The Hating Game

I knew somehow Joshua would find a way to screw with me. I am coming out of this bruised, battered, and paint-splattered. And I can’t even shoot him until I’m rotated onto another team.

There’s a horn blast, and I’m crawling on hands and knees up an incline awkwardly, the loose dirt making me slide. I am moving first. It makes sense, given our strategy. I’ll scout the way forward. I’m the most expendable.

My arms won’t seem to hold me up properly and I collapse onto my stomach. Annabelle runs ahead of me with windmill limbs and zero strategy or stealth. I kneel up and try to call her back. A hand clamps on my calf and I’m dragged backward until Joshua flops down next to me, gun in hand. He motions at me to lie down.

“Don’t,” I hiss at him.

“You’ll get shot in the face if you pop up like that.”

“Why didn’t you let me then?”

His hand spreads across my lower back, pinning me firmly to the ground. In the privacy of my mind I can admit the weight of his hand is delicious. The slivers of fabric between our skin begins to glow.

“What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I try to squirm away.

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks. We have to cover Annabelle.” I edge up to see her tottering awkwardly among slender tree trunks, completely exposed. Andy is gallantly leaping after her. The flag is an orange scrap in the distance.

I’m up and running, Joshua behind me. I fall behind a boulder and spot Marnie on the opposing team. Raising my gun, I fire off a couple of rounds, clipping her in the shoulder. She says a disappointed, “Aw,” and walks off.

When I look at Joshua he looks mildly impressed. “Badass.”

Annabelle is out of sight. The air is filled with cracks, pops, and cries of pain. After a few short runs, I find Andy kneeling on the ground trying to tie his boot lace with a big splat of paint on his chest.

“Oh, Andy!”

He looks up at me with the weary eyes of a Vietnam vet who knows he’s about to die, blood geysering from a pulpy stomach wound. He grasps at my knee. “Go save her.”

He has been watching too many action movies, but so have I judging by the swell of responsibility and protectiveness inside me. I will save Annabelle.

“I’m going to get a Coke,” Andy tells me, ruining the moment.

I keep running. My breath feels short and I’m fogging my goggles a little. I hear a crack and jump behind a pyramid of barrels, which drum with the sound of shots. I look down. Nothing on me so far. I assume I’d feel it. I check the backs of my legs.

“You’re clear,” Joshua calls. I look over at him, crouched nearby behind a big tree stump. He’s holding his paintball gun in a cool way, pointed straight at the sky. I try to copy him and begin to drop it.

“Dork,” he comments unnecessarily. He must have strong wrists.

“Shut up.”

Annabelle is crouched behind a miserable, suicidal sapling. I watch her raise her gun and take out Matt from the opposition. I let out a yelp of delight and she turns and gives me the thumbs-up, grinning widely as she waves me forward. The flag is fluttering about thirty yards away. She is abruptly shot in the center of her back and yips in pain. I don’t need to even look at Joshua to know that he is shaking his head at me.

“Off you go then. I’ll protect you. Just you and me now, buddy. Age before beauty.”

“Great. I’m a dead man.” He makes the short run to my barrel hideout and checks his ammo, glancing over his shoulder.

“Were your parents in the military?” It would explain a lot. The rigid behaviors, the brisk, impersonal manner. Addiction to rules and sequences. His neatness and economy in everything he does. He’s now got a lack of friends and the inability to connect. I bet his parents had frequent foreign postings. He bounces a quarter off his perfectly made bed.

“No,” he tells me, checking my gun for me. “They’re doctors. Surgeons. Well, they were.”

“Are they dead? You’re an . . . orphan?”

“Am I what? They’re retired. Alive and well.”

“Huh. Are you from here?” The tip of my gun is resting in the dirt. I’m too tired. I hope I get shot. I need a rest.