Chapter Seven
Nova: are y’all coming tonight?
Mom: no, the boys are grounded, but you have fun!
Nova: sorry, forgot about that
Nova: though I should’ve just assumed at least one of them was grounded
“Did you bring quarters?” Esha asks as she holds open the door to our neighborhood’s dinky little arcade. The smell in here is familiar, almost nostalgic, in a not-so-great way. Like stale cotton candy. It somehow even smells sticky.
I used to love this place. It was our middle school hangout.
And when I got my license last year, I’d bring my brothers here because it was close enough that I didn’t have to drive on the highway.
“No, I didn’t bring quarters,” I scoff. “I barely ever have cash, let alone change. They have a machine for that!”
The place is packed. As soon as I step through the doorway, I have to pivot to avoid colliding with a kid in motion. Another kid is chasing him.
“Whoa,” Esha says, her head on a slow swivel gazing around the room. There’s a lady in the corner blowing up balloons, and the squeak as she makes a kid a hat sets my teeth on edge. Music blares from speakers on either side of the door, and I feel the crunch of dropped popcorn under my shoes.
“I know,” I echo. “I’ve never seen this place like this.”
It’s kind of heartwarming, actually. The community showing up like this.
The arcade is donating a portion of tonight’s proceeds to the animal shelter, and Esha would’ve been devastated if we’d walked into a ghost town.
The arcade’s owner, Mr. Adams, is even letting people pay five bucks to throw a pie at his face.
“I tried to get the shelter to let me bring some of the cats, but I guess I can see why they shut that down,” Esha says.
“Yeah, that’s just what this circus needs.” We clear out of the doorway so other people can step through, and we kind of end up shoved in the back near a few abandoned tables and the change machine.
“So, what do you want to do first?” Esha asks, lifting up on her tiptoes to see over the sprawling crowd.
“Whatever I can do to support the cause without actually playing games. Can I just buy a T-shirt, or something?” I pull a chair away from one of the tables and slide it up against a wall. I’m trying to create a nice, calm little nook for myself back here. It’s not very effective.
“No,” Esha says. “But that would’ve been a great idea.” She grabs both of my hands and pulls me up out of my uncomfortable chair. That was uncalled for. “Come on, you don’t want to do anything?” Her tone says she doesn’t believe me. “You’re not even going to Spider Stomp once for old time’s sake?”
I roll my eyes. You set a high score on one arcade game, and you’re obligated to play it every chance you get? “I’ll pass.”
We walk the perimeter of the arcade, careful to avoid any rogue kids and spilled slushy on the linoleum. I hope that’s slushy, anyway.
“You think anyone’s beaten your score?” Esha weaves her arm through mine, pulling me to the left at the last second to keep me from bumping my hip into the corner of a pinball machine. That would’ve left a mark.
“Probably.” That high score isn’t something I keep on my resume.
It’s not even a fun fact I use for two truths and a lie.
But no one’s on the Spider Stomp when we pass.
It’s off the main drag in its own alcove, which I always naturally gravitated to anytime I came here.
The poor machine has seen better days. Makes sense, though, because it’s a game exclusively made to be stomped on.
It’s like Whac-A-Mole, but you use your feet instead of a mallet, and you’re not hitting moles that pop up; you’re hitting whichever of the spider’s legs light up.
The mat is worn down, some of the red lights faded and cracked.
It was almost therapeutic, now that I’m thinking about it.
The stomping. I could stand here over and over and just pound my feet as hard as I could against those flashing red lights.
The exaggerated ow sound effects it made were oddly satisfying.
I’m not really an aggressive person, but this game made me feel like one. Made me feel like I could be, at least.
“Uh, Nova?” Esha asks, interrupting my reminiscing. “When you had the high score, you used your initials or something, right?”
“My name, yeah. NovaC, I think. Because it was five letters—” My voice cuts off, because I finally hear what she’s not saying.
It’s right there, in bright red, bold analog font. Not my five letters, but his.
HAYES
There are other people named Hayes, of course. It’s a common Southern-boy name. He’s not the only one it could be. But somehow I know. I know.
Mr. Adams approaches us, his face so covered in whipped cream, I don’t think he can actually see.
He’s walking toward the back office on muscle memory alone.
“Sorry about your record, kid,” he says.
Maybe he can see better than I thought. “You had a great run, though. Must’ve been over a year, until tonight. ”
I should let Mr. Adams keep walking. I should let this go, because it’s not a big deal. I didn’t even care. I don’t care.
“Was it a guy around my age? Brown hair, sharp jaw. Probably overdressed.”
Mr. Adams’ face scrunches up enough that a glob of whipped cream slides down the front of his shirt. “Yeah. You just missed him. How’d you know?”
“It’s always him.” My teeth grind together, and I stand there in front of that damned machine with my arms crossed.
Somehow, if anyone beats me, it’s always him.