At first Vinnie looks like he's willing to hang around quietly while he makes up his mind, but then the player's patience seems to wane. He begins grabbing striped and colored balls from the sides of the table, throwing them back on top, randomly pointing at one when they finish rolling around.

"That one. See if you can do it. It's only a dollar, Hank Jr.'s son."

The white ball goes back on the table last, close, but not too close, to the striped ball that's already been singled out.

He can hear Les talking, saying something like "leave the kid alone, Vinnie" from behind the bar, but he, he feels like he wants to do it, to take that guy up on his bet, if only to wipe that know-it-all look off his face. He's decided that he really doesn't like this Vinnie guy after all, no matter how great at pool everyone thinks he is.

The deal needs a little more by way of rethinking, though; if he goes on ahead with it, he can end up winning a dollar and keeping it to himself, which would be good, or losing part of the money he's got and getting an angry lecture from his dad when he tells him he must have dropped some of the change on the street by accident. If that happens, it's definitely coming out of his allowance and he might never be sent out of the house on a run like this again.

And that would be bad because, no matter how awkward it feels to be in this place, he's still sure that he wants to come back.

The offer's still buzzing around in his head when the skin on his neck starts to crawl, a sure sign that he's being watched. One quick turn of the head confirms that all eyes are right back on him, just like before, and that pity has turned into something he likes even less-they're playing with him.

It's not mean, but they're all probably waiting to have a little laugh at his expense. He's not a grown-up, not yet, but that doesn't mean he's dumb.

When Vinnie makes it clear with a smart-assed grin that he's in no mood to stop, Les chimes in once again, more sternly this time.

"Come on-stop messing with the kid and let him go home."

And as if to drive home the point, the six-pack for his dad arrives on top of the counter in a brown paper bag and they give him his change back. He could just leave, right now, and there wouldn't be an issue anymore. It would probably be the smart thing to do.

Except for the fact that Vinnie won't leave it alone.

"C'mon, kid. You wanna try it, or you wanna go home" he asks, making the word 'home' sound like it's a place for sissies, when he and Jared both know that the exact opposite is true. No one who doesn't live there can possibly understand that lately his house has become both a battleground and a minefield, and that every day there requires survival skills that he never knew he even had.

The cue stick is being held in front of him now by way of a dare, just inches from his face. Vinnie's convinced that he's an easy mark, and that maybe he could use some kind of lesson in the process of getting fleeced.

Well, it's true that he's never played pool before, but he knows he's an almost perfect shot at just about everything else; basketball, hockey, football-you name it. Hitting targets is probably one of the few God-given talents he was born with, and he's proud of it; well that one, and reading people. That last skill's been honed to death purely out of necessity, though, and not just for kicks and glory. It's a kind of sixth sense that has kept both him and his brother out of trouble many a time.

But the bottom line is that he's got steady fingers and near perfect eyesight. So taking Vinnie up on his bet might be risky, but it's not stupid.

"Sure" he finally says, pressing the set of loose bills in his pocket for good luck again. He's not leaving now, no way, because this is starting to feel like a fight, and Seeley Joseph Booth has never backed away from a fight.

So he takes the cue stick and there's immediate snickering in the room when his opponent-he seems even taller and more menacing up close, smelling of beer and dried sweat-takes it right back and has to show him how to hold it correctly.

"Now remember, the white ball can't go in, or you owe me that dollar."

The pressure keeps building while Vinnie, reclining against the bar counter looking bored, waits it out. Angles and pitfalls are more or less taken into account in the short amount of time he feel he has before they start giving him grief, and after circling the table once he winds up taking a shot, his pulse racing wildly, hoping against hope that he made it.

But as much as he wants it to happen, it doesn't; his nerves and inexperienced fingers have sold him out, and the tip of the cue stick somehow ends up grinding against the green felt, forcing the white ball to jump off the table and land with a loud series of clatters on the floor. More dry laughter starts coming out from behind the curtain of smoke, and he's never felt so humiliated and small. He should have left when he got his change.

Just as he knew would happen, Vinnie holds his hand out right away, expecting his payout with a triumphant "I knew you couldn't do it" look written all over his face that makes him want to punch the guy right in the gut. It's a new sensation for him, this pervasive feeling of anger that of late has him wanting to lash out blindly with his fists whenever he's hurting; there's been more than a few close calls at school already which almost resulted in disastrous calls to his dad, and he figures it's just a matter of time before it actually happens. But for now, he ends up taking a deep breath and keeping his cool, because this one's a fight he knows he can't win-not today, anyway. He digs reluctantly into his pocket for one of his singles.

The money hasn't changed hands when another player steps into the bright circle of light that surrounds their table.

"Come on, Vinnie, give the kid another chance" he hears the man say in a sloppy voice, a voice that sounds just like his dad's when he's been sitting around their house for too long.

"Yeah Vinnie" barks another, "let him take another shot-he wasn't even holding the damn thing the right way."

The first guy walks in front of him and puts another cue stick into his hand, guiding it firmly with his own over the table.

"That's how you do it, you see kid, or else you'll never make your shot. Got it?" the stranger asks, taking the cue back.

He nods-he gets it, but it's a little too late for lessons now. He's already lost.

The demands for a rematch, though, are growing all around him even as he gets ready to give in; there's a lot more of them all of a sudden and they're getting louder.

Vinnie, for one, doesn't look pleased with all the heckling; at this point, he probably just wants to get rid of him so he can get back to playing for some real money. He's apparently grown tired of their little cat and mouse game, and now that he's become part of the entertainment too he doesn't seem to like it so much-but the peer pressure mounts until he's grudgingly pushed into saving face. The stick gets shoved back into his hands without much grace.

"You heard them," Vinnie says without a trace of his earlier laidback attitude; "take another shot-and don't scratch the table again."

The white ball comes back out on the table.

He knows everyone's waiting to see how the scene plays out, maybe with a little less sympathy for his opponent this time, he senses, and all at once it's as if he's right at the end of a tie game at the park district's rink; things can either stay the same, or change in his favor with a flick of the wrist. He's heading for the goal at a million miles an hour with a hockey puck zigzagging wildly in front of him, his skates leaving behind trails of shaved ice as they slice on ahead, while a bevy of anxious parents and peers holds their breaths in the stands.

He concentrates harder-way harder-than he did before, but he also makes himself relax, because he knows that when you're all tense the things you want the most are least likely to happen.

He can do this; he knows he can do it this time.