define your own purpose on your own terms.
Objective. You may not fully understand your objective yourself at first, but there’s a nagging feeling that there’s a reason you’re always playing the losing side. The trick is not to let your opponents figure it out what if someone tries to thwart you? The best way to explain the goal right now is: “Figure out your objective before your opponent does.”
Players. You’ll need the four members of your unofficial group, “CFC,” or the Conflicted Friends Collective. To join, you must be a “halfie”, half one ethnicity, half another. It’s a play on the chessboard’s contrasting black-and-white squares, but also reflects the duality of being: half-complete, a work in progress. A symbol of the friendship charm your best friend gave you when you moved and forgot about it after a while. You sometimes feel you are just that: two halves of something that doesn't always seem to get along.
You: Half-Puerto Rican, a chess club member since second grade, still not very good. Special Skill: You can quote the entire script of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, in case it ever helps (spoiler: it never does).
Sarah: Half-Chinese, a chess prodigy who almost never loses, sulking for weeks after the rare defeat. Special Skill: She came up with the idea for “CFC” and, for all her seriousness, is the funniest one of the bunch.
Luke: Half-German, half-Polish, new to chess but an aspiring philosophy major with a unique way of analyzing games. Special Skill: Luke can always come very close to guessing your Secret
Objective™️. Keep a close watch on him.
Ava: Ava is technically half-white, but her other half is English, which is almost European enough to count as “foreign” in this group. Special Skill: Ava actually studies chess strategy in her spare time, maybe even listens to chess podcasts. It’s mind-boggling.
BONUS PLAYER: Marcus, the half-Japanese barista who watches your games occasionally. You probably won’t see him today, but he’ll likely make your coffee. Special Skill: Doesn't know chess, but somehow knows more about it than you do.
The Game Plan. The best way to set up a friendly chess match is two-on-two, then let the winners face off. You’ll play Sarah first; you know that she knows that you know you won’t make it past this round, but she graciously doesn’t mention it.
First, she’ll offer to let you go first, playing as white. You must ask, “Why do white pieces always get to go first?” It was once a joke, but now it’s a ritual. Skipping this step is essentially admitting defeat before you even start.
Next, agonize over which piece to move. You should know by now which opening moves are best, but you can never remember whether to start with the left or right pawn, or whether it should move one or two squares. Moving two squares is bolder: it shows confidence, a feigned aggression, a smirk that suggests (falsely) that you’re hiding some sort of secret strategy. It’s the daring choice. Make a move toward the left pawn, then the right, then say, “Actually, I think I’ll start with my knight.” Keep her on edge.
Once your hand moves the piece, you’ll know you’ve made the wrong choice. Stay calm. The best player doesn’t fear the second-best player but the unpredictable one. Your opponent can’t guess your next move if you can’t guess it either, and that’s your advantage. Remember: she can’t read your mind. And if she can’t figure out your next move, she can’t figure out your objective. This is crucial.
It helps if you think of your pieces as characters in a dramatic saga. The king is old, his wife, the queen, wears the pants around here. The bishops are rivals locked in courtly intrigue. The white-squares bishop is a secretive, calculating figure, the queen’s closest advisor. The black-squares bishop is cool, ruthless, and loyal only when it suits him. The pawns are full of contradictions: the hesitant one who never takes risks, and the reckless one who will sacrifice himself for the greater good. The sacrifice is beautiful, but it’s always painful to watch.
Important note: You must accuse Sarah of cheating the whole time, no matter how many times she patiently explains the rules.
Sarah will frown, studying your moves, then quickly realize that you don’t quite understand chess (even though you do, in your own way). She’ll begin to relax, tapping her fingers on the edge of the table as she watches you, her expression one of detached amusement. In the lulls between moves, she’ll bring up existential topics, doubting everything around her, and you’ll counter with the certainty of your own logic. This will naturally spiral into a discussion about the meaning of life, which might briefly distract you both from the game. Do not give in to this impulse to philosophize. Instead, ask her if she’s conceding. Of course, she won’t. Keep her guessing, especially about your hidden goal, which you can’t fully articulate to yourself yet.
Drink a lot of bad coffee to ease the tension. When that doesn’t help, claim that you’re suffering from caffeine withdrawal. Marcus will brew endless cups of coffee, distracting Sarah with complaints about the drink’s temperature, the grind of the beans, the bitterness. Maybe she’s trying to distract you from the game. Smile and play along. You’re about to unlock a revelation, the reason behind chess itself, or perhaps the meaning of life it’s all intertwined.
Ava must have beaten Luke because you can hear her laughter from a few tables away. Her laugh is like sunshine, joyful, unexpected, carefree, but also serious in its warmth. She laughs so hard you wonder how her glasses stay on her face. She and Luke like to watch the final stages of your games. Luke will comment that this is the most fascinating chessboard he’s ever seen. You’ll agree. One of your pawns, the hesitant one, has snapped and is now seeking revenge, making an unexpected promotion to a second queen. Your other pawns have captured key areas of the board, but Sarah is systematically sweeping them away with the black queen and her remaining bishop. Her rooks glide past your pawns like smoke.
It doesn’t bother you.
Because the real fear wasn’t losing; it was wondering if there was ever a game at all. The fear that, in being half of something, maybe you’re nothing at all. The nagging question of whether you even exist, or if you’re merely a reflection of the space between identities.
Chess is conflict, and for a little while, it’s enough to know you are capable of being conflicted. You are a person who exists, and there’s someone else across from you, struggling with the same doubts. The realization: you are a whole, even if incomplete.
“Checkmate.”
Two sides of the same coin. 50/50. Completion. The halves of a friendship charm locking into place.
You all have the same objective, even if no one realized it until now.
Checkmate.