I stood on a table in the cafeteria and shot the tinfoil ball.
“Off,” I said the moment it left my fingers. “I’m rusty from the weekend.” I clapped to Red. “Send that back.”
Red glanced at the door to the service area and scampered after the tinfoil. “Last one, Mason Irving,” he said nervously. He scooped it up, tossed it my way, and raced back next to the garbage can.
Red was getting my misses. I was standing much closer than usual, but I’d still missed my first three. I never missed four in a row.
“We should go, Rip.” He held his fists next to his cheeks. “We’re pushing the envelope too far.”
“Pushing the envelope? Since when do you say that?”
“Mr. Acevedo said it.”
“I know he did.” I smiled. “I didn’t know you did.”
“We should go,” Red said again.
“Irving squares his shoulders,” I announced. “He fires from long distance…”
Once again, I knew it was off the second the tinfoil left my hand. I jumped off the table and charged after it.
“We should go,” Red said, turtling his neck and pressing his elbows to his sides.
“One last shot.” I gobbled up the ball, sidestepped to the kitchen entrance, and peeked in.
“Rip, no. What are you doing?”
“You know what Avery calls the lunch lady who moves her arms like this?” I shook my arms above my head and then waved them in different directions. “Tarantula.”
He slid his hands behind his neck and squeezed his head with his arms.
“You know what she calls the one who wears her hair up? Bunion.” I tossed the tinfoil behind my back with my right hand and caught it with my left. “On the last mission, she—”
“Stop.” Red squinched his face tight, wrinkling his eyes, nose, and forehead. “Stop.”
Old-man face. I didn’t like Red’s old-man face.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said.
I stopped. I didn’t take the one last shot.