Around a week has passed since our first meeting. I am scared that I have upset Padma in some way, considering that she hasn’t texted me a single time throughout this week. I wonder if she found me too ordinary of a person off of the chessboard.

On my side, there is nothing but admiration, awe, and adoration for Padma. I find her to be just as great outside of the chessboard as she is on it. In our two hours of talking, she proved to be one of the funniest people I have known, cracking jokes that made me laugh every time. 

I dream of Padma. I dream about her to an extent that frightens me. I wonder if this is what being in love feels like – frightening and scary and wonderful all at the same time. I can’t explain it, but as I pop my cheap plastic earbuds into my ears, I feel it. It’s all too real, but I can’t explain it. It isn’t all pleasant, unfortunately.

My thoughts lead me back to the one time that I talked to a girl with synesthesia in fourth grade. I was different back then, I talked to people a lot more than I do now. This girl was ostracized by everybody just because she saw words as colors. 

“Explain where you see these colors,” I had asked.

“Right here,” she said, pointing to the space in front of her. “I see a white hexagon right now, right here.”

“Where?” I had asked, fully knowing that I couldn’t see them no matter what.

“Right here!” she had exclaimed.

I finally understand her inability to explain what she was seeing. I can’t explain what I feel for Padma, call it love at first sight, call it virtual love, call it a fantasy, whatever. All I know is that it’s like a fragile paper chain made by small children: it’s a strong feeling at times, but at others, it is so fragile that it can be cut by a tiny pair of scissors.

I sigh and shake my head, trying to escape the cloud of thoughts around me. I don’t succeed. Instead, I pull out my phone and notice a text. I hold my breath, hoping that it’s from Padma. It is.

Meet up tomorrow? Same place, same time? she asks.

I respond with a quick thumbs-up. My heart is pounding. A grin adorns my face. I am about to celebrate when I get a text from my mother. GET HOME NOW! she says. I quickly drive home, scared out of my mind by the aggressive text. I can only think of one thing that I did that possibly could’ve warranted that reaction, and I’m almost certain I’ve been caught.

I drive back to our dirty streets, with tiny houses lining both sides. Half of the houses are littered with graffiti all over their walls. Luckily, ours isn’t one of them. There isn’t a single house that is in good condition, actually, all of the houses are just barely acceptable at best. 

I pull up in front of our house. It is especially shabby, with a broken window and an ancient Jetta in the driveway. Overgrown plants litter the sides of the house. As I walk closer, the smell of smoking weed hits me. It’s absolutely disgusting. When my mom was single, this house was always neatly kept. Ever since my stepdad showed up, this has been the story of our life.

I turn the key in the lock and walk in. The house is dirty, as always, and broken beer bottles litter the ground. Shards of broken glass are everywhere. I kick a couple of the bottles to the side and follow the smell of weed toward the main room. I’ve never grown accustomed to the odor, despite having to put up with it for the last year or so.

I sigh and walk into the living room, and am greeted by my mother. “Hi, Mom,” I say cautiously.

She doesn’t even waste a second on pleasantries. “Did you throw out your father’s cannabis?” she asks. I’ve always been amazed at how direct my family is about these things. My stepdad just told my mother that he smoked weed, and she was totally fine with it, despite her lecturing me about not smoking for years. Ever since my alcoholic, drug-addicted stepdad came into the picture, our house has been a complete mess.

“Yeah,” I say, with the resigned nature of a cornered rabbit. 

My mother begins to rant about how drugs cost money and how I should accept my stepdad for who he is and so on and so forth. I tune her out like I often do these days. I don’t know if she knows how serious of a problem weed is. I tried to explain its issues to her once, but she simply told me, “Uncle Sam knows what he’s doing. It’s legal, and that’s final.”

I think about my stepdad for a minute. He’s a surprisingly nice guy when he’s not in a drunken rage. The first time I met him, I thought he’d be a great stepdad. He hasn’t been. He tries to care about my life sometimes, as in, he gets angry at me for getting bad grades in school. Other than that, he has left me alone, which is great, but he has thrown beer bottles at me quite often. He also has made my mother more violent-tempered and abusive, which makes me leave home for longer periods of time. I’m starting to suspect that my mother is also drinking and smoking weed at this point. Actually, that is exactly why I threw out my stepdad’s fresh stash of weed. 

I like to wonder what would’ve happened if they had never met. For one, we’d be living in a better place. My mother had almost finished saving up to buy a better house than this one, in a much better neighborhood. All of that money became “beer money” and “weed money” as soon as my stepdad moved in.

