"Maya doesn't want to play Mercy anymore."

"What, huh? What do you mean?"

"I mean we were talking at lunch about the things you said yesterday and she—

"Really? She knows I didn't mean that shit, right? It was just a joke."

"Right, right, man. Well she was really upset about it all and—

"Did you tell her I'm sorry? That I didn't mean it? Cause I mean, I didn't, you know?"

"Right, yeah. She was still really upset and she said that she didn't really appreciate it and—

"Appreciate—man, I'll tell her. I'll fuckin' tell her I'm sorry. What do you mean she doesn't want to play anymore?"

"She didn't say that, really."

"Didn't say what? That she didn't appreciate it?"

"No, no. She definitely said that."

"What'd she say?"

"She said that she was upset and hurt by what you said during the match last night and—

"And now she doesn't want to play?"

"Mercy."

"Mercy?"

"She doesn't want to play Mercy."

"Oh, shit. So she still wants to play?"
"No."

"She doesn't want to play?"

"No, yeah. She does. I think. I don't know. She just said she's not playing Mercy anymore."

"What'd she say exactly?"

"Exactly?"

"Yeah, exactly. Fuckin' tell me word for word what she said to you."

"She said something like, I don't know, like, 'if he's gonna act like that to me I ain't playin' Mercy no more.'"

"She said that?"

"Yeah."

"She said she won't play Mercy?"

"Well she said 'that angel bitch' but yeah."

"But she never said she wouldn't play?"

"No. She didn't say that. Not really—

"Not really?"

"But man, you should really apologize."

"Oh, of course. I'll get down and kiss her feet or whatever. Fuck it. As long as she's still playing."

"Aight, man. Well I gotta get home. Let the pup out and stuff."

"Yeah, yeah. Online?"

"I'll be on by five."

"Four thirty. We gotta talk to everyone before practice."

"I'll try, man."

"God damn right."

The sidewalk was slick with the morning's rain. Packs of teenagers clamored around the school steps and made boring conversation. Used cars lined up down the block, idling away with bored parents behind the wheels. Everything was grey and bland.

Cameron stayed on the bleachers in the park across the street. His yellow chucks were damp and covered by the ragged ends of his jeans. A cold breeze drifted across the dead football field. He pulled the hood up over his ears. Chris looked back one last time before he disappeared between the row of cars. Cam gave him a nod. A squad of girls in skirts and big jackets giggled about something mundane and Cam looked at their bare legs. A dull-green van pulled up and they all got in.

"Hey."

"Yo," Cam said. Remy climbed the bleachers and took a seat. Her jeans hugged tight against her stick-bug legs, and her long hand spilled over her shoulder and down her back. "Maya doesn't want to play Mercy anymore."

"What? Really?"

"Yeah. She told Chris at lunch."

"That bitch." Remy twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. "Did she say why?"

"Something about something I said to her." A pebble tossed into the mud. "I don't know. It's stupid."

"Oh. Yeah."

They stared out at the dwindling crowd of students.

"You think I said something wrong."

"I didn't say that."

"Oh come on. I wasn't that harsh. I've said a lot worse to her."

"I know."

"I mean, and I'm going to apologize."

"I know."

"She knows I didn't even mean it."

"I know."

Remy hopped from the top bleacher. Her sneakers spit in the mud. She looked back at Cam, over her shoulder, late winter breeze blowing her hair like a shade in front of her face. "Cam," she said. "Please don't make this worse than it has to be."

"Come on."

"Cam," she said. "I'm serious."

"Yeah, yeah."

She walked to the line and got into a car. It was a dying, old rock-star in the parade of drear. There were rattling bits of metal that sounded off as it idled, and the hinges of the door creaked as Remy got in. The woman driving was a dried out version of her daughter, edging out the door of beauty and into a canyon of wrinkles. As the car pudded off and away, Cameron slid off the bleachers and pushed an earbud in. Soft tunes pulsed into his ears and provided a soundtrack to carry him home.

The walk only served to make Cam sweaty. And the old beater that sat in his mom's driveway made him hesitant to go inside. I could key this fucker right now, he thought. No one would ever know. Someone was laughing inside. It was a forced laugh. Much too loud and way past the cusp of awkward. He composed himself before going in.

The inside smelled like a cheap candle and there was a half-eaten pair of sneakers by the run next to his mom's flats. Some news broadcaster spoke out the recent school shooting on the television, but no one was there to watch him. In the kitchen his mother pushed out another laugh, and a man's voice, the voice of a next door neighbor, talked low.

"And that's why I don't let Kenny in the garage anymore."

"Oh gosh," his mother said. "That's just the best story I've ever heard."

"Hey, mom."

"Sweetie! Oh, come here." She hopped down from the counter and scurried over to give him a hug, the kind that lasted too long to make up for hugs never given, and pressed too tight to make up for the separation of years. Her cigarette cologne had an usual brand, and her dress was that of a woman trying to be younger than she was. This woman's name was Terri, not mother, or mom. She was the Harley Quinn to an otherwise normal yet distant mother.

