Three

The Dewitts returned to town for a few things on Sunday evening. Edgar’s shoulders still burned from all the rafter dangling. He massaged them deeply as the three strolled along.

“What’s with you?” his mother asked.

“A bunch of pushups, nothing really,” he said, dropping his hands.

“Great!” she said. “It’s good to be in shape.” She surveyed the sleepy downtown and elbowed him. “Didn’t I see some kids your age at that arcade the other night? Why don’t you go find them? Go on and make some new friends. You can’t be hanging out all the time with us old people you know.”

He gave his mom a one-armed hug and drew her in close, squeezing until she cackled.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, as she tousled his hair. Then he was off to Al Capone’s. Not to meet up with those kids though, but just to play a few games. If he never saw those kids again, it would be too soon.

Though, as terrible luck would have it, those were the first kids he ran into. “This sucks,” he said. The good news was, Al Capone’s had Nitro Streak. But the bad news was, the skinny kid from the night before who’d made fun of his jean rolls was currently sitting on top of it, addressing his crowd of friends, the same group from the night before. Edgar looked down to make sure his jeans weren’t rolled.

“Idiots,” the boy laughed. “I can’t believe nobody will even play me.”

Nitro Streak was the game with four drivers’ seats situated side by side, with four steering wheels and four sets of pedals. The point was, if you had three friends to play with, you could race each other, which was why it was so popular. Apparently the bully was the Nitro Streak king since nobody wanted to play him.

Edgar wondered how good he was.

“I’ll play,” said one kid, emerging from the crowd with a chili dog in his hand. He was tall with short, dark, almost greasy looking hair, and his mouth was full of the chili dog. He strolled from the air hockey machine to the Nitro Streak king and looked up at the bully, chewing all the while.

“Oh, fantastic. Kevin,” said the curly-headed kid. “Kevin, you’re too slow to play this game. Mentally, I mean.” He rolled his eyes and snickered, waving Kevin into one of the seats.

Kevin plopped into a driver’s seat and shoved the rest of his chili dog into his very messy mouth, smiling with satisfaction before placing his sticky fingers all over the steering wheel. It made the bully wince in disgust.

“So,” the tyrant barked, addressing the crowd once more. Edgar ducked slightly to the side to avoid being seen. “Who else is playing?”

The bully gazed into the back of the crowd and spotted another potential player. He pointed and waved her on. It was the mocha-haired girl from the night before, the one with the sparkly lip gloss.

She mystified Edgar.

“How about it, Shay?” the bully called.

“What are you babbling about, Weedy ?”

Shay stood by the dance machine, mingling with her friends, and when he waved her on she slightly rolled her beautiful, sapphire-like eyes. Weedy softened as she did, probably because of how beautiful she was . . .

“C’mon,” he said, now cordial all of the sudden. “Come play Nitro with us. Put those years of driving daddy’s golf cart to some use.” For a moment she seemed to think it over, then, biting her lip, she sashayed toward the game and took a seat beside the chili-covered Kevin.

Once there, she turned to Kevin and smiled sympathetically. “Kev,” she said, pointing to her own chin. “You’ve got some right here.”

“Yeah?” chewed Kevin, opening his mouth wide to reveal a pasty wad of chili dog.

She winced. “You’re so gross,” she muttered, turning away.

“One more!” Weedy yelled. “Who’s it gonna be?!”

“I’ll play,” said Edgar, stepping forward.

The crowd turned to him and murmured as Weedy glared down from above, like a judge. When he recognized Edgar, he grinned. “Hey! It’s Jean Rolls!”

Everybody laughed.

“Yeah,” shrugged Edgar. “You got me.”

He walked over and took a seat beside Shay.

“Hey,” he said, taking the wheel. “I’m Edgar.”

“Hey Edgar,” she whispered.

Weedy dropped from the top of the game and plopped into the fourth and final seat, and Edgar noticed the boy was gripping the wheel so tight, his two knottily knuckled, bruised fists turned snow white. Massaging it in a sort of uninhibited, unquenchable rage, he glared at Edgar and fumed.

Dude, thought Edgar, you are definitely a psycho.

“So, Jean Rolls. Mama’s Boy,” Weedy said loud enough that everyone could hear, all of them now congregating around the game to watch.

When Edgar looked around him he realized he was suddenly surrounded by bodies.

“Listen, redneck,” Weedy added, as scattered chuckles erupted behind them. “We play ‘Next Game’ around here. Do you know what that means: Next Game?”

“Yeah,” said Edgar. “We play like that back in Alabama. It means if you come in last, you pay for the winner’s next game.”

“Incredible!” said Weedy, imitating Edgar’s southern drawl. “Did you hear that, Kevin? This redneck says they have extra dollars down there in Alabamer . . .”

Laughter again, always laughter with this guy. It was like he traveled with a studio audience.

The older boys who’d taught Edgar to play played that way back in Alabama, just like he’d explained. However, currently, for Edgar, he had one major problem: there was only one dollar in his pocket, the only redneck in Washington without an extra bill.

