Page 68 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

Ethan tried to cut ahead, but I slammed the boost at the perfect second, launching across the finish line.

"FIRST PLACE!"

The arcade machine erupted with flashing lights and victory music. Ethan groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. I might have underestimated you.”

I smirked. “Told you.”

Joy clapped me on the back. “Clark, my guy, that was the most attractive thing you’ve ever done.”

Mia recorded everything.

Ethan cracked his knuckles. "Rematch. Now."

I leaned back. “Try not to eat my dust this time.”

He grinned. "Oh, it’s on."

And just like that, the arcade turned into a full-blown battle of pride, bad financial decisions, and, for some reason, Max challenging a literal ogre to an arm-wrestling match.

(He lost. Badly.)

And honestly?

This was turning out to be kind of fun.

Chapter 21: Neon Ghost

Ethan slammed the joystick all the way forward, fingers battering the final button combination as if his life depended upon it. The screen flashed. My character landed first. Game over. Again. For the fourth time in a row.

“Wow, Ghost Boy ghosted you in the tracks,” Max uttered.

Ethan glared at the screen, blinking back at it as if it had personally offended him. "Okay," he muttered. "Something's broken."

"Yeah," I said, crossing my arms. "Your streak."

He gazed at me, mouth open. "No way. I'm a good player at this game."

"Clearly not good enough." I crept closer, voice dropping to a smug whisper. "Rematch? Again?"

Ethan glared at me like a predator sensing a trap. "This is a fluke. You're hacking the machine."

"Ah yes," I said, gesturing toward the duct-taped-together-with-trauma old arcade machine. "The classic Clark Code. I coded it in Morse."

He groaned, raking both hands across his face. "I don't lose. I don't lose."

"Then what do you even refer to this as, then, hmm? A character-building experience?"

He pointed a dramatic finger at the machine. "One more round. Winner takes dignity."

"I already have your dignity," I said to him. "Swiped it away from you during round two. I keep it in my bag along with your excuses."

He settled back on his heels with a laugh, the sour sting of loss at last giving way to something less tense. "Alright. Alright. You've won. I accept my loss like a man."

I grinned. "I didn't quite hear you. Say it louder.”

He wagged a finger at me, pretending to be stern. "Don't push it."

"Too late. I'm etching this in the pages of history. Want me to sign your forehead?"

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