My Life as a Gamer

by Janet Tashjian

  “How did THAT happen?” Matt asks. “It’s one thing to beat US, but to beat Umberto?!”

  Carly holds up the fifty-dollar bill and does a little happy dance on her way back to her seat. I look at my counter reading 19,876, a number that suddenly seems paltry compared to my friends’.

  “And with an incredible score of 240,807…”

  Everyone in the room gasps at that outrageous number. Tom calms us down before continuing.

  “First prize goes to the player at console 8.”

  El Cid strides to the front of the room as if winning two hundred dollars on a Saturday afternoon is no big deal.

  “I’m beginning to loathe him,” Matt whispers.

  Umberto nudges Matt with his elbow. “Come on! You’ve got to give the kid some credit.”

  As we grab our things to go, Carly jumps up and down like a cheerleader. “I know exactly what I’m going to do with this money,” she says.

  “Never mind that,” I say. “How’d you score so many points?”

  “Yeah,” Matt adds. “Is El Cid coaching you on the side?”

  Carly stares us down. “Oh right! I’m not smart enough to figure out this game on my own?”

  “No one’s saying that.” Umberto wheels over to Carly’s side. “It’s just that maybe you have some tips to share.”

  Carly still looks annoyed. “I might have gotten a few tips, but you guys should read the manual. Everything you need to know is in there.” She hurries to catch up to El Cid, her new best friend.

  “Reading a manual to get good at a video game?” I say. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Come on,” Umberto says. “Let’s hit the snack table before we head home.”

  As we load up our pockets with granola bars, I’m genuinely happy for Umberto and Carly. And wowed by the talent of El Cid.

  Couch Potato

  Matt’s brother, Jamie, is twenty minutes late picking us up, but we don’t complain, because he’s got a bag of steaming fish tacos waiting for us. By the time we reach my house, all that’s left is a crumpled paper bag and empty salsa containers, which litter the floor of Jamie’s car.

  I’m feeling warm and full when I enter my house and am shocked to hear the springing sound of Mario coming from the den. My dad’s still in his pajamas in front of the TV.

  “You’re on World Eight?” I ask. “How long have you been playing?”

  He waits until Mario dies before he answers. “Pretty much since breakfast.”

  I look at the clock on the mantel. It’s almost four in the afternoon. “Um … where’s Mom?”

  He tells me she went shopping with a friend in Malibu and will be home soon.

  “Then maybe you should get dressed?” It’s weird to be the one giving advice about how to avoid getting in trouble with Mom.

  “Just a few more minutes.” He’s staring at the screen so closely, I suddenly wonder if my mother was right about the whole Get-Up-And-Move thing.

  “I was going to take Bodi for a walk,” I suggest. “Want to come?”

  This time Dad doesn’t answer, just continues to stare at the screen. I’m actually happy when Mom’s car pulls into the driveway.

  “Dad, Mom’s here. Want me to put this away?” I reach for the controller, but Dad yanks it away before I can grab it.

  “I beat Bowser, so I get a secret world,” he says. “Just another five minutes.”

  My mom comes into the house, carrying two fancy bags with ribbon handles, which means I’m probably not the recipient of her shopping excursion. She looks over to Dad, then to me.

  “Don’t tell me he’s been at it all day,” she whispers.

  I tell her I found him like this when I got back from Global Games.

  “He needs to find a job,” we whisper in unison.

  My father suddenly screams as if Bodi just got hit by a car.

  “Jeremy!” my mom shushes. “Inside voice!”

  I do a spit-take with my soda. I LOVE not being the one getting in trouble for a change.

  “I almost saved the princess!” Dad complains.

  Usually it’s MY fun that Mom pulls the plug on, so it’s crazy to watch her take charge with Dad. As she holds out her hand for the controller and shuts off the TV, Dad lets out a groan louder than one of mine.

