Hard Mode
I’m sitting at Mandrake’s.
It’s smaller than I imagined. Brighter. The light isn’t dim and romantic like I thought it would be. None of the silverware matches, there’s weird squiggly art on the walls, and all of the waitresses are wearing pants. I watch customers coming through the door. Each time someone walks in, a little bell rings.
It’s 7:08.
Is she going to stand me up?
That would suck.
Or would it?
“Would you like more water?” the server asks. The side of her head is shaved, and she has gauges in her ears.
“Um, yes, please.” She refills my water while I hold the glass and feel it get colder. My mouth is dry. I’m nervous for some stupid reason. “Uh, she should be here any minute. We said seven, and I came kinda early, so . . .”
“You’re fine,” the server says. She smiles and leaves.
I tap my feet and drum the table and look around. The hostess is leaning against her podium, texting. I wonder if she’s the one I talked to on the night Serena and I stood each other up.
The entrance bell rings. My heart gives a little kick. Speak of the devil.
Serena walks in. I look away, but then think, That’s stupid, there’s no reason to look away, and look back. I wait until she sees me, and then give a little wave. Her eyes slip to the side, as if she didn’t notice. Or has never even met me.
I get it. I did abandon her when the cops showed up.
While the hostess seats Serena at a table on the opposite wall, I rearrange my silverware. Once Serena’s settled, I steal a glance. She may have ignored me when she came in, but she sat down facing me. She looks pretty tonight—new haircut, blue dress, red lipstick. I remember how she looked the last time I saw her, sprawled-out drunk and sweaty on a casino chair.
I realize I’m staring, and focus on my silverware again.
Is she alone? That would definitely make me feel better if I’m being stood up right now. Actually, it would probably make me feel better either way. Maybe that’s an asshole thing to think. It’s none of my business if Serena’s alone or not.
I decide not to look up anymore, so as to not seem creepy. My fork has dried food on it. That’s the problem with dishwashers. They bake the food right in. I start scraping the crusty bits off with my fingernail, when the chair opposite mine scoots out.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Meeki says, sitting down.
“Oh, hey,” I say, lifting my butt to stand, but then, acknowledging she’s already sitting, sit back down. “Uh, thanks for coming anyway.”
The server pours water into Meeki’s glass. “You guys need a minute?”
“Uh, yes please,” I say.
Meeki scans the menu as if everything is made of rat tails and insects.
“We’re getting separate checks,” she says.
I put my napkin on my lap. “I know.”
It’s strange that I’m about to have dinner with my nemesis, but Meeki was the only player from Video Horizons I could track down online. And that’s only because I knew her gamer tag. She started playing Trivia Crack right after she was released from V-hab. Mekillyoulongtime has one hell of a score.
I decide not to mention the fact that she’s gaming again. That would be hypocritical.
After three straight weeks of daily exercising with Casey and cooking dinner (mostly tofu scramble) and doing the dishes every night, my dad gave me my computer back. The first thing I did was e-mail Fezzik a long apology. He responded a few days later.
The subject read Greetings from the Desert Temple!
I’ve been waiting to read the rest until after this dinner with Meeki, when I’ll probably need an elixir.
Meeki slaps her menu shut and lets it fall onto her place mat. She huffs and glares around the restaurant. Behind her the server brings Serena a fancy yellow drink. Serena has stopped pretending I’m not here. Her eyebrows are quirked in my and Meeki’s direction.
Part of me wants to wave my hands and mouth, Not a date.
“So are you gonna talk, or are you just wasting my time?” Meeki says.
I want to tell her there’s no reason to be a dick.
“First of all,” I say, “is Soup okay? I called Video Horizons, but G-man would only tell me you guys found him.”
Meeki drinks some water and rolls her eyes. “Stupid kid was hiding in the activity chest.”
I shake my head. “That kid’s an idiot.”
“Don’t try to find common ground with me,” she says.
We fall into silence. Meeki crunches her ice.
Last week I finally decided to go try to unlock the “Don’t be a Total Dick” achievement. I remembered the name of the street Soup mentioned, but not the house number. So I combed both sides of West Chesterton, ringing doorbells and awkwardly asking for a kid who was about twelve, loved Animal Crossing, and went by Soup.
I knew I’d found the right house when the blinds in the second-floor window suddenly snapped shut.
A man with seventies glasses and a thick mustache answered the door and said, “You must be Miles.”
“Actually, it’s Jaxon,” I said. “Is Soup here?”
The man glanced up the staircase. “Justin’s busy right now. Would you like to set up a playdate?”
“Uh, no,” I said. “I don’t do play . . .”
I trailed off. I had expected a hug. I’d expected tears. I’d expected Soup to make me feel better about myself and how I’d acted.
It took me about eight seconds to realize how stupid that was.
“Yeah,” I told Soup’s dad. “I’d like to set up a playdate, please.”
It’s two days from now.
Meeki smirks into her water.
“What?” I say.
“After you ran away, we ritually burned all the cross-stitches Soup made for you. He didn’t even cry. Fezzik told him he’d evolved into ‘Souperior.’ ”
Ouch.
“At least he’s not obsessed with me anymore,” I say, trying not to seem hurt. I can’t believe I’m thinking this but . . . I’m nervous to see Soup.
I look at Serena, who has almost finished her drink and is focused on her phone, which her parents must have given back to her. No one has joined her. It makes me feel better knowing I’m not the only person in this restaurant who people want to stay away from.
