Chapter 21: The Tournament Begins - My Name Is Samim

The second week at my new home and school has gone much better than the first. The bat in my chest and the demons in my head have been quieter, and some days, I even feel happy. Like on the days I go to the chess club or for bike rides.

I’ve been learning a lot at the chess club, where everyone apart from Max seems nice. Especially Rence. He and I have become good friends and exchanged phone numbers.

It’s Saturday morning, and my very first chess tournament is kicking off in a few hours. I’ve been up all night worrying about it. What if I lose? What a disappointment I will be for Zayn, Miss Brown and all my new friends.

Miss Brown brings me buttered toast with a glass of milk and sits beside me. “Are you excited?” Her blue eyes gleam.

I nod, but to be honest, I’m more nervous than excited. So much that I can’t eat.

“Mr Adams is picking you up at nine. He says you’ve got a real talent. I think you’ll do brilliantly at this tournament,” she says, leaning on the table, trying to look me in the eye. “And no matter what, it will be a great new experience for you.”

I nod again.

“Wrong!” Zayn says. “It will only be a great experience for you if you win. Because if you lose, I’ll never stop calling you a loser. And that won’t be a great experience for you at all.”

I roll my eyes.

* * *

On the way to the competition, Mr Adams reminds me about the rules again.

“Remember, this is a London Junior Championship qualifying contest. You will need at least four and a half points out of six to qualify for the final.”

“So I will play with six opponents and need at least four wins and one draw to get four and a half points to qualify for the finals,” I say, watching the streets whoosh past me through the window.

Mr Adams bobs his head. “That’s right.”

I know he means well, but he has already explained all the rules to me at least four times.

We arrive at a grey one-storey primary school building. It’s much smaller than the one I go to, but it’s still huge compared with my school in Ghazni. We walk through a long, dark corridor, past hallways and empty classrooms, and stop at the large double doors to a gym hall. A tall, skinny teenager with a register in his hands greets us. Mr Adams tells him our names, and he gives us two name tags. We walk inside, and the bright, noisy room swallows us.

There are desks with chessboards set up all around the hall. I’ll be sitting at one of them soon.

3.141592653589… I twist my bracelet around my wrist.

A familiar voice behind me calls my name. “Samim?”

I turn around to see Max looking at me, his smug face beaming. I knew he would be here, but I hoped we wouldn’t bump into one another.

A tall man with silver hair stands next to him. He is probably Max’s father. Mr Adams steps aside to talk to him.

“Have you ever been to a chess contest before?” Max asks.

“No, never.”

“I thought so.” Max rolls his eyes. “This is my seventeenth competition.”

My surprise is like a fishbone: I keep gulping, but it’s still there, stuck in my throat.

He stares at me, then adds, “I’d never have come here if I were you. I’d never embarrass myself like this.”

“How am I embarrassing myself?”

“Don’t you know? Mr Adams only brought you here because you’re a refugee and he feels sorry for you.”

“I d-don’t b-believe you,” I stammer.

“What did you say? I couldn’t understand,” Max snorts.

I take a deep breath, pushing the words out of my mouth against their will. “I don’t believe you.”

“Are you kidding? Did you really think it was normal for someone who’d never done any competitions before to be invited to the contest after two weeks in the club? You’re here because everyone pities the poor refugee boy.”

I squeeze my bracelet as the blood drains from my face.

“It’s a lie, Samim,” Zayn says. “You know he’s lying.”

3.141592653589…

“He’s messing with your head. Remember those boys from the other village back home who once challenged us to a football match? They were rubbish, but they kept calling us names, telling us how bad we were. We almost lost to them in the end. So don’t listen to him. He’s trying to put you down because he’s worried you’ll beat him.”

…79323846…

“Just ignore him,” Zayn says firmly.

I take another deep breath and watch Max walk away, sneering.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

I pull a water bottle out of my bag and start guzzling, when a boy appears in front of me. His skin is as dark as mine, but he is a head shorter. I stop drinking and look at him, puzzled.

“I’m Ishan. We’re playing together in the first round.” He points at his name tag. “Are you any good?”

I shrug. Everything is relative. Compared with my mother, I’m okay; compared with Zayn, I am a chess god.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “And compared with you, I am Messi!”

I won’t argue with that.

The arbiter, a pale man with grey hair, tells us to find the table with our names and take seats.

“Ours is over here,” Ishan says, and I follow him.

“Good luck!” Mr Adams gives me a thumbs up.

The first game is about to begin, and my hands start shaking with nerves. The players sit down and everyone else leaves the room, apart from the arbiter and a few helpers.

I’m playing with whites, so I go first. I greet my army, tapping their heads, and Ishan stares at me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

But before I can answer, the arbiter blows the whistle.

I take a deep breath, move one of my pawns two spaces forward, and hit the timer.