The Gamer's Guide to Getting the Girl Page 4

  “That’s cool,” I say. It is. Even though I don’t know her at all, so far everything I’m learning about this girl is thrilling to me. She’s unlike any other girl I’ve ever met — not that I’m someone who is meeting girls left and right, but she just seems different. Cooler.

  “How long do you think we’ll be here?” Samara asks. Coop and I shrug. I can’t see how we’d be stuck for long. Storms generally pass by pretty quickly. This is all precaution as far as I can tell.

  “I could have been eating a New York steak with grilled mushrooms and those french-fried onions they put on top,” Cooper muses. The thought of it makes my own stomach growl.

  “Not me. My dad was cooking fish.” I scrunch up my nose. I hate all forms of seafood, so I won’t be missing out.

  “Your fave.” Cooper laughs and turns to Samara. “What about you?”

  She’s playing with her thick ponytail, twirling it in her fingers. More wisps of her rich, red-tinged hair fall loose. I imagine what she looks like with that silky mound of hair unravelled around her. She’d look like Sophie Turner playing Jean Grey in X-Men: Apocalypse. My cheeks grow hot. I look away.

  “Oh, you know. A full turkey dinner with all of the fixings.”

  “Wow. It isn’t even Thanksgiving or anything. Lucky,” Cooper says.

  “Sure. My mom can cook anything,” Samara says with a shrug.

  The only way to the second floor is the escalators frozen in place on either side of the mall. Seeing that, Valerie’s face tightens.

  “It’s okay, we’ll carry the stroller up for you,” I assure her. She looks worn out. Her eyes hold a worry in them I hadn’t seen earlier. Ira is fast asleep in the stroller, the yellow blanket stuffed into his fists. She scoops him up in her arms gingerly, careful not to wake him.

  A couple of women in dress clothes with gold name tags on are taking off their heels to climb the escalator. George asks them where they work.

  “Designer Dresses, on the second floor,” one says. They are both in their twenties, and the two of them look terrified.

  “Do you have keys?” George asks.

  “Right here,” one of them says, holding out an elastic wristband with a key ring attached. George nods and continues talking with them while Cooper and I each take one end of Ira’s stroller and walk it up the stairs, careful not to trip since we’re only being guided by the limited light of our phones. Valerie follows us with Ira in her arms, but she seems tired and drawn out.

  “Thanks again,” she says to us, placing the baby gently back into the stroller before pushing it over to the railing and taking a seat on the floor as everyone else arrives.

  One by one, everyone makes their way to the top.

  “Where’s Chris?” Cooper asks. Samara, Cooper, and I look around for him but we can’t spot him.

  “Did you see a guy in his thirties, short sandy-brown hair? Wearing a Punisher T-shirt and jeans?” Cooper starts asking people. People either shake their heads or answer with, “What’s a Punisher T-shirt?” We’re worried that Chris has run off. With his wife having a baby, would he have waited until everyone was occupied and then snuck away? I hope he just went back to the store to retrieve something.

  I look around for George. He’s on his way up the escalator, carrying the elderly woman in his arms. Her face is worn with more than time. She clutches George’s collar for dear life as he brings her up. Her husband follows behind them, reassuring his wife.

  “It’ll be okay, Mildred,” he soothes. He’s carrying her sweater in one arm and holding the handrail with the other. He moves slowly but he has a steadiness about him that makes me think he’s an excellent caregiver to his wife.

  George puts Mildred down. She smooths her blue slacks and her snow-white curls before reaching for her sweater from her husband.

  “Peter, I’m scared.” She starts to cry again.

  “Shhh … it’s okay, Millie. We’re going to be just fine. They’ll have us out of here before you know it.”

  He pulls her toward him and she crumples in his arms. “I’m not sure I’m strong enough to last,” she says through her tears.

  “Well, of course you are, my dear. I’m right here, and look at all of these people. We will all keep each other safe.” Peter looks up at Cooper and me and we both nod with polite smiles.

  “Will it be like when Farrah died?” Mildred asks.

