Rebel at Spruce High

And how that work is failing abysmally.

Outside on the front steps of Spruce High, prepared to make my twentyish-minute trek home under the hot afternoon sun, the rippling roar of a motorcycle tears across the field. I turn just in time to catch sight of a certain leather-jacket-and-helmet-clad guy tear angrily out of the parking lot and disappear down the street. He catches everyone’s attention and stops all conversation in his departure, and after the dust settles, the crowd hums with a new wave of chatter. After what happened at lunch, I’m sure there is an updated plague of rumors spreading across the school.

And as I spot several eyes darting my way, I’m guessing I’m a part of those rumors now, too. Super.

I’ve changed my mind. I don’t head straight home. I make a necessary detour to my favorite place to blow off steam. It’s a trek in the wrong direction down Main Street. I stop just short of the Spruce Cinema 5 to enter a narrow, poorly-lit building, inside of which a very welcomed symphony of digital noises feeds my ears. The pings. The pongs. The loud tones and chime-filled fanfares.

It’s the Spruce Arcade, my sanctuary.

I see a small handful of others from school who came straight here as well, but they’re not my destination. I head over to my go-to pinball machine and let the stresses of the day fall straight off my shoulders as I pop in a quarter, then let the balls fly.

Minutes pass. A ravenous Ms. Pac-Man eats her way through a maze of colorful ghosts. A half hour has passed. I’m gunning down aliens with my tiny 8-bit starship. Then a whole hour. And I get busy making Sub-Zero freeze the crap out of a lightning-happy Raiden in a bloody and merciless showdown.

I achieve a new Mortal Kombat II high-score and proudly type in my arcade nick: TBOY.

And as I stare at that list of high scores, which is basically an alternating list of TBOY and JIMS (That’s Jimmy Strong), I find that no matter how many points I rack up in the arcade, it doesn’t do the usual trick of putting my mind at ease. No matter what I do, I can’t shake away the pesky thoughts of Donovan Pane.

The incident in the cafeteria isn’t even about Hoyt anymore. I couldn’t care less about those jocks. The person whose approval I truly wanted all day—the one who hooked my mind on him before I even met him face-to-face, thanks to the gossipers—was Vann. And after proving himself all heroic, he goes and shuts me down with harsh and dismissive words in the office.

Then Kelsey has the nerve to call him hot afterwards.

Yeah. Of course he’s hot. He’s gorgeous. Even if I’m a little bit afraid of him, and maybe slightly concerned for my safety in his vicinity, I can’t help but notice his striking eyes and the way they make me feel like his heart and soul must be infinitely deep.

And as I launch into another round of Mortal Kombat, watching muscled beasts and martial artists battle warriors with fireballs at their fingertips, I can’t help but imagine Vann as a character from the game. A hero to select. A warrior in black leather, complete with those cuffs on his wrists and military boots. I see Vann with his sharp, dark eyes as I select him on the character screen, then take him to battle, fighting the bad guys for me. I watch him uppercut my enemies. I slap and tap on the buttons as he launches a green, glowing energy ball like a rocket at my opponent. I watch him deliver a perfect roundhouse kick, then flex his muscles with victory as he stands over the defeated, triumphant.

Finish him!

A smile finds my face at last.

“Wait a sec,” exclaims a kid from somewhere behind me. “Are you TBOY? Are you the TBOY?”

I turn around to find a group of three preteen punks standing behind me, a group I saw walking around when I first came in, all of them staring at my high score, as if awestruck.

I shrug. “Yep. That’s me.”

“I’ve tried beating your scores all dang summer!” Despite his frustrated tone, the look of awe in his eyes is undeniable. It makes me feel, for this fleeting moment, like the most important person in all of Spruce. “Are you cheating?”

And then he goes and ruins it. “Cheating?” I blurt indignantly, my face wrinkling up as I deflate. “I don’t cheat. How can you even cheat at an arcade game?”

“I dunno.” Now it’s his turn to scowl as he crosses his arms, this eight-or-nine-year-old little punk. Why can’t I place his face? I know this kid. “Maybe you … you take advantage of a glitch. It’s called an exploit. I saw this guy do it in a YouTube video.”