“I don’t. You haven’t told me what’s going on.” Rebekah snorts. “You act like we’re going to war.”
I look up at her.
“We are.”
* * *
The bell on the door chimes, and I glance up, spotting Detective Watts looking around the café. I raise my hand and wave at her.
“Wow, you weren’t lying about the Misty Knight–esque detective,” Rebekah whispers. “She’s so cool.”
“You be cool,” I whisper back, grinning.
Detective Watts strolls over, a small scowl on her face as she weaves around chairs and tables, finding her way to ours. She grabs a chair and pulls it out, the metal making a sharp squeal against the hardwood floor, and takes a seat.
“Do you want anything?” I ask.
“Hi, I’m Rebekah!” my friend pipes up, looking a bit awed.
Oh my God, Beks.
“I’m good,” Detective Watts says, her eyes still scanning our surroundings. “The names for the places you and your friends hang out, I swear. Couldn’t we have just gone to Starbucks?”
“What’s wrong with Brew-ti-ful?” I ask with an innocent smile. We decided to relocate for our meeting with the detective, and the café, situated fairly close to Rebekah’s campus, also doubles as an art gallery. It’s a good place for an open mic, a cup of coffee, or to sit down and plot out the downfall of a cyber mob.
At least, in my opinion.
“I can think of several things.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. Her eyes flit over to Rebekah. “Are you okay?”
“Hmm? Yeah!” she exclaims, nodding vigorously.
“Okay, well...” Detective Watts pulls out her phone and a little notebook from inside her jacket. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” I exhale.
“Great.” She looks back and forth from me to Beks. “Here’s the plan.”
20
AARON
“Pass the red pepper?” my dad asks from across the kitchen table. I grab the little shaker and hand it over to him, watching as he douses his pizza slices with the stuff, to the point where I’m convinced his pizza is going to make a crunching sound when he bites into it. The layer of pepper flakes coating the cheese looks like chain mail armor.
I stare as he takes a giant bite, closes his eyes in contentment. As if he can feel my stare, he waves a finger and says, “Don’t you judge.”
“I’m not, I’m not,” I say, even though I am. For the pizza. For the game and the digital archive of letters. His secrets.
I look over at Mom, who’s busy cutting up pieces of pizza into smaller triangles for Mira, who sits there and pouts over it. Her arms are crossed as my mom presents each tiny slice to her.
“Come on, Mira,” my mom nudges, pushing the little pieces closer to her.
“Why can’t I have big slices?” Mira whines. “I’m big enough.”
“She probably is,” Dad comments. There’s a little sweat on his forehead, and I can’t help but smirk. Despite the years of over-seasoning, he can’t fool me. The red pepper does have an effect on him. “Let her try a big slice.”
“Fine,” my mom says with a sniff. She takes a slice out of the box and places it in front of Mira, who gleefully picks it up and squeals as the cheese slides off the slice and onto her lap. Mom levels a glare at Dad, whose mouth is tightly shut, holding back a laugh.
“I’m...sor...ry...” he sputters out before laughing uproariously. Mira joins in, clapping, and a soft smile sneaks its way onto Mom’s face.
I roll my eyes and grab another slice of pizza while Mom fusses over Mira, picking cheese off her lap and taking the cheeseless slice for herself.
“Dad, I hate to ask this, but...” I glance over at my mom, who looks up at me, her eyes narrowed, and I know this is going to end up being a thing. “Look, there’s this event in the city tomorrow, and I really need to go. It’s for my writing. I know it’s last-minute.”
“Writing. I think you mean video games,” Mom says sternly.
“I’d argue it’s the same thing,” Dad says, shrugging.
“GamesCon,” I continue, surprised by my dad’s defense. “There’s a video game showcase and all, yes. But I need to be there to ask questions of people who work in the industry, about writing for games.”
“Hmm, isn’t that something you can do through email?” he asks, taking another bite of his red pepper–crusted pizza.
Email. I try not to glare.
“Or at college?” he adds.
“There’s...” I exhale. “There’s a girl.”
My mom drops the fork and knife she’s been fussing with, the silverware clattering on the table.
“Oooooh,” Mira coos.
“Really now?” My dad grins, laying his slice of pizza down. His puts his elbows on the table, glancing over at my mom and back at me. “Alright, you can go. I’ll handle the office.”
“This is not the way to teach him responsibility!” my mom protests. “What are these games preparing him for?” She turns to me with a determined expression. “If you go, you’re fired.”
“Great!” I exclaim. “It’s not like I wanted the job, anyway!” Hurt flashes across her face, and I sigh. “I just don’t understand why you’re so against all this.”
“Because I don’t want them taking advantage of you!” my mom shouts, and then turns to Mira quickly, flashing her an apologetic look. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” She glances back at me. “Aaron, we’ve had this conversation before. That boy, that studio, still hasn’t paid you, right?”
“Well—” I start.
“When your father was working in his restaurants, you know what would happen sometimes?”
“Darling, you don’t have to—” my dad tries to chime in.
“No, we’re talking about this now,” my mom insists. “Sometimes he would be working well past his time, and they’d say he would get paid, but he wouldn’t. Or on holidays, when he was supposed to get overtime? He never did. Just empty promises again and again.”
I look at my dad, who shakes his head and looks down at his plate.
“Dad?” I venture.
“It’s true.” He clears his throat. “Your mom doesn’t want these people taking advantage of you the way they...took advantage of me.” His eyes meet mine. “Sometimes, when people know you really need something, they’ll hold it over you. To control you. It’s their way of pushing you around, without really doing what they promised.”