I know I shouldn’t feel better about that.
“Do you keep in touch with anyone?” I ask Meeki.
“Yes.”
“Like . . .”
“I’m not giving you Aurora’s phone number.”
“I know her name is Jasmine,” I say. “And I don’t want it. I just want to see how she’s doing.”
Meeki doesn’t know I have a dry, crumbled leaf in my pocket.
She swirls her water glass. “She’s dating Zxzord.”
My stomach flips. “Are you kidding?”
“Maybe.”
I laugh in relief. It’s uncertain laughter.
Meeki sets her glass down with a thud. “Is this the only reason you brought me down here? To find out how other people are doing?”
“No,” I say. “You’re right. I’m sorry. How are you?”
“Fine,” she says.
I try not to let my anger show. “That’s it?”
She considers me for a second. “I’m dating Parappa.”
“The nerdcore kid? But . . . he’s a—”
Meeki gives me a look that could set the tablecloth on fire. Shoot. What did I say? I only said, like, six words, and suddenly she’s pissed. Um, let’s see . . . “Nerdcore” is fine because that’s just what he does. “Kid” is fine because he’s pretty young. Wait. . . . “He.” I think back to the look Meeki gave me in the Feed when I said I wanted to throw my spork at “him.”
Parappa is a girl?
“That’s . . . great,” I say. “Congratulations. Uh, she seemed really talented . . . at rapping.”
“You know what?” Meeki says, standing, chair screeching. “This was a dumb idea.”
“Wait.” I reach across the table. “Please don’t leave.”
Serena is staring at us. I don’t care what she thinks. I’m just worried that if no one from V-hab can see I’m changing, getting better, that I’m able to recognize other people for who they are, then I’ll have a hard time convincing myself that’s true.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Meeki. “I didn’t know about Parappa. I don’t know a lot of things. Please just . . .” I gesture to her chair.
Meeki tilts her head in a really disapproving way that makes this so much harder than it needs to be. That’s okay. If I wanted easy, I wouldn’t have contacted her.
Meeki’s still not sitting down.
“Meeki,” I say, “I get it now.”
The expression on her face is enough to tell me how she feels about this, but before I can retract, she sits down and hisses at me, “You don’t. It’s not like being a nice guy is a coat of paint that you can just slap on.”
“You guys all set over here?” the server asks.
“Actually,” I say, “can we have a couple—”
“I’ll take the macaroni and cheese,” Meeki says.
“Oh.” I quickly flip open my menu. “Then I will take the . . . arugula salad.”
I’ve lost ten pounds in four weeks, and I want to keep going. Most people comment on it. Meeki hasn’t.
The server leaves with our menus. I gather my thoughts.
“You’re right,” I say. “I don’t get it. Let me try that again.” I breathe for a few beats, trying to find the right words. “I want to get it. I haven’t stopped thinking about Video Horizons since I left. All the people there. I missed out on a big opportunity to learn a lot from you guys, and I’ve really regretted it.”
She is clearly unimpressed.
I try a smile. “I regret not having you teach me how to punch too.”
She doesn’t smile back, but her tone becomes gentler. Slightly. “That’s great for you, Miles, but it’s not my job to educate you on how to be a better person.”
I nod and think about how Fezzik handled situations like this. Meeki’s Protect 3 is up, and I have to get a spell past it somehow.
“That’s totally fair,” I say. “You are not my teacher.” I take another deep breath. “I was thinking about what you said about how being a white guy is like playing the game of life on easy mode.”
Meeki crosses her arms. “Uh-huh.”
“So . . . ,” I say, carefully, “that must mean that being Asian and a girl and gay is like playing the game in nightmare mode?”
“My life is not a nightmare.”
“No. You’re right. Your life is . . . on a really hard difficulty setting?”
She uncrosses her arms and fiddles with the corner of the tablecloth. “Yup.”
“I can’t even imagine how tough that is,” I say. “I salute you.”
Meeki lifts the handle of her fork, drops it, and then lifts it again. “You could actually salute me, you know.”
I chuckle. “I’m not doing that.”
She shrugs. “Worth a shot.”
We fall into silence for a bit. The only way it would be more awkward is if Parappa were with us, rapping. Or if Serena were glancing at us any more than she already is. Now I kinda wish a boy would show up and distract her.
“I’m trying not to screw this up,” I say to Meeki. “I’m trying to stay on my toes. I’m trying to be nice. Every moment. It’s so much harder than I thought it would be.”
“You want a medal?”
I smile. “You want me to salute you?”
She gives a smirk. The tiniest of smirks. But I can practically feel the golden fireworks coming off me.
“Do you . . . ,” I say, “want to know anything about me?”
“Not really.”
We stare at each other.
“Fine,” she says. “How’d you steal G-man’s car?”
“Actually, that wasn’t my idea,” I say. I know I’m totally inviting a scene that could cause my complete embarrassment. But oh, well. “That was—”
I point over Meeki’s shoulder.
She looks.
Serena is gone.
“Oh,” I say. “Never mind.”
I want to tell Meeki all about the car and the twenty-dollar bill and the gambling and the Long Island iced teas, but that stuff is really none of my business.
Our food arrives. We eat dinner, mostly in silence, making fun of Soup every so often, and avoiding the topic of Jasmine altogether. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a week, rehearsing in my mind all the different things I would or would not say.
I don’t make her laugh once.