Dream On(31)

“Looks like you’ve finally met your match, Perry.” Devin’s tone of surprise is nearly drowned out by the electronic dings and flashing red and orange lights of the vintage nineties pinball machine.

I admit, I was initially worried when I watched Perry play. His game lasted nearly forty-five minutes and ended with an impressive score of 1.9 billion points. My score’s now at 1.4 billion; I still have some catching up to do. Devin shifts beside me to stand closer, but I can’t let his nearness distract me. It’s my second-to-last ball, so if I want to win, I need to focus. And that shot of Fireball isn’t doing me any favors. My head feels like cotton and I have to squint at the ball to keep it in focus. I aim for a corner where I know I can score extra points if I land the ball just so, and it ricochets into place. I blow out a relieved breath. Lights flash and another ten million points are added to my score.

“How are you so good?” Perry asks me, voice full of awe.

“I lived above an arcade in Euclid until I was twelve—before I moved to Chagrin Falls,” I add to Devin. “The owner used to give me free tokens if I helped him sweep up after school.”

“That’s kind of shady. Child labor and all that,” says Devin.

I don’t take my eyes off the whizzing ball. “He was the best, actually. A gem. My mom worked long hours, so I was a latchkey kid—alone a lot, you know? I think letting me sweep for tokens was his way of looking out for me without making me feel like a charity case.”

Mr. Fitzpatrick, the owner of Euclid’s Gametime Arcade, will forever hold a soft spot in my heart. A grizzled vet in his late sixties, he was always kind to the quiet, mousy girl who lived upstairs. He even let me draw on his chalkboard behind the counter whenever I stopped by. He’d scrounge up a few half-broken pieces of colored chalk, toss them onto the counter, and say, “Make it pretty,” in his gruff, croaky voice.

At first, I didn’t know what to draw, so I tried drawing what I saw in the arcade. The prizes from the prize case—stuffed animals, small toys, temporary tattoos with dragon and butterfly designs. Then video game characters and, eventually, people. But no matter how cartoonish or terrible my drawings were, he’d nod and say, “Nice work.” And the next day I’d come back and the chalkboard would be blank again—a canvas waiting to be brought to life by my imagination.

I spent countless after-school hours rotating between playing pinball, sweeping up trash, and drawing on Mr. Fitzpatrick’s chalkboard. That is, until my mom found out. She put a stop to my “time-wasting” real quick.

With a shake of my head, I refocus on the game. “Anyway, I haven’t played in a long time.”

“Could have fooled me,” Perry mutters.

I let myself sink into the game—timing when I deploy the flippers so the ball rolls up a ramp and hits a target. I’m dimly aware that a crowd has gathered behind us—I can tell from the shuffle of shoes and the invisible press of bodies. Whispers and the occasional cheer rise up when I hit a target. I lose a ball down the drain and another loads—my last ball. Ten minutes later, I’m within range of Perry’s score… if only I can…

“Ooo, watch out for the—” someone says.

Devin’s elbow brushes mine and I’m a split-second too late. My ball disappears into the drain.

Perry cheers and the crowd groans. My heart sinks until a mechanical plink steals my attention—I have a free ball! It deploys from the top of the machine. I focus on it as it barrels down, and send it flying back up. It pings against several bumpers in succession before landing against a target. The final door lights up, shortly followed by the doorknob with a question mark—this is it. This is my chance. The ball rolls toward the secondary left flipper. I hit the button, and the ball flies to the correct target. The machine rings out and the lights flash.

“Lost in the Zone!” Someone whoops from the crowd.

Six balls quickly release. I have thirty seconds to hit as many targets as I can and rack up points. I hammer the buttons. Targets light up one after another. When a ball drains, another releases. Finally, the flippers go dead, allowing all the balls to drain.

My score flashes: 2,051,619,580. It’s higher than Perry’s.

“I won!” I shout.

The group of five or so people behind me cheers and claps.

Devin picks me up and twirls me around in the air. “Team Devin wins!” he shouts.

Sheer mirth fills me, and I’m still laughing when he sets me on my feet. Our gazes connect, and his eyes blaze with triumph.

On an impulse, I throw my arms around his neck and mash my mouth against his. He returns this kiss with enthusiasm, and a smattering of laughter floats from the dispersing crowd. I don’t care if we have an audience or that we’re kissing in the middle of a pinball arcade. His teeth scrape against my bottom lip. I suck in a surprised breath, and his palm descends, pressing against the dip in my lower back.

A throat clears behind us, and I pull away, breathing hard. Running my fingers through my hair, I turn and find myself face to face with Perry.

His rueful smile can’t hide his disappointment. “Team Devin wins… as usual,” he says so quietly I nearly miss it. A band twists around my heart. Tipping his beer to his lips, he drains it in several long gulps. “Well, I’m true to my word. I’ll be going now. That was one hell of a game, Cass. Rematch sometime?”