Chapter 14: Can I Have a Shot? - My Name Is Samim

It’s finally Thursday – chess club day. I’ve never been to a chess club before, so I don’t know what to expect, but I’m still excited. I love chess, and I’ve missed it.

At the detention centre, I played chess by myself. I drew a chequered board with a piece of chalk on the cell floor under my bed, buttons and small stones serving as my army. I hid there for hours, lying on my tummy and playing until my body stiffened with pain. It made many lonely hours a bit more bearable. Chess was the one last thing I had left from my old happy life that hadn’t been taken away from me.

It’s 3.20 pm now, and school is over. I walk into room 6, where Mr Adams runs the club. Five girls and eight boys are in the room, and one of them is Max. Everyone is setting up their boards.

I’m still getting used to seeing girls and boys studying together. But the more I see and think about it, the more sense it makes. Why shouldn’t boys and girls learn together?

“Samim! Glad you came!” Mr Adams waves me over. “Meet Samim, everyone. He is our newest club member.”

All eyes turn to me for a second, then return to their chats and chess boards. All except Max’s. He’s surprised to see me, and judging by the scowl on his face, he doesn’t like surprises.

I can’t stand this guy.

Mr Adams approaches a boy with short sandy hair brushed to one side. “Rence, you’re playing with Samim first.”

The boy nods and starts setting up the board.

Mr Adams turns to me. “Rence is a very skilled player, Samim, so don’t worry if you lose to him.”

My palms get sweaty, and I wipe them against my trousers.

Rence beams at me. I bet he can’t wait to show off how good he is. I glance at Max – and he’s still staring, too. My head dips, and I fidget with my bracelet to calm down.

I hate Max for pushing Rita and me on the ground and spreading that video all over school. What did we ever do to him? My face flushes with anger, and I let go of my bracelet and squeeze my fists instead. It all suddenly feels too much.

Maybe chess club wasn’t a good idea after all.

“It’s just a game,” Zayn and Rence say at the same time, noticing my nerves.

Zayn’s eyes bug out as he stares at Rence, surprised.

“How long have you been playing chess?” Rence asks.

Now that he’s not speaking at the same time as Zayn, I notice his voice is very soft, like a girl’s voice. I’m confused. Rence looks like a boy and dresses like a boy, but he sounds like a girl. I keep my head down so as not to stare at him.

“Since I was four,” I say. “My mother taught me.”

“Cool. I started in Year 4. Everyone had to choose an after-school club, and the choices were dancing, football or chess. I don’t dance, and lots of bullies in my school played football, so chess was my only option. I thought I’d be bored, but I loved it. Now I’m glad those bullies put me off the football club, even though I love football.”

A smile lifts my face. Rence and I come from two different worlds but still have some things in common. At the detention centre, I too had bullies who didn’t let me play football with them, and I too played chess instead.

Rence hides one black and one white pawn in his hands. “Pick a hand,” he tells me.

I point at the left one, and the black pawn is in it. I’ll be playing black.

I look at the chess board in front of me, and my chest fills with warmth, the kind you get from a hot drink after being out in the cold.

The last time I played chess with someone else was years ago, a summer evening in Ghazni. We sat in our neighbourhood gazebo under the weak light of a single bulb. Our neighbour, Uncle Rahim, sat across from me, his face furrowed in thought. He fiddled with his prayer beads and stroked his white beard between moves. I won that match in seven minutes, and Uncle Rahim stared at me for a while afterwards. Other neighbours stood quietly around us.

I thought he was angry with me, because he had muttered curses throughout the game, but instead, he said, “I feel sorry for you, boy. You must be so bored playing chess with silly old men like us in this village.”

People liked watching me play. Only Zayn found it boring; he’d wait for me on the side of the road, kicking a ball around. I tried to teach him chess so many times. He knew all the moves and just needed to learn some strategies, but he had no patience for it. Chess was not the game for him.

While we wait for Mr Adams’ signal to start, I touch every chess piece on my side of the board. I always do; it’s my way of greeting my army.

I start with my soldiers, which Rence calls pawns. I count their smooth round heads, then move on to the towers, horses and elephants. Elephants are what we call bishops in my country. At last, I come to the two most important figures in the game. One of them is the vezir: the minister. In the West, the minister is replaced by the queen. And the other is the shah: the king. The king is the only chess piece that can’t be captured. When he’s in checkmate, he falls and the game is over.

Once I pat the king, my breath evens. I’m ready. Which way is the game going to go? The possibilities are endless, and the thrill builds inside me like a pot about to boil.

“Stop grinning like a kid who just got candy!” Zayn rolls his eyes.

His words bounce off me. My excitement is too great.

Mr Adams blows the whistle, and the game begins.

Rence grabs his first pawn, moves him forward and taps the chess clock. And with that move, a stream of thoughts, faster than water running from a tap, fills my head with dozens of potential strategies. I choose one, pick my pawn and the battle commences.

Eight minutes, twenty-seven seconds later, the white king falls.

Rence stares at the board, puzzled. I like him, so I’m worried he will hate me for ever now.

“It’s the shortest game of chess I’ve ever played,” he says. Rence slumps back on his chair. “You’re good!” He has a surprised grin on his face.

My face reddens. “Thank you.”

Zayn laughs. “Here’s my pomegranate!”

He never gives me a break!

I turn to my right and see Max glaring.

Rence follows my gaze. “Is he giving you a hard time?”

I shake my head. I don’t want to complain to Rence, as I hardly know him.

“Of course he is. Max gives everyone a hard time. But don’t let him get to you. Especially at the contest.”

“What contest?” I don’t understand.

“The London Junior Championship qualifying contest is in a few weeks. Aren’t you signed up yet? The winners will go through to the championship.”

A knot forms in my stomach. “I don’t think I’m going to compete.”

If Max is the best player in the club, he will be there. And I don’t want to compete with Max.

“Are you kidding? Why not?” Zayn and Rence say in unison again. Zayn lifts his eyebrow at Rence, and I snicker at how alike they are.

“I’m new.” I shrug. “I don’t know anything about these competitions. I don’t even know if I’m allowed.”

Rence leans forward on his elbows. “Why wouldn’t you be allowed?”

“I’m an asylum seeker.”

“A refugee?”

“Yes. Well, not yet. But hopefully I’ll get my status soon. I just need to pass an interview first.”

“Let’s see,” Rence says. “Excuse me, Mr Adams?”

Mr Adams walks over to us and stares at our board. “That’s impressive.”

“I thought so too,” Rence says. “I was wondering if Samim could compete at the qualifying contest?”

Mr Adams looks at me, and I drop my eyes.

“Well, it depends on a few things, of course,” he says, stroking his chin. “But above all, it depends on whether Samim has got what it takes to qualify.”

“He beat me in less than ten minutes. I think he’s got what it takes,” Rence says.

Mr Adams stares at Rence, me, then the chessboard between us, which has most of the white pieces missing.

“Can I have a shot?” he asks.

Rence gives up his seat to Mr Adams.

The rest of the room is eyeballing us now. Some players abandon their games and walk up to watch. Max is one of them.

I take a deep breath, wiping drops of sweat from my forehead.

Mr Adams turns the chessboard round. “You can start this time,” he tells me.