Chapter 15 Chess, Not Checkers

Chapter 15 Chess, Not Checkers


When I was little, Noah used to say chess was just life in disguise. He’d sit across from me at our kitchen table, the old wooden board between us, pieces nicked and worn from too many games, and he’d explain every move like it was scripture.

“Checkers is fast,” he’d say, moving his knight with a flick of his hand. “But chess is patience. Strategy. You don’t win by charging forward. You win by waiting for your opponent to slip.”

At ten, I didn’t get it. I hated waiting. I wanted to crush him, to leap across the board with my pawns and knock his king flat in three turns. And Noah would just laugh when I got reckless, sliding his queen out like a dagger and sweeping my pieces off the board.

“You’ve got to think ahead, Ava,” he’d remind me, leaning back in his chair. “Always five moves ahead. That’s how you survive in this world.”

Back then, I thought he was just being dramatic. Now, standing in the halls of Blackridge, his words feel less like advice and more like prophecy.

Because here, it isn’t just about grades or uniforms or climbing some imaginary ladder. It’s war. And the only way I’m going to win is by playing chess.

The rumor storm might’ve died down after Jace’s little show in the courtyard, but I know better than to think it’s over. Smoke doesn’t vanish; it lingers, waiting for a spark. Someone—maybe Marissa, maybe Jace himself—will try again. And when they do, I need to be ready.

So I start plotting my next move.

I’m careful, though. Patience. Noah’s voice echoes in my head as I take notes in history class, eyes flicking to Jace two rows over. He looks perfectly composed, like none of this has touched him. But I know better. I saw the way he looked at his father. I heard the cracks in his voice.

He’s not untouchable. Not anymore.

The trick is figuring out where to strike.

After classes, I slip into the library, the only place in Blackridge that feels remotely neutral. The smell of old paper, the creak of the floorboards, the hush of students pretending to study—it’s almost comforting. Almost.

I sit at a corner table and pull out my notebook. Instead of homework, I draw a chessboard, marking the pieces.

Pawn: Me. Small, expendable, but underestimated.
King: Chief Langston. The one I ultimately need to take down.
Queen: Jace. Dangerous, powerful, capable of ending me if I’m not careful.

The rest fall into place. Marissa and her followers as rooks—strong but predictable. Teachers as bishops—slicing diagonally, always at angles you don’t expect. The rest of the students? Pawns like me, though most of them don’t know it.

I stare at the board until my vision blurs. Noah used to tell me to always sacrifice wisely. Pawns can be traded. Knights can be lost. But the queen? You never give up the queen unless you’re certain it wins the game.

Which means I can’t destroy Jace. Not yet. He’s too valuable. He’s the piece closest to the king.

The thought sends a chill through me. Because it means keeping him close.

And keeping Jace Langston close is like holding a lit match to gasoline.

That night, I dream of Noah again. We’re back at the kitchen table, his fingers tapping the edge of the board while he waits for me to move. His face is calm, patient, but his eyes are sharp.

“You’re rushing,” he says softly. “Slow down. You can’t afford mistakes.”

When I look down, the board is wrong. Half the pieces are missing. And the ones left aren’t carved wood—they’re people. Marissa, smirking. The Chief, looming. And Jace, his stormy eyes fixed on me from the queen’s square.

The dream twists, blurs, shatters. I wake with my sheets tangled and my heart pounding.

The next morning, I’m sharper than usual, hyperaware of every glance, every whisper in the halls. It’s not paranoia if everyone really is watching.

And then it happens. The next move.

At my locker, a folded piece of paper waits, tucked into the slats. My fingers tremble as I open it.

It isn’t another warning. It isn’t a threat.

It’s a chessboard, crudely sketched in pen. One square is circled. The queen’s square.

No signature. No clue. Just a move left hanging, daring me to play.

My pulse roars in my ears. Whoever left this knows. Maybe not everything, but enough to understand the game. Enough to taunt me.

I glance down the hall, but no one looks guilty. No one looks scared. Just bored faces and easy laughter, like the world isn’t spinning off balance in my hands.

I fold the paper and slip it into my pocket, forcing my expression neutral.

If this is a challenge, I’ll answer it.

But on my terms.

At lunch, I spot Jace across the courtyard, leaning against the stone wall, sunlight catching in his hair. He’s watching me. Not openly, not obviously—but enough that I feel it, prickling along my skin.

For a second, I wonder if it was him. If this is his way of letting me know he sees me, knows me. If the queen circled on that page was a warning—or an invitation.

Our eyes meet. He smirks, slow and dangerous, like he already knows my answer.

I look away before my face betrays me.

Because the truth is, I don’t know what scares me more: the thought of Jace being the one who left the note…

Or the thought that it was someone else.

Either way, the game has started. And if I’m not five moves ahead, I’m dead.

So I square my shoulders, hear Noah’s voice in my head, and whisper under my breath.

Chess, not checkers.