  Amusing as this scenario is, it’s also unsettling. Is this what happens to grown-ups when they don’t have jobs? Does Mom have to worry about both of us now? I’m happy to have someone else in the house who enjoys Donkey Kong as much as I do, but Dad DOES seem to be acting a little nuts.

  Yikes! I’m starting to sound like Mom.

  Who Knew I Could Keep a Secret?

  Hannah goes totally bonkers when she hears about the Saturday focus group.

  “El Cid is there? Are you kidding?” She proceeds to ask me two dozen questions about El Cid’s identity.

  I answer her inquiries with a grin as if I have inside information, which of course I don’t. Even though I’ve been in the same room with the gaming star for two weeks, I don’t have a clue as to his identity.

  Hannah persists, making me divulge every detail, which takes about two seconds, since all I can tell her is that El Cid wins every competition.

  “Who knows,” I say. “Maybe he cheats.”

  Hannah scoffs at the suggestion. “El Cid doesn’t need to cheat—he thinks like a video game. That’s why he’s the number one player in the world. He’s from Peru, you know.”

  I try to appear cooler than I am by saying El Cid’s been hanging out with Carly, who happens to be one of my best friends. “They text each other all the time,” I offer. I can’t figure out if I’m trying to impress Hannah because she’s a cool fangirl or because I want to distract her from the practice test she’s supposed to give me today. Maybe a little bit of both.

  My mom walks through the den with a basket of folded clothes. Sure, she COULD just be doing laundry, but I bet she really wants to make sure Hannah and I get down to business. Whether that’s her intention or not, it does the trick; Hannah immediately slides the test across the table.

  “This should give us an idea of how you’ll do on the real tests next month.” Hannah’s talking to me but looking toward the kitchen, making sure my mother can hear. “They take forty-five minutes, so that’s what I’ll give you now. Go!”

  I grab a pencil and peruse the test. “Hey! I thought we were doing science today!”

  Hannah shrugs as if an English test is interchangeable with any other kind of test.

  I point to the large block of text filling two pages. “I can’t read all this!”

  “You’re in middle school. Of course you can.”

  Her lack of compassion makes me cringe. “I won’t be able to read this and answer all these questions in forty-five minutes. I need more time!”

  She pulls the gum out of her mouth in one long strand and tells me to chill. “It’s just practice. No one cares.”

  “I care! If I flunk, I’m dead meat!”

  Hannah holds up her cell and points to the time. “Forty-three minutes left. Let’s go!”

  I stare at the two pages—TWO!—full of sentence after sentence of stuff I don’t care about. I feel like a mountaineer standing at the base of Mount Everest. You might be able to climb it, but you also know how much work it’ll take to get there. I grab my mental rope, harness, and ice axe and start the test the same way you WOULD climb Mount Everest.

  One step at a time.

  Maybe I Shouldn’t Head to the Mountains Just Yet

  After forty-five minutes of blood, sweat, and tears, I only score a fifty-six on the practice test. Forget planting my flag at the summit of Mount Everest—I never even left base camp.

  My mom scrunches her face when Hannah shows her my results. She’s not angry; she knows how hard I try—how hard I’ve been trying my whole life. She digs down and shoots me a small smile. “Next time will be better—I’m sure of it.”

  That makes one of us.
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  It Only Gets Worse

  I’ve known Ms. McCoddle since kindergarten, but I’ve never seen her as stressed as she is today.

  “We’ve been working on these practice tests for weeks,” she says. “Today we’ll see how we rank against some other classes.”

  She hands a stack of tests to the students in the first row, who pass them back. After this week’s epic fail with Hannah, I’m not confident my skills will help our class in the rankings.

  “Ms. Lynch and I have a bet,” Ms. McCoddle says. “I said our class will leave hers in the dust. What do you guys say?”

  A few kids let out some half-hearted grunts. I guess I’m not the only one worried about performing.