The sound of a bottle shattering on the wall behind me snaps me out of my reverie. It’s my mother, this time, who has thrown a beer bottle at me. “You fail half of your classes in school. You sit at the park all day and play that dumb game. And now, you throw out your father’s pot? What are you thinking?”

I’m actually passing all of my classes with a C average, but my mother likes to exaggerate at times. And by “at times”, I mean all of the time. Yes, that also happens to be a slight exaggeration. I really mean it. It’s only a slight exaggeration. 

“Cannabis is not a bad thing, Luna. We’re responsible adults, we can smoke,” my mother’s voice is slightly softer now. I can’t believe that I’m being told that it’s okay to do drugs. What happened to the person who used to warn me against drugs nearly every day? 

I shrug and make my way into my tiny bedroom. I flop onto my hard bed and fall asleep nearly instantly, dreaming of my meeting with Padma tomorrow.

The next day passes by quickly. I drive to school, attend my classes, and then go straight to the chess park a full thirty minutes early. This just tells me how excited I am to see her. 

I get a random table and sit down. Looking at my watch doesn’t make time go any faster, but I wish it did. Then I would be able to talk to Padma a lot sooner. I play out a line I was thinking about on the chessboard as I wait. Soon enough, I see Padma in the distance waving to me. 

She walks over to me. “How are you?” she asks me. I smile at the sound of her voice.

Soon, we are talking just like the last time we met. “Why didn’t you text?” I ask her. “School got really busy,” she says. “I texted you as soon as I could.”

The fact that she texted me as soon as she got some free time makes me feel happy. It also makes me hope that she may be feeling the same warm feeling that I feel. I try not to think about that, after all, bringing it up is a sure way to embarrassment. Instead, I listen to Padma, laugh at her jokes, and pour my heart out to her. Padma listens to everything that I tell her: about chess, life, and everything. She’s a great listener.

Time flies all too quickly, and before I know it, I need to leave. “Wait,” she says. “When can we do this again?”

I become a blubbering mess. “Uh, well, we can…we can do it anytime,” I stammer out.

“So you want to meet in three days? Same time, the same place?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to collect myself.

“Alright then!” she says, and then leaves.

Weeks pass as we keep meeting. My feelings for Padma grow to a point where I can no longer deny them – I have to admit that they exist, and do something about it. I’ve never been good at reading people’s emotions, but I hope that Padma is sending me mixed signals at the very least.

I don’t know how it happens, but it does. One day, after we have just ended our two hours of talking and playing chess, she gets up to leave. “Same time, same place, day after tomorrow?” she asks. I normally respond with a quick nod, but this time, something happens to me. “How about we meet at the Italian restaurant in town?” I ask her. “My treat.”

I say this knowing that my wallet will hurt after our meal. But what’s some money down the drain for the sake of love? 

“That’s nonsense,” Padma says. “It’s on me.”

“Huh?” I’m confused for a second.

“It’s a date!” she says, winking. She kisses me on the cheek and leaves, trying to hide her blush. I make no attempt to do so, as hiding my cherry-red face would be nearly impossible.

We meet at the Italian place the next day. After some absolutely divine parmesan, we order a gelato to share for our dessert. I’m careful with my words as I say, “You didn’t mean it when you said this was a date, right?”

Padma’s face falls just a hint. “Did you want me to mean it?” she says in a teasing manner, but I can detect the sincerity in her voice. It’s so obvious that even an emotionally blind person like me can feel it. I take a deep breath, ready for all of this to blow up in my face. “Yes,” I exhale. “I did.”

She stares at me for a second like I’m an alien from Mars. Then she leans in and kisses me on the lips. I’m too stunned to react, and I realize that this is turning out like a scene from a clichéd rom-com. Finally, she pulls away and I smile at her. “I didn’t know you were into girls,” I say.

“Neither did I,” she says softly. “But I am now.”

We end our date successfully as we part ways in the parking lot. It is the happiest day of my life.

It has been weeks since Padma and I started dating. Every day, my feelings for Padma are growing. But along with them comes fear. There is fear that my parents will not allow me to see her.

My mother always told me that I had the freedom to do anything that I pleased. She told me that she was fine with me doing whatever I wanted in my life. I don’t know if that still holds with all the changes in my life, but coming out is not a challenge that I had expected to face. I’m also worried about my stepdad’s reaction. I really hope he doesn’t add fuel to the fire if things go south.

