Mr. Pierce’s poker buddies started showing up around six. My stomach was growling—I hadn’t eaten much for lunch—but I knew better than to ask when we’d order the pizza. For a little while Mikey and I duked it out on the Playstation, playing one of his wrestling games and basically kicking the s**t out of each other. Mikey knew all the moves, which buttons to press in what sequence to execute any number of grandiose acrobatics but me, I just pushed them all at once and hoped for the best. It pissed him off whenever I won. “Dumb luck,” he’d say, punching me in the arm. By the time he grew bored with the game, my shoulder was numb from his knuckles.
When I heard the first car slow to a stop in front of the house, I abandoned the game and pretended to stretch as I wandered over to the window.