  Ms. McCoddle says we have forty-five minutes to complete the test, and she’ll give us a reminder along the way to let us know how much time has gone by. I take it as a good sign that the first essay is about Harry Houdini. Even though the level is harder than what I’m used to, I do like reading about Houdini’s elaborate escape routines. There are only two questions at the end of all that reading; I make my best guesses and move on to the next section.

  The next assignment is about a Greek god named Phaëthon, except there are two dots over the e, which COMPLETELY throws me off. Why can’t they just use a regular e? How am I supposed to pronounce this, never mind read it? More important, how am I supposed to get through ten(!) paragraphs with all these dots hijacking my attention? I look over at Carly, who seems unfazed by the dots and all this READING.

  The last essay is about Koko the Gorilla. The story is interesting (I watched a TV special on Koko last year) but it makes me realize that Frank will be leaving us soon. Sure, we might be able to see him again but once he’s in Monkey College and gets assigned to be someone’s companion, we probably won’t. Then THAT person will be Frank’s constant friend—not me. It makes me want to hide Frank at Matt’s house and pretend I don’t know where he is when they finally come to take him back to Boston. For some reason, I can’t imagine my mom signing off on such a plan.

  Ms. McCoddle claps her hands the way she used to when we had her for kindergarten. “Okay … stop!”

  “WHAT?!”

  Ms. McCoddle smiles as she collects our booklets. “Not enough time, Derek?”

  How do I explain that there’s NEVER enough time—to pass a test, figure out why letters need dots, or save your monkey from leaving.

  At Least It’s Saturday Again

  It comes as no surprise to find out I flunked the practice test. What IS surprising is that three other kids in my class did too. Turns out Ms. Lynch’s class kicked our butts big-time, and Ms. McCoddle is not a happy camper. Our class spends every waking minute for the rest of the week going over the material again. So by the time Saturday rolls around, I’m more than ready to take out my frustrations in the world of Arctic Ninja.

  There’s always someone who complains about everything, and sure enough, the kid in front of me at the snack table is telling anybody who’ll listen how lame Arctic Ninja is.

  “There should be more worlds. And there definitely aren’t enough Easter eggs.” He spoons so much cream cheese onto his plate that he completely buries his bagel.

  “I’m telling you, this game will be a giant flop—worse than Atari’s E.T. They’re going to end up burying all the unsold games in New Mexico—mark my words.”

  I don’t want this guy’s negativity to leak onto me, so I forgo one more doughnut and head to my seat.

  Tom spends the first half of the morning asking us what kind of expansion packs we usually buy. After way too much group debate, he finally announces it’s time to play.

  “We’re doing something different today,” he adds. “We want to see how the group does with collaborative game play.”

  Some kids seem excited; others disappointed. My gaming skills are less than average, so as far as I’m concerned, I’ll take all the help I can get.

  Before anyone gets a chance to choose a teammate, Tom races through his iPad, calling out names and dividing us into pairs. I listen for my friends’ names too. Umberto and Matt are assigned to kids I don’t know, and Carly is teamed up with me.

  Umberto motions to a really tall kid waving his arms in the air. “That lucky dog got El Cid for a teammate. Can you imagine? I bet he clocks the highest score of his life.”

  In front of everyone in the room, the goofy kid bows to El Cid as if he’s the king of England. El Cid seems mortified and grabs the kid by the arm, bringing him back to an upright position. The tall kid still can’t contain himself, jumping around like he’s on an out-of-control pogo stick.

  “What a dope,” Matt says.

  “Are you kidding? That’s exactly what I’d be doing if I was El Cid’s teammate.” Umberto spins around in his wheelchair. “If I could jump, that is.”

  Matt and I laugh despite ourselves; Umberto really is one of the funniest kids we know.

  Carly comes over, rubbing her hands together as if she just found a secret map to buried treasure. “Let’s do this, Derek!”

  It’s funny to see Carly so excited about video games after all the grief she’s given us for the hours we’ve logged behind various controllers since we’ve been friends. But Carly’s eagerness is catchy, and I find myself thinking she and I might actually have a chance at making the list of today’s winners.

