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
