Arson by Estevan Vega Page B

pin. The ball teetered to the right and sank inside the outer slot. A gutter.
    â€œSorry, aliens only,” Arson chuckled, relishing the moment.
    Emery threw a second and only got one pin. She sat down with a sigh and lifted her mask to feed herself another loaded chip. As she listened to the music buzzing through the speakers of the small bowling alley, crackling and staticky, the sound of some pop star she didn’t care to remember echoed out. “Man, when’s the last time they changed the jukebox around here?”
    â€œForgive me, Your Highness, this isn’t palace bowling. Now, if you don’t mind, I need some concentration.”
    â€œWhile you attempt to beat me, even though we both know it’s impossible, I’m going to select something with a little more…anything.”
    Arson threw the ball down the aisle and didn’t really care what pins he knocked down. He was more concerned with following her back to the jukebox with his eyes. Her polka-dotted shirt swished back and forth above skinny jeans. He studied those Converse sneakers covered with scribbled words and that mask that ignited dormant feelings once reserved only for Mandy.
    He didn’t care about winning the game anymore. Besides, winning was never actually a possibility. Why had he picked bowling anyway? Tons of bum teenagers and old drunks frequented this dump, like the slob at the counter, who was currently checking out his date, laughing with a beet-red face at what Arson could only imagine was her mask. He didn’t like it.
    Arson wanted to be next to Emery. His hands felt hot as he studied the drunken man’s facial structure, wondering how it would look with burns.
    Grandma would tell him not to think that way, never to think that way, but he couldn’t help it. It was the way he was made. “They’ll come for you, love.” That’s what she’d say. “Don’t let that evil outta you ’cause they’ll come, and I’ll leave.” Those few words might have been the only thing saving that low-life’s miserable face.
    Arson ran to meet Emery at the jukebox. With a hand on her shoulder, he said, “Hey. I think you might have some competition for first place.” It was a complete lie, but it sounded legit.
    She selected a song. Some Michael Bolton tune statically echoed through the old speakers. Arson’s face shifted from worry to immediate disdain. He groaned and tried to select a song that better suited the evening.
    â€œNo, leave it.”
    â€œThis is terrible. How did it even make it to a jukebox?”
    â€œFor this moment. To be different. Every first date in the movies has some lame pop song echoing out a speaker, right? You know it sucks, but you’re humming it for days. It helps you remember the way everything was. The way it all felt. So, to enhance the experience, I selected quite possibly the worst song in the jukebox just for us, for our little experiment.”
    Arson’s face changed a bit. “And how is subject 3241 doing?”
    â€œWell, we’ve discovered bowling apparently doesn’t exist on his planet, even if luck permits him a strike or two; his ambitions outweigh his logic and, at times, even his sensitivity. But he knows bad music when he hears it, so he gets twenty-five points for that.” She pulled him close and smelled his breath. “He loves nachos, another twenty-seven points. That gives him a grand total of sixty-seven points or something. I’d say subject 3241 was a mild success.”
    Arson frowned. “Sixty-seven? That’s practically failing in some states. Look, you just cleaned the floor with my pride.”
    â€œYeah, I know; you didn’t even  let  me win or anything. Pretty pathetic.”
    â€œYou play dirty,” Arson replied.
    â€œI wish you were more of a  challenge.  Why can’t you be more like”—her eyes got wide—“Michael