  Because we’re playing in teams, the game now moves faster and there are more obstacles to overcome. But I’m surprised to see how good Carly’s gotten. She tosses me a harpoon when the man-eating snowmen attack and boosts me over the wall of ice blocks to avoid getting nailed by the icicle-shooting drones. I find myself saying “Nice!” several times at Carly’s moves.

  The fourth level of Arctic Ninja is my favorite part of the game. It’s unpredictable, fast, and the graphics are incredible. So I’m surprised when an entirely different level unfolds this time. I guess playing collaboratively unlocks new scenarios. Other kids must’ve reached the new level too because the next thing I hear is a lot of people yelling “Whoa!” from across the room.

  This new phase is visually unlike the rest of the game, so for a minute I’m disoriented and my narwhal kind of stands there, wondering what to do next—until Carly rams me out of the way of a demonic poacher.

  “You totally saved me.”

  “More than once.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen.

  Maybe it’s because we’re friends, but Carly and I find a rhythm that we use to our advantage for the rest of the game. When her narwhal moves left, I cover her so we don’t get attacked by one of the poacher’s evil minions. As soon as my narwhal reaches the toboggan to go to the next level, Carly jumps in front of me, throwing an extra narwhal tusk at the lemmings trying to get to the secret code before we do. Carly and I are unstoppable—at least in the virtual world of Arctic Ninja.

  “We’re still nowhere close to finding the secret code,” I say. “Where do you think it is? And why are letters of the alphabet flying by?”

  “You’re the animal expert,” Carly says. “What are those fish our narwhals keep eating?”

  “Arctic cod.” There are so few times I know something Carly doesn’t know that I try to savor the moment.

  “That’s where the flying letters come in!” Carly whispers. “Grab an E!”

  It takes me a minute to figure out what she’s talking about. The girl is a GENIUS. I wait for the letters to come around again and stab an E with my narwhal’s tusk. Carly’s grinning from ear to ear as I feed the letter to one of the fish.

  “If you add an e to cod, you get code,” she whispers. “Do you think that’s it?”

  We both watch the screen as the fish swallows the bouncing vowel. Sure enough, a cutscene appears, depicting another layer of Skippy’s story.

  “I never would’ve gotten to this new level without you,” I tell Carly.

  “Ditto,” she says. “But YOU’RE the one who knew that fish was an Arctic cod.”

  Tom suddenly whistles tha
t the session is over.

  “We make a good team,” Carly says as she saves the game.

  “It’s weird, but we do.” I want to change the subject before the conversation gets awkward. “I wonder how your buddy El Cid made out with HIS teammate.”

  I motion to the tall guy, who’s literally dancing around the table, and then to El Cid, who looks uncomfortable.

  “The results are in!” Tom waves his arms in the air to get our attention. “In third place, the team at console 3.”

  Toby the origami guy and a girl who looks much too young to be in this focus group walk to the front of the room to collect their prize.

  “In second place, the team at console 7.” The crowd goes dead-quiet when El Cid and pogo boy get up to claim their prize.

  Umberto cranes in his wheelchair to see. “El Cid hasn’t lost a game in three years!”

  “He didn’t LOSE,” Matt says. “He came in second. That’s different.”

  El Cid doesn’t seem as surprised as the rest of us; he accepts his second-place prize with no fuss. Pogo Boy, on the other hand, goes MENTAL, as if Tom is handing him the Nobel Prize for Video Gaming.

  “And first prize goes to the team at console 9!”

  It takes me a second to realize that console 9 is US! I try to act cool as I walk to the front of the room, not like some luckless misfit who never wins anything—which is, of course, my true identity.

  My cool act dissipates when Matt starts chanting “DER-EK! DER-EK! CAR-LY! CAR-LY!” until everyone chants along. I roll my eyes at the attention, but inside I love every minute of it.