"Hey, sport," said the blonde haired douche leaning against the oven. The blue stove-fire was burning and weed crumbs laid across the clean, white surface. They hid it when I came in, he thought. That's why she hugged me, to buy him time. "How was school?" Tattoos of foreign symbols and cruddy pythons twisted up and down his arms, most of them faded from cheap construction work and roofing jobs. Tattered boots hung on his feet, the soles flopping loose from his toes.

"Ralph," Cam said, letting his arms hang by his side in protest. His mother stopped hugging him and took her lit cigarette from behind her ear to puff. "Is this…are you going out tonight?"

"Oh, no, Cam, no, no," she said. Her jubilant spin took her back to Ralph's arms. "Ralph's staying here."

"Tonight?"
"Yes," she said.

"Can I stay at Chris's house then?"

"Cam, dear, no. This is something you'll have to get used to."

"I am used to it. He stays sometimes, you go with him sometimes. I just don't like him very much."

"Woah there."
"Cameron Jones."

"I'll just pack my bag."

"Cameron, stop," she said. "Listen to me. Mr. Connor is going to be staying here for a while."

"Jesus, Mom. His name is Ralph. Not Mr. Connor."

"Well actually my last name is—

"And what? He's gonna be here a week or something? Where's he gonna sleep?"

"Cam, honey, he's going to sleep with me."

"Yeah I am," Ralph said with a grin.

"Stop it, you," she said, blushing. "And no, not a week—

"Thank, god," Cam said. "Just five more minutes of this is going to make me want to slit my wrists."

"Cameron!"

"Hey, son, that's a serious issue with young teens here in America."

"Where'd you read that? High Times?"

"They've got good articles."

"Ralph," Terri said. "Please. And Cam, he's staying for more than a week."

"A month, Mom? A freaking month with this guy? I can't do it."

"Cameron Jones, listen to your Mother this instant." Cameron fell silent. "Mr. Connor is my good friend and I can have him stay whenever I like. This is my house. I pay for it. Not you. And he's going to be staying for as long as we remain good friends. Could be months, could be a year—

"Could be till we get married," Ralph said. Cameron's nostrils flared. When his eyes hit Ralph's the blonde prick stopped grinning and leaned back against the cabinets.

"Could be," Terri said. "The point is, he will be here. He lives here for now. You're just going to have to get used to it. My house, my rules."

"I thought it was our house," Cam said, his eyes like spotlights shining on the indecent, moving focus to his mother. Then he turned and left the room.

Upstairs in his room posters that showed the timeline of his gaming, from Halo 2 to Halo 3 and Modern Warfare, to Mass Effect and then onto Modern Warfare 2 and Black Ops before Halo Reach and on and on up until the Master Chief Collection and his last poster, the biggest and boldest of them all: Overwatch, lined the wall. The poster featured Mercy prominent in the center, flanked by Hanzo and the gang. It was a custom made poster just for Cameron and his crew, commissioned using the money he saved up over the summer. The two windows let in the afternoon breeze and the drapes blew heavenly into the room. Under the bed were crates of old systems, old games, anything old that wasn't used but held memories or years. Cartridges of the old Pokémon games that had long stopped working, or ones that were completed and put into their own special containers and labeled with the date of retirement. The bed sheets were tucked nice and neat, just as they were every morning, pillow cases were laying dried on the bed to be put back on. Clothes hung pressed in the closet, ready for the week.

Cameron tossed his book bag on the bed and went to the television stand, unplugging cords and wrapped them neatly, using old bread-ties to keep them together. Blood flushed his cheeks and his heart beat drew sweat to his brow. His shoulders stayed hunched and rose with each forced breath through his grit teeth. With the PS4 unhooked he fit it in the bag first, sliding the cords afterward, followed by the controller. His three go-to games went next. After that he forced his television remote and cord into his front pouch. The TV itself came off the stand and he set it next to the door with his book bag. There wasn't much space left in the bag itself, so Cam just forced in a few pairs of socks and boxers before zipping it up for good.

With that he slung the bag, shouldered the TV and headed down the stairs. Terri's laughter was thick in the kitchen as the smell of weed wafted around regardless of how many windows they opened. Maybe I can get out without them hearing me, he thought. But the TV was so long it bumped into the railing of the stairs as he got towards the bottom. With that plan ruined he made a dash for the door.

"Cam? Honey?" The TV made it difficult to quickly open the door. "What…what're you doing?"

"I'm going to Chris's."

"For tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Cam, please—

"And every night that he's here. He stays here, I stay there."

"Cameron—

"I don't like him, Mom. You know that. I mean," he leaned in as he spoke. "He's smoking weed in the fucking kitchen right now. You flip your wig if you even think you smell it on me."

"No son of mine will smoke weed," she said. "And no he's not."

"Don't fucking lie to me like that. Right to my face. You only lie when he's here." She recoiled but didn't rebuttal. "I'm going to Chris's. I'll…text later. We can get lunch or something. Okay?"

"Cameron," she sighed. "Just be safe. Okay?"

He nodded. She hugged him. He left.