Santa Clara Review, Vol. 99, Issue 1

Page 65

good, always burning me with Hail Marys. Karen introduced us a few months earlier, said they met at Wal-Mart or something, and at least once a week I’d come home to him waiting in the kitchen, his skinny tan legs chameleons to our table legs. He really liked to play, I guess, always wanting to give me another chance to beat him. I never did. I’d rather have the ten thousand dollars, I told her. Otherwise, I’d be tempted to sell Rocky, and I couldn’t do that. Rocky’s taken me all the way to Denver and back. Where? Denver. Eric, when did you go to Denver? I laughed, kissed her on the forehead. Karen had the worst memory. I’d told her about my senior trip to Denver at least fifty times, the impulsive decision Greg, Josh and I had made, cutting class during finals week to hike the Rocky Mountains with just backpacks. That had been three years ago and I wanted to go again, but Greg and Josh didn’t live in Ohio anymore and Karen never seemed too keen on the idea. You’re sure you don’t want to go to the dealership? I asked. What if we win the car? You won’t get to pick the color. The color of what? The car. What car, Eric? I didn’t laugh this time. She was doing it on purpose, I realized. She thought it was funny to ask stupid questions to frustrate me. I’d told her before that I didn’t like it, but all she said was, How do you think I feel? which didn’t make sense, so I dropped it. Still, she knew it hurt. What will you do while I’m gone? I asked. She sat there slouched in her pink sweatpants with the letters on the butt—though I couldn’t see them at the moment—smirking as she placed crackers on her tongue. She broke them one-by-one, each making the sound of a bug getting shoe-squashed. I should shower, she said. How long will you be, again? I shrugged, had never done this sort of thing before. I always thought the fliers in the mail were scams, never bothered to make the trek. But when the dealership is just up the road, a mile away, and they promise a minimum of three scratch tickets, are bound to it in writing, it’s just too good to pass up. I even felt a little obligated, I think. I couldn’t win if I didn’t go—the flier said so. And then who

Joseph Celizic | 57


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