Come on, Porter,he teased her that year, playfully employing her last name every time she rolled a dud.You missed that last one by a mile!The arcade was garish, even back then. Swarms of kids. Blinking lights. But there, beside Ray, something in her always stilled. The world grew quiet. Like she could hear her own voice clearly, despite the noise. Some days, though she never told him, she missed on purpose. Not to lose. But just to stay there with him—with that feeling—for a few extra minutes.
“Darn it!” Cece blurts out now. She looks down at the machine, ready to grab another ball, but realizes the game is done. She begins to dig in her change purse again, then huffs.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m out of quarters.” Cece frowns, all frustrated little kid. “Just nickels and dimes.”
“Here.” Grace reaches for her own purse strap, not wanting this moment to end. “I’m sure I have spare change in my ...” She stops, looks around.
“What?”
“My purse.” Grace sighs. “I must have left it outside the diner after you ran into me.”
“Oh. Was that you? Sorry. I was racing to be one of the first people here when they opened so I could score my favorite machine.” As if on cue, the game coughs out a belt of tickets. Cece gives them a quick yank and tugs them free. “Want these?” Without waiting for an answer, she hands them to Grace. “I think I’ve won everything this arcade has to offer the last few summers.”
“Isn’t that the point, though?” Grace asks, genuinely meaning it. “If you get the high score, then you get to take home a big prize?”
“Sure.” Cece’s tone drips with sarcasm. “Because what Ireallyneed at my age is to lug a giant six-foot stuffed panda up the boulevard.” She grabs her bag and her cup, preparing to get on with her day.
“What happens if you win?” Grace asks, not remembering. “Do they display your name somewhere or something?”
“No.” Cece looks around the arcade in case she’s missed something. “I don’t think so.”
“Then why are you so invested in winning?”
“I don’t know. I just really want to do it.” Cece shrugs, slurps up the last sip of her fruity drink. “I think it’d be kind of fun. Isn’t that enough?”
Maybe that’s part of what I’ve been missing,Grace thinks. Not deadlines. Not discipline. Not goals crossed off, stories perfected, or expectations met. Just the thrill and the joy that come from liking to play, not because the advances you forward several steps.
“Probably.” Grace thinks back to the feel of the ball coming free from her hand, the innocent pleasure of seeing it arc its way into the right hole. The way her writing used to make her feel this way, too. And other things. “To be honest, I don’t really remember the last time I did something like that just for the fun of it.”
“Oh.” Cece winces so hard it’s practically audible. “That’s ... sad.”
“Yeah.” Grace sighs, letting what Cece said sink in—the layers of scaffolded meaning beneath her statement. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, I need to get out of here. Cool talking to you,” Cece adds, walking the tightrope between pity and amusement, and makes her way toward the door. “I guess.”
“Cece, hang on!” Grace calls out, not meaning to project so loudly. “Where are you—”
“Wait.” She turns, squinting against the fluorescent lights. “How’d you know my nickname?”
A brief moment of panic.
“It’s stitched into your friendship bracelet,” Grace says, quickly recovering.The one you bought at that souvenir shop last summer. The one you’ll keep wearing every day until it breaks.
“Huh,” Cece notes. “Good vision for someone your age.”
“Will I see you again?” Grace asks. Cece looks at her, like she’s suddenly second-guessing this interaction once more. “You know, so I can find out if you get the high score,” Grace clarifies.
“Oh.” Cece’s expression relaxes. “Right. Um, maybe.” She pushes open the door, letting a stream of natural light filter inside. “I mean, I haven’t hit it yet. So yeah, at some point this week, I’ll probably be back.”
The tickets dangle from Grace’s fingers, a tangible souvenir of this bizarre meeting. As they do, she watches Cece—a different version of the girl she saw earlier—step outside, a tangle of bracelets and certitude fueled by the hopeful belief that not every missed shot is a loss.
“Hey.” Cece pops her head back inside. “Were you any good when you were my age?”
“More than good,” Grace says without thinking. “I was the best. A long time ago anyway.”
“Cool.” Cece nods, considering something. “In that case, if I see you in here again ... want to play against me?” She pauses, finally revealing an ounce of her adolescent insecurities. “I haven’t hit the high score yet, but I can probably give you some good tips.” She shrugs. A smile spreads across her face, as big and bright as the arcade’s many illuminated bulbs. “You know, if you’re up for trying to get your game back.”
