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  If either Tori or Billy notice his discomfort, they don’t say anything.

  “Plans for today?” Tori asks, heading back to the kitchen and flipping over the pancakes.

  “Probably just hang around the house.”

  “Oh no, you’re not doing that,” Billy says, gulping down the rest of his protein shake and wiping his mouth. “I’ve seen what you do when you ‘hang around’. Before long we’ll need to burn all the sheets in the house.” Spencer’s face turns red.

  Tori continues to hum in the kitchen. “Dig in guys, pancakes will be done soon. Hey, Billy, I’m going to make some for your dad too, okay?”

  “Dad’s not here?” Spencer asks.

  “Working another double,” Billy says.

  ”That’s the second one this week.”

  “Third. But I think he’ll be able to stop working so much soon. I got a job.”

  Spencer stops, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You did? How? I thought Dad didn’t want you to work. Where? How?”

  Before Billy can answer, Tori places a plate stacked high with packages in the center of the table. With a flourish, she steps back and takes a bow, saying “Gentlemen, breakfast is served.”

  They all pile pancakes on their plates and start eating. For a few minutes, there are no words spoken other than Spencer asking to pass the ketchup. The eggs are fluffy, the bacon crisp, and the pancakes contain hints of cinnamon. Spencer didn’t even know they had cinnamon. Finishing his eggs, Spencer can no longer stand it and blurts out, “Well? Where are you going to be working? For how much? When do you start?”

  Billy looks up from his plate. “Dude, rude. You could at least thank Tori for the breakfast first.”

  “Thanks, Tori,” Spencer says.

  She smiles and pats his hand, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body, “He’s just teasing you. And getting ahead of himself. What your brother meant to say was that he applied for a job. Jobs actually. That’s what we were doing yesterday. Going around applying at places.”

  “Oh,” Spencer says, somewhat deflated. Billy getting a job would have been good news, not only because of the extra income, but also because it would mean he wouldn’t be around the house as much. And maybe Tori would get bored and still drop by. Spencer reigns in his thoughts before they can get too far on what could happen with a bored Tori and Spencer in a house all to themselves.

  “I’m getting a job,” Billy says in between stuffing eggs into his mouth. “Just a matter of time. Remember the guy at Dairy Queen? He was practically offering me the job on the spot.”

  “He said they were interviewing people next week,” Tori says.

  “Same thing.”

  “What about Dad?”

  “He’s just going to have to live with it. I’m like the only guy I know who doesn’t have a job.”

  Billy and Spencer’s father had refused to hear any talk about Billy getting a job. “Enjoy your last summer before graduating high school,” he told Billy.

  “Wait,” Spencer says, “If you get a job, what’s going to happen to RBWL?” RBWL stood for their backyard wrestling promotion—The Royal Brooks Wrestling League.

  Billy shrugs. “I dunno. You can get someone else to be your champion, I guess.”

  Spencer’s mouth goes dry and he stares down at his plate, having lost his appetite. Anger presses against his stomach and makes the eggs he just ate dance their way up to his throat. This isn’t fair, he thinks. It’s not just the idea of losing Billy as a champion which bothers him.

  Billy stepping away from their wrestling league would sever whatever little connection was left of the brother’s old relationship.

  Shifting in his chair, the food rolls around his stomach. Billy looking for a job feels like a giant betrayal. Like his tag team partner just brought a chair down on his back.

  CHAPTER 3

  GRABBING HIS NOTEBOOK and wallet from the bedroom, Spencer exits the apartment. A wall of heat waits for him outside, and by the time he reaches the ground floor, his shirt is clinging to him like an adoring fan, beads of sweat pooling around the pockets of fat between his chest and torso.

  Parched and already regretting his decision of leaving the apartment, Spencer starts walking towards the front gate. His plan is to catch the nearby bus and go to the dollar movies. He isn’t sure what’s playing there today, but at least it’ll be cool inside the theater, and maybe a movie will keep his mind off the conversation he just had with Billy.

  The Royal Brook’s Apartments are just one of many complexes lining the North Dallas neighborhood they live in. All of the complexes share the same stucco building design, with sloping, half cut grass hills, and names meant to invoke a classier living than onsite laundromats and roach infested kitchens. Their dad chose Royal Brooks after weighing the cost of the apartment versus the chances of having his boys get robbed by a meth addict. They’d originally intended to move to the apartments across the street but those plans were laid by the wayside when they drove past it one day and saw the eight squad cars in the parking lot.

  A drug deal gone bad the newspapers told them the next day. “Must have gone really bad,” their dad said, throwing the half-filled application in the trash.

  In the year of living in Royal Brook’s, the worse any of them had seen were a couple of drunken fights, most ending as quickly as they began. Cops occasionally were spotted patrolling the area, but Spencer never saw them do anything other than park their squad cars and drink from their Big Gulps. This was not necessarily a bad thing. Spencer imagines a more studious cop would have questions as to why some of the younger Royal Brooks tenants seem to have new injuries every other week.

  So far Billy and Spencer have managed to avoid their father finding out about the wrestling league through a combination of a grueling work schedule on their dad’s side, make-up (carefully applied by Tori), and general avoidance, which their dad probably attributed to teenage moodiness.

  “Hey, Spencer, yo, wait up!”

  Spencer turns and sees Carlos running down the hill after him. When he reaches Spencer, Carlos’ face is a mask of red, the sounds coming out of his mouth resembling a freight train going off the rails.

  The pounds of shame Spencer carries with him momentarily lessen when faced with someone more out of shape than himself. But they’re packed back in the moment Carlos straightens up and towers over him. Spencer considers Carlos lucky fat, able to carry his girth and be imposing, rather than insignificant.