I take a deep breath as I step out of my Kia and walk into the house. There is no smell of weed today, which encourages me a bit. If my stepdad is sober, he may be a bit more considerate. I cross my fingers and walk in, noticing that most of the broken beer bottles have been swept away. My parents are in the living room talking to each other. When I walk in, my mother turns to me and asks me, “Where’ve you been?” she asks.

“I’ve been out with a friend,” I say. If I don’t tread carefully here, I might get into trouble. I take a few deep breaths.

“You’re always out with friends these days, aren’t you?” my stepdad says. “It would be better if you spent some time studying.” 

He sees the murderous look on my face and adds, “Of course, it’s really up to you. As long as you keep passing all of your classes, it’s all okay.”

He’s got a point, of course. My grades have suffered because of my dates with Padma. Earlier, I used to split my time between chess and studying, with a great emphasis on chess. Now, I split my time almost evenly between chess and Padma. Obviously, my grades have been the first to protest this recent development. I’ve been ignoring all of them, but I know that they’re very important. I tell myself to deal with my grades after I get this situation settled. Maybe I can do an extra credit assignment or something. 

I tell myself to focus on one thing at a time. So far, so bad. This is not quite the dream start that I envisioned with me calmly telling my parents that I was lesbian. In that dream, my biological dad is still alive, and my stepdad does not exist. In the dream, my parents lovingly hug me and tell me that they don’t care who I like. 

While I’m dreaming, I might as well get myself a Porsche.

My biological dad was in the military. He didn’t earn that much, but he always earned enough to pay for a decent apartment. We chose not to travel to military bases with him, instead living together in our apartment. I vividly recall the times when he came back from war. He would always bring back something or the other. Once, he brought back a chess set and taught me to play. 

I borrowed books on the subject from the library near our apartment. I read them hundreds of times. I would’ve owed the library a fortune in overdue fines if a nice librarian hadn’t kept checking the book out under my name. I returned the book nearly a year after I borrowed it.

I was nine when it happened. My dad came back home, as always, but this time we went to meet him at the hospital. He bore no gifts at that time. All he had to give me was his Purple Heart. I soon learned that the cause was an unexploded landmine from the 1991 Iraqi Gulf War that exploded, killing one of his comrades and severely wounding him. My father died a few days later. I still treasure his Purple Heart and keep it safely with me.

I talk to myself so much these days that I think I’m going insane.

I snap myself out of my daydream and focus on the task at hand. I need to come out somehow. “A girl your age should be thinking about her grades, her future, and maybe even dating! And here you are, just sitting around with friends playing chess,” my mother says.

My mother has always been a bit of a free bird in terms of thought, but this is strange even for her. My stepdad looks at her in confusion. I am confused too. I think it’s unheard of that a mother tells her child that she should date rather than play chess.

“I am seeing someone,” I say carefully. This is not how I envisioned that I would be coming out. This day is getting worse with every second. “Really?” my mom asks, slightly surprised. I don’t blame her. Getting a girlfriend was the last thing on my to-do list for this year. Yet that has become priority number one for me this year. 

“Yeah,” I say. 

“Who is he?” she asks. I grimace, and then internally slap myself for doing it. I glance at my stepdad, hoping he didn’t catch my look. I can see by his expression that he understands perfectly. I figure that the cat’s out of the bag and spill the beans.

“Her name is Padma,” I say, and then brace myself for my mother’s reaction. Surprisingly, my stepdad speaks first. “We’re very proud that you’ve been able to understand your sexuality. Self-discovery is the first step toward happiness. I’m sure we both want to meet your girlfriend soon. Right, honey?”

Whatever I was expecting from him, it wasn’t that. A surge of gratitude shoots up me, encompassing all my other feelings. He may be far from the perfect stepdad, but right now I’m just happy that at least one of my parents understands and supports my feelings. 

But just when I think my problems have ended, my stepdad reminds me that they haven’t. “Right, honey?” he asks again, shooting a meaningful look in my mother’s direction. I can see that it will be pointless. My mother is livid.

“What did I do wrong?” she asks quietly. “Why does my daughter like girls?”

I don’t know if she’s interested in hearing an answer to that, but I can see that she doesn’t want one within seconds. My mother explodes. “Get out!” she yells. “GET OUT!”

“Honey–,” my stepdad starts, but my mother cuts him off by throwing a vase at my head. I try to dodge it, but it cuts me sharply on the forehead. I feel my blood trickling down slowly. I look to my stepdad as he gestures for me to leave. I have to trust that he will defuse the situation at home. 

