Tommy had been thirteen at the time, just beginning to wear shirts of bands that seemed dangerous and grown-up to William, which in turn made junior high seem like a mythical place. Based on the music that blasted incessantly from Tommy’s room, the late-night calls he received, and the black jeans he wore every day instead of corduroys, William assumed that Tommy pretty much ruled the school. He often imagined his brother pulling up on a motorcycle and parking in the No Parking zone out front and sauntering in late with breakfast from McDonald’s in a paper bag. Even though he knew that such ideas were ridiculous—Tommy didn’t have a motorcycle, and thirteen-year-olds couldn’t drive unless you lived in the Upper Peninsula, where he’d heard that you could do pretty much anything you wanted—it was difficult to stop thinking of Tommy as some kind of ultra-cool rebel.
Is this a faggot-in-training you brought with you today, Thomas?
They’d crawled through a tunnel lined with leering gremlins whose eyes seemed to pop out and follow them—a trick of the blacklights. William and Tommy were on the green team, hunting anonymous red players, dozens of kids loose in the maze on a Saturday afternoon while their parents drank beer in the bowling alley next door. Tommy had given him the role of tailgunner, which meant that his job was to cover Tommy’s butt if they got into a firefight. William took the job seriously, sweeping his gun from left to right each time they entered a new area, like he’d seen cops do on TV. They emerged from the tunnel into an enclosed octagon that branched into eight dark hallways. The five other boys were on them before William knew what was happening, but they were all wearing green plastic armor.
William relaxed. Same team.
Then one of the boys stepped forward and lowered his shoulder and drove it into Tommy’s chest. Tommy staggered back and went down on one knee but didn’t collapse entirely.
Sorry about that, Peaches! It’s so dark in here I didn’t see you!
Tommy didn’t say anything, just stood up and stared them down while they disappeared down a hallway, laughing.
William was confused. Tommy was completely silent. For the rest of the day, he just focused on the game, sniping around corners at red players and pulling off a daring maneuver on the rope bridge that left William with the same uncomfortable feeling he got when their mother drove too fast because she was angry.
After they had signed out, returned their armor and weapons, and headed across the parking lot to find their parents, William worked up the courage to ask his brother a question.
Who were those guys, Tommy?
He hoped his brother would assure him that stuff like that sometimes happened in laser tag, that being a jerk was all part of the competitive nature of the game. But he knew it wasn’t true. There had been something personal in their tone, acknowledgment of a shared history that had its origin in hallways and locker rooms.
Nobody, his brother had answered. Football players. It doesn’t matter.
Occasionally William wondered whatever happened to those guys. Some would be graduating from college. One or two might even have kids; people started early in Michigan. Maybe they became alcoholic townies. Maybe they won the Powerball lottery.
He wondered if they ever thought about the boy they used to call Peaches and faggot.
“Daniel,” he whispered. They were crouched out of sight below a window on the third floor of a building overlooking Main Street. Their hiding place had once been a bedroom. A rusty cot sagged in the corner by the door. Above the cot, somebody had spray-painted I SLEPT HERE AND I HAVE HERPES.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“I’m glad you never picked on anybody.”
“How do you know I never picked on anybody?”
“Because you’re not a dickhead. Or, I mean, you obviously are, but you don’t use your dickhead powers to make other people’s lives miserable.”
“That’s the most beautiful thing anybody’s ever said to me.”
“I’m serious. I never thought I would be friends with somebody who played on a Fremont Hills High School sports team.”
“So what you’re saying is, I came along and shattered your worldview about all members of varsity sports teams being classic jock archetypes? You expected wedgies, and when no wedgies were forthcoming, you revised your outlook?”
William paused. Daniel was whispering extremely fast, his words coming out rapid-fire.
“Yes. That is what I’m saying.”
William raised his head to peek over the sill. He and Daniel had secured one of the unlit windows. That had seemed like a good idea on the way up the creaky staircase, but now that he scanned the houses lining the other side of the street, their position seemed too obvious. He figured every dark window had enemy infantry crouched behind it. Why would you scramble around the alleyways, exposing your sensor, when you could hang out up here and snipe at the hapless fools below?
He wished the laser rifle’s scope had some kind of night vision. It was really just a decorative addition to make the gun look cool. He swept his gun slowly, silently, from left to right.
I’m covering your butt, Tommy.
Suddenly, he caught the telltale glint of the translucent red plastic in a rifle’s tip, which housed the gun’s vulnerable sensor. It was almost directly across the street, framed by the black square of a lanternless window.
He curled his finger around the trigger and waited for the enemy gun to reappear so he could take the shot. A car sped along the dusty street below, but he didn’t dare raise his head to look down. Tires screeched as the car turned down a side street, and an eerie calm descended.
None of the weapons made noise. They flashed red to indicate a shot fired, and rumbled like a phone on vibrate when hit. This had the practical effect of not giving away a player’s position, and the creepy effect of making the game feel haunted by footsteps and engines and squealing tires, but no
