Page 30 of Yours

“Wow, what got you interested in that?” I ask, sipping my frothy coffee drink.

“There’s this restaurant my family used to go to. They had one. My brother and I would play while we waited for the food.” He shrugs. “Then it broke down, and it sat there for months. I asked if I could try and fix it.” He smiles. “Pretty soon I had a side gig fixing arcade machines.”

“Are you studying engineering or something like that?” I ask.

He nods deeply. “Bioengineering.”

“Cool,” I say.

“Maybe you want to come over sometime and play.”

“Pinball?” I ask to make sure we’re crystal clear.

He gives me that look. “Half my roommates are out of town this weekend at a regatta. You could come over tonight if you want.”

A little voice in the back of my brain is whispering warning bells, but I don’t hear them because there’s another voice speaking louder, the one that doesn’t want to be alone tonight. Tiffany is going home to Rhode Island to visit her family, and tonight, Willow is going to a movie festival with a bunch of art club friends. Pinball sounds harmless.

“Sure,” I say.

Cory picks me up at eight o’clock. It’s a weird time for a date to start, but whatever. He says pinball is better later at night, sort of like we’ll be part of a secret society. He seems really into it, so I don’t protest.

Cory doesn’t have a car but he lives close so walks over to escort me back to his house, which sits just off campus like some old, regal structure that matches the style of the other homes in the area. He’s wearing jeans, winter snow boots, and a giant, puffy coat plus an argyle-patterned wool hat. I dressed in my flannel-lined jeans, and a turtleneck sweater beneath my warmest coat, mittens, scarf and a hat. By the time we step onto his porch, I’m still cold.

Inside, everything feels spacious and old. The pitted, scratched floorboards creak. The giant windows rattle when a truck rumbles by. A door in the center of the main room leads to a stairway. Cory flicks on the light and leads me into the basement.

He’s created a game room with a mini fridge, a sagging blue couch in front of a TV with wires and joysticks plugged into a box in front of it, a dart board, and pennants from all the Ivy League schools on the walls. I even see a poster of the school’s soccer team.

Cory flicks on a space heater in the corner and tosses his coat over the couch. He grabs two bottles of something clear from the mini fridge and offers one to me. It’s one of those hard alcohol coolers. I take a sip. It’s surprisingly good—I can’t taste the vodka.

“Which game do you want to play first?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.

I look around. Each machine is designed with different artwork but the game is identical, so I pick the Star Wars-themed one.

He helps me get started. It’s been a long time since I’ve played a pinball machine—I try to remember where I’ve ever played it and remember a trip to the Upper Peninsula with my dad and a tiny arcade in a little town on the water. I must have been ten or eleven years old.

Soon I’m lost in the thrill of shooting the little ball all over the board, the sound of the bells and chimes ringing in my ears. Cory watches for a while, coaching me on a few particulars about this game and pinball in general, then goes to the game next to me. I get warm enough to remove my coat, and when I slide it off my shoulders, I notice Cory looking me up and down out of the corner of his eyes. A little shiver flashes over my skin, but then I feel anxious. I shouldn’t react like that. Good girls don’t react like that. I polish off the vodka cooler, and another one magically appears in my hands.

I go back to my game, trying the other machine. Cory comes up near me.

“This one’s a little temperamental,” he says, helping me pull the knob back, which feels stiff. He lets the knob go, and the ball shoots up and around a ramp. I use the buttons to keep the ball in play as long as I can, but I don’t last long. Cory helps me start again, his hand wrapped over mine on the knob. I can feel the heat from his body behind me. This time the ball lasts only a few seconds. By the third time he’s even closer to me, his body almost pressing me into the machine. We let the ball go, and I play while he gives me pointers and encouragement. I’m not used to this kind of attention, and it’s a little dizzying.

After another game he suggests we move to the couch for a round of Super Mario Brothers, which I’ve never played.

It’s easier to just watch him play, so I observe how he makes a small mustachioed plumber jump over obstacles, collect coins, and battle things like evil plants to save a princess. When it’s my turn, he sits close and teaches me the keyboard controls, but everything moves too fast and my fingers can’t seem to figure out what to do, and I last all of about two minutes. By then, I’m feeling a little tired and not looking forward to the cold walk back. This has been sort of fun, but I don’t feel like I really got to know Cory all that much.

He pulls up PacMan, which I have played, and that’s easier. When we add my name to the list of players so we can record my points, I notice Ellis’s name.Are they friends?I wonder, trying to imagine Ellis down here with his frat brothers, all of them having a game night together. For some reason, the idea of Ellis and Cory as friends starts to make me feel nervous.

I play the first game, thinking that after I’m done I’ll ask Cory to walk me home, when I feel his hand on my thigh. Because I’m concentrating on the game, it takes me a moment to react, and by then his hand is sliding toward my crotch. I’m so surprised that I fail to keep my PacMan from an ambush. He dies to a symphony of synthetic sound as Cory’s hand bumps up against the seam of my jeans, pressing it painfully into my crotch. I sit frozen, my fingers trying to use the controls to keep my third PacMan alive while Cory’s fingers move to the button on my jeans.

“Stop,” I say, leaning away from him. On the screen I’m running as fast as I can from the ghost chasing me but the more corners I turn, the closer he gets.

Cory takes the controls from my hand and kisses my neck. I hear the music from the game announcing it’s over. Cory presses me back onto the couch, his hands squeezing my breasts.

“Hey!” I say, trying to wriggle free.

“Come on,” he says, grasping my breast. “God, you’re big,” he groans, pulling up my sweater and rubbing my nipple, which has become hard. “See?” he says to me, grinning with that dark look in his eye. “You want it.”

“No, I don’t,” I say, trying to push him off me, but his knee is crossed over my hips, pinning me.

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