“Not a problem,” said Edgar. “I’m down for Next Game.”

Edgar watched Weedy, Shay, and Kevin select their cars, and was surprised about Weedy’s choice; he’d selected the BMW, not even close to the best car in Nitro Streak. 

Shay had chosen a convertible: the red Miata, not a very good choice for Nitro Streak, but then again, he could overhear her telling Kevin that she wanted a convertible for her sixteenth birthday. Rich girl, huh? Finally, he peered at Kevin’s screen and discovered the sloppy eater had chosen the worst car of all, the Mazda 626.

He was a mess.

Delighted, Edgar spun the wheel to the best car in the game: the thunderous, rapturous, Nissan 370Z. How people in Washington did not know about the 370Z, Edgar did not know. Triumphantly, he smashed the gas pedal and selected the car, and the race began.

As the cars lurched from the starting line, all four screens were filled with smoke and debris, and the tire screeches echoed throughout the arcade.

For a moment the pack stayed together, with Weedy’s car directly in front, but when the appropriate sidewalk came along, Edgar tapped the brake and swerved to the right, then smashed a particular trashcan on the side of the road. It burst into about a million pieces, revealing a Nitro Canister, which Edgar’s Nissan gobbled up. It sent the fiery, red car surging forward like a rocket, and instantly he left Weedy’s BMW far behind, along with the others.

“Whoa!” someone shouted. “I didn’t know a Nitro canister was there!”

When his Nissan rocketed into another canister—this one hidden atop a building Edgar had ramped up onto—the car turned molten orange, and Edgar could feel Weedy glaring at him from the adjacent driver’s seat. The crowd began to cheer him on.

“No way!” someone yelled. “You can drive on the roof?!”

Not many people knew about that, but the older boys back in Alabama did.

“Shut up!” snapped Weedy, glaring back at the crowd. “It’s distracting!”

At the last turn, with the race easily in hand, Edgar downshifted coolly and coasted toward the finish line, taking the car into fourth gear and then to third, weaving in between a few remaining orange barrels and cones just to mess around. Triumphantly, he glanced up at the lap time and nodded: just as he thought. It would be his fastest lap ever.

It might be anybody’s fastest lap ever.

“Nope!” he heard Weedy say. Glancing over, Edgar realized that he was talking to Shay. They were battling it out for second. Weedy’s car was just nearing hers from behind and he was shouting at her.

“No way, Shay,” he growled. “You’re not beating me.”

Shay was beating Weedy straight up, even with a mediocre car. Her driving was impressive, Edgar noted. As he coasted his own car down the final stretch, he watched from the corner of his eye as she smoothly shifted up and down and took the curves like a good driver should, her palms sliding along the wheel smoothly and cleanly, all-in-all kicking Weedy’s ass.

Yet, since her car was so inferior—a frumpy convertible without any open road speed—Weedy got her on the straightaway. He came up alongside her and, for good measure, swerved right into her with one quick and vicious motion. Suddenly, Shay’s car was flipping off the road like litter in a sandstorm.

The crowd behind them erupted in protest.

“Asshole!” Shay’s friends screamed. “What a jerk!”

Shay was shocked and sat defeated with her mouth wide open. She turned to Weedy and said, “Naturally!” as a bitter anger flashed in her eyes. “That’s so . . . you.”

The crowd continued to groan at Weedy. What he had done was clearly against the unwritten rules of Nitro Streak: you never wreck another car on purpose. It was an honor thing. That’s how it was back in Alabama, and Edgar was glad to see that in this weird, awful town, at least they had standards here, too. Not that Weedy was good enough to abide by them.

“Oh, shut up!” he shouted, cackling, a huge grin on his face. He sped ahead of Shay and laughed maniacally as he left her behind. Her car was left to spin helplessly against a curb where it finally conked out to a complete stop, steaming pathetically by the highway.

“Real classy, Weedy,” she muttered, steering her battered Miata back onto the highway. “You ask me to play this stupid game,” she said, fighting against the now out-of-alignment tires, “and then you wreck me. How many issues do you have? Jesus. Too many to list I’m sure.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grinned. “It was an accident.”

Weedy then downshifted and took the last turn, that was when Edgar—who had been stationed all along by the side of the road with the finish line still in sight—waited like a snake in the grass.

As Weedy drove unsuspectingly up the backstretch, Edgar smashed the gas and crashed Weedy’s car off the road. With a violent surge, both cars went crashing and banging, instantly mangled and tumbling into the desert.

The crowd fell silent as they watched in awe. Then, suddenly, as they realized what Edgar had done, they burst into wild applause and cheered him even more.

“You . . .” said Weedy, whipping around in his seat, glaring at Edgar with two evil, smoldering eyes. “You inbred son of a bitch.”

As Weedy cursed at Edgar, Shay—who’d recovered from her wreck, came sputtering around the last bend and passed them. She grinned as her car crossed the finish line uncontested, making her the winner. Again the crowd went wild.