  “What? What do you mean?” Peter steps back to look at his wife’s face.

  “Are we going to die like Farrah did?” Her eyes are wild with fear. Peter searches his wife’s face, trying to compute what she’s saying.

  “Farrah? No, my dear. We’ll be rescued soon. We have nothing to worry about. What happened to Farrah was an accident.”

  Mildred weeps uncontrollably. George pats Peter on the shoulder. “Is she okay? She’s not hurt, is she?” George looks her over, clearly hoping he hasn’t hurt her while he carried her up.

  “No. She’s just scared, I think.”

  “Farrah,” Mildred says softly, rocking back and forth.

  “Our daughter,” Peter says to George, his eyes filling with tears. “She drowned when she was a child. Millie seems to think that we’re about to drown, too.”

  “Ma’am, we’re going to get everyone out of here safely,” George assures her. Mildred nods, but it’s clear that she doesn’t quite believe him.

  “Can we get another head count please?” George calls out. Everyone sits on the tiled landing at the top of the escalators. George counts. “That’s odd,” he says, and he counts the heads once more. “According to my count, we’re missing three.”

  I swallow hard. We were all supposed to stick together. We have to. Any time or resources spent looking for people is going to take away from the group’s overall safety. Any gamer knows that.

  “Who are we missing?” Rory asks.

  “Those two guys … the ones in the track suits,” George realizes. “And Chris.”

  An uneasiness comes over the group. Why would people walk off? And if the security guards leave to go and look for them, will they come back? Will the group be safe? The guards have radios, which have enabled contact with the outside world. Without them, how will we know when and where to go to get rescued?

  “I’ll go check the store,” I offer. George shakes his head.

  “No, everybody has to stay here.” He’s deep in thought. He surveys the group.

  Peter is still holding Mildred. Her face is buried in his chest but her shoulders shake and she keeps sniffling in loud bursts. Peter caresses his wife’s back, but his eyes hold the same kind of worry I’ve just witnessed in Valerie’s eyes. It’s as though the water seeping into the main floor has changed everything. There’s a new element of danger and going upstairs added a new complication to our rescue.

  I don’t want to think too much about the rising water. It seems nearly impossible that the water could get very high before we get out of here. It’s not like Saskatoon has ever experienced the kind of storms that have people being rescued by boat like you see in the movies or in some places in the United States. Sure, there’s flooding, but usually it drains pretty quickly once the storm sewers can catch up. At most, there’s some property damage.

  The storm will subside, or at the very least, the police and rescue teams will figure out the best way to get us. We won’t be able to go long without food or water, so they’ll have to come up with a plan quickly. We have a baby here, and that has to constitute a real emergency. Babies are a special case in any crisis if you ask me.

  Ira is still sleeping soundly. Valerie sits beside the stroller with one arm draped over his blanketed figure but her eyes are focused intently on the ceiling. On a good day, the glass ceiling illuminates the second floor in a brilliant display of unfiltered sunlight. Today splats of rain coat the slate-grey glass that looms over us. Added to the fact that it’s now dusk, the colour is ominous.

  “I’ll go,” Rory offers. “I know who he is. I bought Mario Kart 8 from hi
m for my little brother’s birthday.”

  George nods. “Okay, just keep in touch if you can.” He checks his radio again. “My battery’s getting low. What are the chances you could try to snag the remaining ones from the office?”

  “Can’t see it being a problem,” Rory says. He puffs his chest out as though the task will be effortless. Rory wasn’t down in that part of the mall when Cooper and I were there, though. The security office was near the underground parking exit that we tried. Even then the water was rising fast. I wonder if he even has a chance of getting near those offices now.

  We all watch as Rory tears down the escalator stairs, which remain frozen in place.

  “He thinks it’ll be easy, but five bucks says he’s back within a minute,” I whisper to Coop.

  “Okay everyone,” George calls out again. Tufts of his damp, dark hair stick out from under his black duty cap. Beads of sweat trickle down his temples. “We’re going to head into Designer Dresses. There’s carpet in there at least and stuff we can use for pillows and blankets if we need to.”

