Arson by Estevan Vega

points.”
    Arson shrugged and stared at the dingy floorboards.
    Reaching out her hand, Emery lifted up his chin. “Hey, just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I can’t see you. It  is  okay to look at me from time to time.”
    What was this girl’s deal? The first time they met, she had practically wanted him crucified for looking at her, and now he appeared insensitive for looking away?
    â€œBut if you’re freaked out—”
    â€œNo, it’s not that,” he replied immediately.
    â€œGood, then let’s get out of here before Frankenstein’s bride summons me back to the chambers. We’ve got some bowling to do. Might as well start raising the white flag, because you don’t stand a chance.”
    Arson shrugged. This girl seemed capable of changing moods at will, like she could shut out her pain so long as it meant having a good time.
    â€œC’mon,” she said. “I’ll race you there.”
    Â 
    * * *
    Â 
    An hour and a half at a bowling alley might have been the result of an enjoyable, free-spirited evening on any other night, but tonight the time spent—wasted—was enough to shatter egos. Arson was sick with embarrassment. He couldn’t bowl to save his life. Countless gutter balls and misses made the spares and one strike seem like things better left unmentioned. The game was not without its certain elements of fun, but it was time to face the music; he didn’t have any kind of skill.
    â€œI don’t bowl often.”
    â€œWell, that’s no excuse for letting a girl beat you in a child’s game,” Emery said, releasing the ball from a tight grip. She watched with anxious tenacity as it rolled all the way down the middle of the aisle, sending pins flying backward. Another strike.
    The sound of ricocheting pins made Arson cringe in his seat. Hoping she wouldn’t notice, he secretly entered points in his score rather than hers.
    â€œDon’t even think about it,” she quipped with a rigid finger.
    â€œDo you have eyes in the back of that mask or something?”
    â€œOr something.”
    Emery danced back to her seat while Arson moseyed to his spot on the floor. Discomfort crept inside his shoes. He found a ball, feigned a smile with sunken shoulders, and fell in line with his target: a white upside-down triangle consisting of ten ridiculing items braced to shatter his ambition before he even let go. Slinging one hand back, Arson’s wrist made a quick snap, sending the ball down the aisle and shattering most of the pins. Victory! Almost. Arson eyeballed the two pins at opposite ends as large mechanical arms began cleaning up the scattered remains.
    â€œImpressive,” Emery chimed. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
    Arson was silent for a moment, unable to absorb the compliment or the sarcasm it was laced with. Instead he glanced around the big, smoky room, noticing how the crowd eyed Emery. He pretended he could hear what they were thinking. Cruel jokes hidden behind awe and bewilderment. It was like their eyes revealed what was in their hearts, their minds. Some sort of disgust or self-righteous contempt. Whispers here and there, puzzled glances from worried parents and punk teenagers. They had no compassion, no discretion; they just stared, like she was a freak. They were the same looks that often found him in the lonely hallways at school. Arson hated them. What, did they expect her to put on a show? Throw on a hat and juggle some fruit? It made him sick.
    â€œWe can leave,” he said, leaning over, waiting for Emery’s reaction. “You know, if you’re uncomfortable here.”
    Emery leaned in and said, “Quit while I’m ahead? Are you crazy?”
    Arson waited for her to be still.
    â€œIt’s cool. The world is always gonna have an opinion about this thing.” She pointed to her mask. “It’s easy for them to