Wilma’s eyes adjust in the dark to the human shape playing her game in the arcade. It really doesn’t matter to her, as long as it’s not some jerk trying to beat her high scores. She walks up to him, says, “Hi, I’m Wilma, you mind if I join?,” and he’s cool, so he slides over to give her room.
Wilma plays the tall lady with the legs up to her chin. He’s the one that looks like a dragon. The dragon’s the worst character in the game. The dragon’s so super slow, and the boy next to Wilma is not playing him well. “You can pick up speed by pressing B,” she says.
“Oh, okay. Thanks,” he smiles at her with his teeth, and when he takes the time of not looking at the screen, Wilma’s lady is beating the crap out of his stupid dragon.
He loses and changes characters. Now he’s the Prince of ancient Japan, and Wilma has always had the biggest crush on this man. She’s distracted. This Prince is so beautiful. If the boy standing next to her were more like that Prince, then Wilma would marry him. Their cake would have little models of Wilma and the Prince. But the Prince wouldn’t be wearing a suit or a tie or anything, he’d be naked. Because he’s better naked.
The boy beats her then smirks at her. Wilma’s not happy about losing, and decides she’s going to treat herself to an ice-cream. She says, “All right, well I’m heading out. Nice playing with you,” and he says, “Will you be here tomorrow?,” and she says, “I’m here all the time,” before she walks away.
These summer days, Wilma goes to the arcade all the time. On the train she sits with her legs curled underneath her. The skin on the underside of her upper thighs is touching the rubber from her sneakers, and it’s cold. She’s thinking about how cold it is in the train, when she looks up and sees an older man staring at her. She gives him a puzzled look, and he looks away. She looks down at her chest, thinks he can’t be looking there; she’s got nothing to look at. Even though she’s fifteen, Wilma is very skinny and hasn’t got much of a figure.
A boy is standing under the awning of the arcade smoking a cigarette. He sees her, smiles, and puts the cigarette out under a heavy boot. “Hi, Wilma,” he says.
“Hi?” she asks back.
“It’s Arthur,” he says. “You were here yesterday. We played a few games together.” She still looks confused, so he explains, “You beat me one game. I beat you a few times.” He gives her another crooked smile, showing his discolored teeth.
“You mean you beat me once,” she says, her eyebrows narrowing.
He moves out of the doorway when someone on the inside tries to exit. Wilma steps up to the empty spot to enter, and he cuts back in front of her and says, “Whatever you want, Cutie.”
“Don’t call me that,” she says, her hand reaching for the door.
He says, “Yeah, sure,” following her inside.
Wilma didn’t get a good look at him the day before, but now she notices his large arm muscles and acne. And he’s old. He has to be over eighteen. That’s too old for Wilma.
“Did you want to play another game?” he says to her back, trying to keep up with her as she tries to lose him. It’s still before noon so not too many kids are around for her to hide.
“Yeah, that’d be okay,” she responds, hoping she can play a few games, get out, then take herself to a movie or something. “But only a couple,” she says, “I haven’t got much money,” thinking of a seven dollar matinee movie ticket and a three dollar soda.
“A couple’s all I need,” he says.
They take an empty machine in the back. He wins one game before she’s warmed up, and she beats him the next. She says, “Well, that’s all I can afford. I’m gonna—” she waves in the general direction of the exit.
“We can’t end on this note,” he says. “Come on, one more game, I’ll pay for it.” He slips a dollar’s worth of quarters in the machine.
“What note,” she says, scratching her left arm, crossing her right over her chest.
“You beating me,” he says, always smiling. He takes his place on the controls. “Come on,” he nods at the partner controls.
“No,” she says. “I’m gonna be late. I gotta go.” She turns around and starts to walk away.
“Hey,” he winks. “Come on, you promised.” He walks after her and puts his hands on her hips, trying to physically coax her back to the machine.
She can feel his sweaty hands on her skin from the gap in her shorts and shirt. “Touch me again and I’m getting security,” she says slowly, in his face, backing away.
He still continues to smile at her.
Wilma can feel his eyes on her as she leaves. The train is a full two blocks away, and even though it’s the middle of the day she no longer feels safe. She ducks into a donut shop and looks at the menu on the wall, pretending to be interested.
She looks out the windowed wall and sees the boy on the street, presumably trying to follow her.
“Excuse me,” she says to the man behind the register, “where’s the washroom?”
“Oh,” he says, “it’s uh, it’s uh, costumer’s only.”
“Can I,” she waves her hand around, “when I come out?”
“Oh yeah, sure. It’s back there,” he points. “I’ll buzz you in.”
“Thanks.”
Wilma looks for another lock on the door, but there is only the mechanical lock controlled behind the counter. She puts the lid of the toilet down and sits on it. She wipes her nose with her fingers, and then uses a piece of toilet paper to wipe away the snot. Then she wipes the tears off her cheeks. She washes her hands, then washes them again. And again. She looks through her pockets and puts her house key in her fist, so the pointy part comes out of her fingers.
Wilma goes back to the counter, orders a small hot chocolate, thanks the man, then sits at one of the tables. She looks out the window and doesn’t see the boy so she thinks she’ll be okay leaving. She finishes the hot chocolate, and even though it’s hot outside, Wilma feels better having drunk it.
She’s walking up to a corner when the boy rounds it.
“What do you want?” she says, thinking of Vietnamese prostitutes with razorblades in their vaginas.
“I want to be friends,” he says, dumbfounded.
“Leave me alone.”
“I think you’re really cool and hot. We’ll be friends. I’m sure of it.” He reaches out and touches her arm, like he’s trying to flirt.
Wilma slaps him, forgetting about the weapon in her hand. The key hangs limply in her palm, lightly scratching him. Their eyes lock for a beat as the smile slowly leaves his face. Wilma grimaces, murmurs “sorry” under her breath, and runs two blocks to the train. She gets on the train and goes home.