  Everyone stares back blankly. It feels like I’m dreaming and that none of this is actually real. The two ladies reluctantly unlock and pull open the security gates in front of the store. They don’t look comfortable with the group of us using the store as our headquarters. George pulls the puffiest dress he can find and slips it off of its hanger.

  “Peter, why don’t we let Mildred rest here,” he says, huffing and puffing as he lays the dress out like a blanket.

  One of the sales women gasps as she watches Peter lead Mildred to the pink satin and help her down onto the expensive dress. “I don’t feel good about this,” she admits. “I’m going to lose my job.” She wrings her hands.

  The other sales woman turns to her co-worker and shrugs. “We have no idea how long we’ll be stuck in the building,” she says. No one expected us to be bunking down in the most expensive store in the mall besides the jewellery store, but she’s right — we have to do something to keep everyone warm and comfortable.

  “Listen,” says George, “anything we use in the mall while we’re here will not affect your employment. You’ve been advised by me to do all of these things because we’re in a crisis situation. It’s my duty to ensure the safety of both your lives and the building itself. I’m responding to this event as I deem necessary in order to maintain the greatest level of safety I can based on the knowledge I have at any given time. This is a special circumstance, as you can well see.”

  I watch as Cooper pulls a poufy navy dress off of a rack and lays it out for Samara. He holds his arms out toward it, motioning for her to have a seat. She smiles and plunks down on it, cross-legged, the layers of gauzy fabric puffing up around her legs. Cooper quickly joins her. I feel another pang of jealousy. There definitely isn’t room on that dress for three.

  Valerie is struggling with the stroller as she holds Ira in her arms. I take over for her and push the stroller to a wide expanse of carpet. I choose a fuchsia ball gown from the nearest rack and lay it down like George and Cooper did with the others. I motion for Valerie to have a seat, and she giggles.

  “Thanks, Zach. You’re a sweetheart!” She seems genuinely touched that I’m helping her. I don’t want Valerie to see my disappointment, but I wish Samara were the one gushing at me. How did I end up helping a woman with a baby instead of the cute girl my age? And how did Cooper become the one to help her when I was clearly the one who was interested in her first?

  Cooper has always been more outgoing than me. He has a way of making friends with anybody — and that’s something I struggle with. I tend to keep to myself. Cooper has always been the kind of guy who can walk into a room and confidently talk to anyone. He’s not worried about cliques or about not being accepted. He goes about life with a “take me or leave me” attitude, which is something I definitely don’t have. I worry too much about people making fun of me or thinking I’m a loser when I enter a room full of people.

  From the moment I missed the last shot in our final Grade 7 junior-team game, a kid named Josh Logan made my life a living hell. He decided that I wasn’t fit to play basketball before school anymore, and he had most of the guys shaking their heads and ignoring me whenever I came around. In the ten seconds it took for me to get across the court, throw the shot, and then miss it, I became a social leper of epic proportions at Hollander Elementary.

  Josh threw spitballs at me on the bus, put his foot out to trip me — basically anything to make me feel like I was two inches tall. He seemed to forget that I had been the one to help him get to school practically every day in Grades 3 to 5 when his anxiety had started getting the best of him and he wasn’t sure he could make it into school by himself anymore. Now I’d become the target of his preteen rage. After that, I started shrinking. Shrinking from friends, shrinking from new things, shrinking from myself.

  My ability to enter a room and not think or care about what others thought of me died with that fateful basketball shot. Somehow being me wasn’t cutting it anymore in the real world, and so I got better at trying to make myself as invisible as possible so that I wouldn’t have to feel the sting of rejection.

  Maybe that’s why I retreated so far into video games. Besides tucking myself away for hours at a time and being able to zone out, gaming allowed me to have some control. I could decide my destiny and come out on top again. I could fight in a way that left others in awe of my abilities instead of living the reality of being a total wimp whenever Josh Logan was around.