“Serves you RIGHT!” her friends screamed into Weedy’s ear, who winced at the sound and turned and glared at them all.

“Shut up, you skanks!” he yelled.

“Thanks, Edgar!” laughed Shay, leaning toward him. They locked eyes for a moment and he could smell her wonderful, sweet perfume.

“Anytime,” he smiled.

“Yeah!” shouted Kevin, whose car suddenly crossed the finish line as well. “I didn’t lose! Finally!”

Weedy’s eyes widened. He glared at Edgar then whirled back around in his seat to slam on the gas. His smoking, demolished BMW whined as he slowly rumbled back onto the highway. And immediately Edgar knew: he was screwed. His heart sank. He’d been so preoccupied with helping Shay he was caught idling. Suddenly Weedy was off toward the finish line and Edgar had no chance to catch him. He was clearly too far away for Edgar’s limping Nissan to challenge.

Edgar, it appeared, was going to lose.

*Game Over* flashed on the screen. The crowd fell silent.

“Oh no,” muttered Shay. After an expert display of Nitro Streak, the room suddenly realized that Edgar had come in last place, and owed Next Game.

“That’s RIGHT!” shouted Weedy, pounding the wheel with a fist. Then he pounded it again, with both fists, still glaring at the screen, as if Edgar’s finishing in last place was still not enough to make him happy. “You owe next GAME, hick!”

Shay walked over to them. “I don’t want the dollar, Weedy,” she said. “Edgar doesn’t owe me anything.”

“Fine,” Weedy growled. “Since Shay doesn’t want her dollar,” he announced to the crowd. “Jean Rolls will pay Kevin’s Next Game since Kevin came in second.”

At that, Kevin, who was busy tearing into a Snicker’s bar, perked up.

“Yeah,” he chirped. “Pay me, Jean Rolls.”

“No problem,” Edgar said. “I’ll get Kevin a dollar. I just have to go ask my mom.”

“Your who?” asked Weedy, enraged. “You mean you played Next Game and didn’t have the money to pay for it?!”

“I . . .” Edgar answered, and just then, as if on cue, his mom stuck her head through the door.

“Edgar?” she hollered.

“Over here,” he said meekly, rising from the Nitro Streak cockpit.

The crowd parted for him as he crossed the arcade and neared her. When he arrived, he said softly, “Mom, please don’t embarrass me right now. I really need a favor.”

“What kind of a ‘favor?’” she asked far too loudly.

“Oh my God,” he said softly, waving his palms down. “Just . . . OK, I need a dollar. OK?”

“For what?” she shouted above the arcade noise, as if trying to make him go insane on purpose.

“I owe that guy a dollar.” He pointed to Kevin across the arcade.

Her eyes became fiery slits.

“Have you,” she asked, her voice suddenly stern, “have you been . . . gambling?”

“No!” Edgar said defensively, his hands upraised in defense. “We were just playing loser pays ‘Next Game,’ that’s all.”

“Oh,” she sighed, “what a relief. I was sure you were gambling, but it turns out, you were . . . gambling!”

With a frown, she withdrew a dollar from her purse and walked it over to the silent group of kids. They all looked up at her with wide eyes. Edgar felt like melting into the arcade carpet. Standing before them, she waved the dollar in the air, disgustedly, as if it was dirty underwear.

“Whose is this?” she asked softly.

Timidly, from the back of the crowd, Kevin raised a hand.

“Um,” he said. “It’s mine?”

“Yours,” she said, then walked it over to him.

On her way back to Edgar, who she took by the arm to usher from the arcade, the word, “Douche!” resounded throughout the arcade. It was Weedy who’d shouted it. He slumped back into the Nitro Streak seat to hide from Mrs. Dewitt. All the kids gasped in horror. Slowly, Edgar’s mother turned and scanned the crowd for the guilty party with laser eyes.

When she couldn’t determine the guilty kid, she shrugged and looked down at Edgar. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she announced, scanning the crowd. “You lost to a bunch of clowns at Nitro Streak.”

The crowd burst into wild laughter again, and there were even some shouts for Mrs. Dewitt. Edgar’s mother led him to McDonald’s where his father waited.

“Please,” Edgar said. “Please. Just let me make a few friends before I get run out of Washington.”

She draped a lazy arm over his shoulder, jerking him along toward the restaurant, swaying him back and forth even though he was making himself stiff and rigid. Together they strolled in silence throughout the warm, dry evening of central Washington, when suddenly she leaned down close to him.

“You love me,” she whispered in his ear.

“No, I don’t,” he said dryly, trying not to smile.

“It’s a good school you’re attending tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Much better than your old one back home.”

They studied the townspeople as they strolled, the rhythm of their steps never syncing. He could not believe he was about to start a new school—it made him so sad. He could not have missed home more. He missed all his friends. He missed the guys at the charter who knew how to play Nitro Streak, who didn’t wreck other people’s cars.

When they reached the McDonald’s parking lot, Edgar asked, “Are you going to tell dad what I did back there?”

“You’re off the hook.”