The Grave Shadows

23. The Game

The Coopers lived in a single-storied house four lanes south of their store. In this monotonous neighborhood, the properties were the uniform gray bricks and blue roofs, spreading out in the equal holdings on the tree-lined lanes. The air smelled like summer barbeque in the oak forest, the street quaint and friendly. The house was small, but it had a spacious lawn and a decent backyard. John and Cyan should do something about the overgrown bushes, but the store took all of their time. Cyan dreamed of this type of a home, a backdrop of a family's perfect photograph.

Right now, at the front door was Everett Watts—the extravagant member of a different picture. Cyan shrank in her gray tunic and wool sweater. Everett looked as if he was going to see a ballet.

John chatted with Everett for a while before disappearing inside the kitchen. Cyan heard that the Watts Mansion was three times the size of Colt University's administration building. So understandably, Everett was sweating. This little living room suffocated him. Suddenly, John poked his head in the room and threw a bottle of cold beer at Everett.

"Dad, he's nineteen," Cyan shouted, but John missed the protest through the strange melody of his singing. She plopped down next to Everett and snatched the bottle away.

"Twenty." Everett seized the bottle back, although his declaration was inadmissible. "People start drinking at the age of twelve around here."

"People—you mean the Watts boys." Cyan narrowed her eyes.

Chuckling, Everett crossed his legs and popped off the cap. "What are we doing, anyway?"

Cyan shifted in the couch, Everett's warmth caressing her arm. She laid two video-game consoles on the table. "Depends. Fight or race?" She plunked a box of game CDs on the coffee table. Racing was on her mind. She wondered if Everett was as good as Luke claimed. He was fast, people said, reckless, death flirting with him. A boastful article on the wall of Colt's library said Everett Watts was an incomparable gunslinger and his bullets the gifts to the underworld. John thought shooting games were too violent for girls, unaware that nothing could be too rough for his daughter.

"We're playing video games?" Everett coughed and wiped his lips.

"Yes." Cyan tilted her head back and joined her brows. "What did you expect? Wait, you play video games, right?" When his response was sipping, she leaned farther from him. "What do the Watts boys play?"

Everett scratched his neck. "Pool. Sometimes chess. We race. Well, if you count horseback riding, then that, too. Fencing is strictly for winter because we get too heated otherwise. Shooting is quite entertaining."

Cyan blinked. "So everything has to be serious."

"Tell me about it." Everett gave a half shrug.

"My dad likes Street Fighter, you know, the fighting video game series, but I'm sick of it." Cyan peered at the kitchen entrance. "If we got Street Fighter V, we'd be stuck in the same game for two years." She blew out her cheeks. "He thinks I'm crazy about it, too. You see, he's into all kinds of martial arts. Back in high school, he was in a wrestling team. I guess some parents expect their kids to be a little like them."

John Cooper had been in better shape. But every winter he put on a pound. Cyan had a picture of John and Mom's wedding engraved in her mind and concurred that Mom wouldn't recognize him if they met again.

"I shouldn't piss him off then," Everett said.

"We don't have to play games." Cyan sank in the couch. "Reality is already exciting."

Dinner was served on the coffee table, a movie playing in the background, the Watts boy center of attention. John and Everett had humorous touches of sarcasm which were puzzling to Cyan at times. John giggled at misfortune whereas Everett at privilege. Cyan thought both men were just avoiding reality, so they were drawn to games, imaginations, escapes, and fantasies. By the end of the night, John and Everett ran out of topics and jokes. Everett rarely scoffed but laughed deliberately, pressing his stomach and contorting helplessly in the getaway of his melancholy discomfort.