  Even though we’re almost in Grade 11 now, the effects of Josh’s wrath haven’t even become a scar yet. I barely have any contact with him anymore (one of the great things about high school is blending in among three hundred students in my grade rather than the fifty students in my grade in elementary school) but even picturing him or replaying his voice in my head makes me ache all over again, the wounds freshly open. Sure, they’re trying to scab over and heal, but every so often I replay the events in my head and it feels like I’m ripping them all open again.

  “Hey, I want to sit here!” one of the middle-schoolers yells. “Can’t you hear me?!” He’s waving his arms in front of Brandon.

  “Heellllloooo?” the other kid says.

  I rush over. “What’s going on?”

  “This dude won’t move. He’s just sitting here like an idiot …” The kid is making faces at Brandon and trying to get his attention.

  “Hey,” I interject. “Don’t talk to people like that!” The boys both roll their eyes.

  I kneel down beside Brandon, who doesn’t even look up at us. Instead he’s focused on a spot on the ground. His arms are tucked around his knees and he is rocking back and forth slowly. He’s having another panic attack. My heart surges with compassion for him. His face is pale and clearly strained. Whatever he’s dealing with is not easy.

  “Brandon — you okay?” I ask gently. He blinks but doesn’t meet my eyes. The two boys stand over us with their hands on their hips as though they fully expect us to clear out for them. “Where is your mom?” I ask pointedly. The boys both falter a bit from their tough guy stances. “Seriously. Scram!” I bark. The last thing Brandon needs is some punk kids with attitudes making fun of him. His distress is unsettling to me — I can’t imagine how he’s feeling.

  “Thanks,” Brandon whispers when the boys trot off.

  “What can I do? I don’t know how to help,” I admit. We sit in silence for a minute or two.

  “Do you mind just hanging out here for a few minutes?” Brandon says softly.

  “No problem,” I say.

  “Maybe just make small talk for a while?” Brandon asks. I look over at his face and see tears forming in his eyes. He seems embarrassed.

  “It’s all good, man,” I assure him. “How long have you been working at the Coffee Hut for?”

  “About a year,” he replies. He stops rocking and just holds his legs tightly against himself.

  “Cool. I can’t wait to get a job. I
’ve been training to be a lifeguard,” I say. Brandon doesn’t answer. “I can’t wait to have some extra cash. Plus, I’ll get to work with girls in bathing suits all day.” When he smiles, it feels like a victory.

  “I think my car is destroyed,” he mutters. “It was underground.”

  “Yeah. Me and my friend Cooper were down there — it didn’t look good,” I confirm. “It could be worse. I think that guy lost his Porsche Cayenne.” I lean toward him and nod over at the man in the business suit. He’s pacing outside of the store with his permanent scowl lit up by the light of his phone. He’s jabbing repeatedly at it, like he’s trying to text or phone somebody, which is obviously not working. Brandon lets out a low whistle.

  “Ouch,” he says.

  “Plus, I’m pretty sure that he’s not going to rest on one of these fluffy dresses under any circumstance. He probably sleeps standing up anyhow.” The man is wound so tightly, I wonder if he’ll explode.

  It’s ridiculous that we’re sitting in the dark on these dresses on the floor of a retail store in the middle of a raging storm. A quick glance around the store reveals candy-coloured dresses dotted across the carpet and multiple faces glowing blue from the light of people’s phones. Brandon laughs and unhooks his arms so he can stretch his legs. I take that as a sign that he’s relaxing.

  “I get these stupid panic attacks,” Brandon says softly. “They make my life hell.”

  I nod.

  “Something like the world possibly ending doesn’t help,” he says.

  “Nah, we’re going to be fine,” I assure him. “We’ll be out of here before you know it. But yeah, they don’t seem very fun …”

  “Thanks for hanging out with me for a bit.”

  “For sure. Any time.”

  Brandon takes a long swig from the bottled water he has with him. He seems to be doing a lot better. I pat him on the shoulder. I notice sparkles on my pants from the dress we’re sitting on. I brush them off and my eyes catch the price tag that I’ve bent by sitting on it.