The walk home from Game Over usually isn’t bad, considering I live two streets east of Old Town, but this Wednesday afternoon, the trek feels endless. Despite today being the new guy’s third day at work, we still weren’t staffed enough for the sudden influx of customers. Summer hits and all the kids want to hang out in our gaming room like gnats swarming a trash can.

On top of that, Mr. Rayburn came looking for his weekly Counterstrike debate. He must have smelled fresh blood, because he went straight for Ben. Every week he comes in and tries to get a refund for the game because it isn’t working right. Since I can’t tell him the truth, which is that he’s fifty and sucks at video games, I try to find out where he’s going wrong and give him pointers. He’s one of those old guys who’s convinced he’s the shit at everything, so each time it devolves into an argument about the worth of my advice, which he charmingly calls as useful as tits on a nun. Seeing as how it's a new problem each week, I’m pretty sure he follows my advice the second he gets home, and it works for him until he gets stuck on a new section.

I had to step in and save Ben after he froze with a dumbstruck look on his face. Mr. Rayburn was only halfway through his rant over an issue that any kid in the gaming room next door could solve blindfolded, and I know how hard it is to rein in that initial “WTF” moment when faced with Mr. Rayburn. Later I gave Ben a list of our most difficult customers and a crash course on how to deal with them.

My back aches as I climb the steps, and I wish, not for the first time, that my tiny apartment had a bathtub where I could soak away my daily stress. It’s the only thing about my place I can find to complain about. Certainly not Mrs. Hill, who stands guard in her open doorway on the first floor of the converted Victorian where we live.

“Craig, I saw you on the sidewalk. You look tired. Would you like some coffee?”

If I were to guess, she’s been watching out the window, waiting for me. Mrs. Hill’s husband passed away several years ago, at which point she moved here, making cleaning and getting around easier for her. She has children and grandchildren scattered across the country, but they only visit a couple times a year. I think that’s why she’s unofficially adopted me, and I’ll happily stake my claim to her. Better than my real mom, whose idea of good parenting was getting enough bleach and hair dye for me too whenever she tried out crazy hair colors.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hill, but I think I’m just going to crash for now.”

She pats my cheek with bony crooked fingers, and it fills me with a warmth like downing hot cocoa and warm cookies. “I made your favorite ginger cake. Rest up, and then come down for a slice and a beating at rummy.” Her eyes twinkle at our inside joke. I might practically be a professional gamer, but when it comes to cards, the old lady smokes me every time.

“You know how to tempt a man, Mrs. Hill.”

She giggles like a teenager as she shuts the door behind her, and I stop at the mailboxes for what are only ever bills. My fingers still on a crisp, heavy envelope embossed with a Front Range Community College logo. I have no idea how long I stand staring into my now-empty mailbox, letter in hand, before a horn out on the street jump-starts my brain again. It takes every ounce of willpower not to put the letter right back and pretend I never saw it, but I carry it with me to my second-floor apartment.

The letter gets a special place all alone on the coffee table, while I ignore its existence and heat up some frozen burritos for dinner. I sink into my comfy secondhand couch and flip on the TV, holding the hot plate of burritos in my lap. Not even Game of Thrones can distract me from the envelope and its potential contents, and I soon give up any pretense of watching the show. My stomach gurgles, but my dinners consist of frozen burritos often enough to know that it isn’t the food that is making me nauseous.

I mentally berate myself because, come on, it’s a community college. I remember kids back in high school getting this worked up over college acceptance letters when they were to real, impressive, actual colleges. That I’m this nervous over a community college is just pathetic. Except I’m not a high schooler anymore. Back then, a rejection would have been expected and accepted because, let’s face it, I was way more concerned about my next piercing and keeping out of the crosshairs of whatever boyfriend my mom brought home at the time. Now, though, I’ve got work experience and life experience, and actually studied for the SAT required for admission. If I didn’t get accepted, I’ll be gutted.

Maybe ginger cake does sound good.

* * *

“Gin!” Mrs. Hill calls triumphantly and lays down her cards. “Would you like another slice of cake?”

“Yes, please,” I say while collecting the cards and shuffling.

Mrs. Hill slides the plate in front of me before taking the cards from my hands and dealing. “You know, I haven’t seen that boy around in a while. Are you still seeing him?”

“That boy” was named Michael, which Mrs. Hill conveniently forgets because she never liked him. Not that I blame her. He was the overbearing kind of guy who orders for you at a restaurant. That should have been the end of it right there, but he had a perky ass and an Alienware Area 51 system, and I stayed just a little too long. Story of my life – I always stay too long with the wrong people.

“No, Michael and I broke up months ago.”

“No one new?” she asks while slyly taking the card I just laid down. Crap, I can see that gleam in her eye already, and it isn’t about my dating life. It’s the gleam that says this is going to be a very short game. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hill refuses to play poker. I might actually have a shot against her there.

“Nope,” I say, but the image of Ben’s friend/boyfriend/roommate/whatever comes unbidden into my head.

He’s the first guy to catch my interest in a long, long time, and it sucks that he’s already taken. Or at least already otherwise smitten. That whole Ben thing is confusing, because he said they were just friends and roommates, but Blushy, as I’ve mentally nicknamed him, certainly acted otherwise.

And then there was the other blond guy who came into the store Monday afternoon at the end of Ben’s shift. That guy was all drama, suggestive looks and movements, practically giving hand jobs to the PS wands. I had to hold my tongue to keep from telling Ben that Helix Studios was looking for their missing twink when I went to the back office to let him know that his friend was out front. Seriously, the guy gets more action at the store in three days working there than I have during my entire five years of employment.

The very next turn and Mrs. Hill once again lays down her cards to win the game.

“I’m out,” I say, getting up to wash off my plate. She may be my substitute mother, but I never want to make any extra work for her. “I know when I’m beat. Thanks for everything tonight.”

“Baking for you is never a hardship,” Mrs. Hill says, though she knows I’m not only talking about her food. She shoves a foil-covered paper plate into my hands on the way out the door, and I know what my breakfast will be tomorrow. I shuffle upstairs to my own apartment, which has a lingering burrito odor happening that isn’t pleasant. Hopefully the ginger cake will counteract it.

I can’t put it off any longer, so I take the envelope with me to bed. I turn it over in my hands, wondering for the millionth time what I was thinking, applying to college at my age. It’s not like I have some big career end-goal to work toward. But after witnessing the endless cycle of guys working at the store while they put themselves through college, or working until they get their “real” post-graduation job, I felt like maybe it was something I needed to do. But Game Over is my real job. I like working there, and I don’t really see that changing. Maybe I won’t get in and then I won’t have to make a decision.

I rip off the end and pull out the letter. There are several sheets, one pink and one green, in addition to a letter on the school letterhead. My eyes don’t get farther than “Congratulations.”

Well, shit.