I sprint out before things get even worse than they are. I don’t want to be hit by another vase. I’m losing blood quickly, and I should probably stop the blood flow. I reach for a tissue and press it on my forehead. 

I jump into the driver’s seat of my Kia and drive out of the highway toward a remote bridge. The spot has been a place for me to recuperate, and has served me well in times of solace. It happens to be located near a Buddhist monastery. The monastery is a beautiful place. I remember going there several times before my dad died. After that, the bridge near the monastery became a spot of solace for me.

I pull over in front of the bridge and walk out. It is a small bridge overlooking a high cliff. There is water at the bottom of the cliff, and the monastery is located right next to the pond. I remember my dad parking in front of the bridge, and then I ran over it, my mom and dad following a good distance behind. I would sprint downhill toward the monastery, finally slowing down when I got too tired of sprinting. I would hike a few miles downhill and wait for my parents to catch up. Eventually, I would lose my patience and run down to the gates of the monastery. A few of the monks always spotted me and waited at the gates to make sure I didn’t get lost. They would gently coax me to wait for my parents, ask me about my life, and many other such things. When my parents finally showed up, the monks would leave.

I unconsciously find myself making my way over the bridge. I pause at the end and look over the edge. I look down at the lake and the monastery, side by side. It would be so easy to throw myself down there and end it all. It would be better for everybody. I wouldn’t be such a burden on the world.

It would be easy to just jump. There is nearly no way that I would survive the fall, even if I magically did, I wouldn’t survive the frigid water with my broken bones. I would almost certainly drown. It feels like the right decision.

I put one leg over the rickety railing. I look down and breathe deeply as I yank my other leg over. I am now standing in the tiny space between the railing and the edge of the bridge. I look down again, and I see a light in the monastery. The sun has set, but I recall that the monastery is open until 9:30. Sighing, I hop back over the railing. I don’t know what motivates me to do it. I just know that I want to go back to the monastery one last time. 

I slowly walk downhill. I’m not Buddhist, but my family has never had any defined religion. We’ve visited many places of worship. I don’t know why I’ve always liked this monastery, but it has called to me, and right now, I am answering the call.

My steps grow quicker as I walk toward the monastery. I am almost sprinting by the time I see the gates. I slow down and walk through. There are no monks here to welcome me, but I feel better almost instantly. I breathe deeply and walk into the main hall. This monastery has always been a quiet place, and I am grateful for the quiescence right now. I walk into the main prayer hall and am faced with several small statues of the Buddha. I look at the beautiful paintings on the wall and break down crying. Emotions just pour out of me as I cry and cry and cry. Nobody is here at this hour, and I am once again happy about that.

I cry out all of my troubles in front of the serene stone Buddhas, not once concerned that I’m talking to a statue. It feels as if the statue is real. As if it wasn’t made of stone, but was made of flesh and blood. Finally, I manage to pull myself up off the floor and make my way out.

I walk in the direction of my car and trip on a rock. I crash straight through the rickety railing and start falling. My t-shirt catches onto a branch and swings me in another direction as it tears. I fall onto a path in the mountains and lay still. Everything is on fire in my body. The last thing I hear is Padma’s voice saying, “Luna?” 

I’m certain that I’m dreaming as I fall unconscious.

I wake up in a hospital bed. The last thing that I remember is falling down and knocking myself out. How am I here? 

I’m seen by a few doctors and nurses who don’t tell me much. Finally, my stepdad walks into the room. “Your mom is still mad at you,” he says. My face falls. I hoped that my mother would have been pacified by now. “But I admire you,” he adds. “I’m not buying any more weed, and I threw out all of my beer today. Because you’re right. I’m messing myself up with this. I’m getting into programs to help me stay clean.”

I am awed. I gawk at him for a minute before smiling. “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “You won’t regret it.” 

“I met your girlfriend,” he said. “She’s a catch all right. Keep her,” I grin as he says this.

“She found you. She was walking in the mountains near the monastery with her family when she found you and brought you here. She was scared out of her mind,” he says. “You should call her.”

“I will,” I say.

“Say, you like chess, don’t you?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” I say, unsure of where this is heading. 

“I got you this,” he says, as he pulls out a brand-new rosewood chess set. I am pleasantly surprised at seeing it.

“Let’s play a game,” he suggests, and we set up the pieces.

I start beating him quickly, and he laughs every time I take one of his pieces. Finally, I move my queen to threaten the king. I smile and say one of my favorite words.

“Checkmate.”