  “You’ve seen your brother, dude?” Carlos asks in between gulps of air.

  “Last I saw him, he and Tori were in our apartment.”

  “Shit. Your apartment, yeah, I should have checked there first.”

  Carlos is about to take off in the direction he came from when Spencer stops him. “Hey, why are you looking for my brother?”

  “I wanted to show him this,” Carlos says, unfolding a piece of paper.

  “Where’d you find this?”

  “Stuck to my door. There’s a shit-ton of them plastered on the buildings by the entrance. I got James and some of the other guys taking them down. That’s some fucked up shit, right?”

  It is. What Spencer holds in his hand is a flyer for WTF— The Woodland Terrace Federation. It bothers Spencer to see the lack of the word wrestling anywhere in the title. The flyer is made of a glossy paper stock, the type Spencer knows you have to go to a copy store to get made. And it’s in color to boot.

  It shows a collage of teenagers playing at being wrestlers. Some are bared chested, others have ripped t-shirts, and there’s even two in cheap lucha masks, like the type Mexican wrestlers often wear in the ring. Most are frozen in poses which they’d probably imagined looked intimidating or impressive, but in Spencer’s eyes, only make them look constipated. In the center there’s a picture of a skinny guy with a limp green mohawk leaning slightly to the right. He’s staring ahead with a seriousness which loops right around and becomes almost comical.

  Spencer would find all t
his a lot funnier if it wasn’t for the fact the flyer is still worlds better than anything the RBWL has managed to ever produce. He stares at the paper, the desire to rip it in two tickling Spencer’s fingers and making him dizzy.

  It isn’t fair, he thinks for the second time this morning.

  “Look dude,” Carlos says, jabbing his fat brown finger at the flyer and drawing Spencer’s eyes down to the bottom, where he reads the following

  EDDIE TORNADO

  VS

  JAMES ‘HIGH ROLLER’ HAYES

  FOR THE

  WTF CHAMPIONSHIP

  “They’re calling us out,” Carlos says, pointing to the last line. “Fuckers saying we’re not, like real wrestling and stuff. I bet they don’t even know about hubris like we do.”

  Spencer folds up the flyer and sticks it in between the pages of his notebook. He’s reminded of the story they read in English class last year about the guy who murders an old man and sticks him under the floorboards. Just like the narrator in the story could hear the murdered heart, Spencer can still see the flyer in his mind, the words beating red like the heart in the story must have.

  “Hey, Carlos, can you do me a favor?”

  “What up?”

  “Don’t show this to Billy, yet. Just go back and make sure to get all the flyers.”

  Carlos gives him the same look he did when Spencer tried to explain hubris to him. “You sure, man? I mean, I know you like to run RBWL, but like, Billy is probably the guy to go with this. I bet he can think of some way of getting back at them. You know he hates Eddie.”

  Spencer nods and resists the urge to swat away the words from the flyer, still dancing on the edge of his vision. “Which is why you gotta let me tell him. I don’t want him doing something stupid.”

  Carlos pounds his fists together and says, “He wouldn’t be alone, you get me?”

  Another nod. “Yeah, I know. But just let me do it, okay?”

  The large Mexican stares at Spencer and chews on his lower lip, which Spencer can’t decide if it’s because he’s in deep thought or just hungry. “Alright, man. But you guys better come up with something quick. We don’t want to look like pussies, right?”

  “We don’t,” Spencer says.

  CHAPTER 4

  IT’S HARD TO SAY who initially came up with the idea of starting a wrestling promotion. If you believed Billy, it was their idea first, hatched after a night of watching wrestling and Billy complaining the wresters were all out of shape has-beens. This was followed up by Spencer muttering how he’d like to see his brother do better.

  It was a remark Spencer forgot about almost immediately, but the comment must have stayed with Billy, because a couple of days later he’d rounded up a group of kids from around the apartment complex, all interested in learning more about how they could hit each other with chairs and aluminum pans and become famous for it. Spencer originally balked at joining, but Billy’s insistence coupled with the promise he could write the storylines, got him to agree. A couple of days later, the pretty black girl from across the building knocked on their door and said she wanted to be a wrestler too.

  By the time they were ready to put on their first show, the rumors of another promotion starting up nearby were well known. “Fucking copycats,” Billy told the group as they sat around their living room and discussed their upcoming matches. Spencer hadn’t understood why his brother was so annoyed at hearing about Woodland Terrace. In his view, this was a good thing. Already he had multiple inter-promotional storylines written down in his notebook, and couldn’t wait to share it with the Woodland Terrace guys.

  However, things like the flyer made it clear Woodland Terrace has no intentions of playing nice with Royal Brooks. This sits just fine with guys like Billy and Carlos, who already take Woodland Terrace’s presence as an insult needing to be addressed, but worries Spencer. It’s why he didn’t go straight to Billy with the flyer. Ever since he lost the weight and gained friends, Billy has taken to walking around with an impulsiveness fitting him tighter than a lucky pair of underwear. True, the impulsiveness has led to some interesting things, such as the creation of RBWL, but Spencer can’t help but continue to worry. He’s seen enough wrestling to know false bravado when it is sitting in the living room couch next to him.

  Spencer ends up watching a silly comedy which isn’t funny enough to get his mind off Woodland Terrace. Stepping out of the theater, he checks the movie board and sees nothing of interest immediately playing, so he walks over to the arcade machines by the far end of the theater to kill some time. Skipping over the stained Pac-Man cabinet and the bleating pinball machine based on a failed movie license, he settles on the fighting game he plays whenever he comes here. Rolling a quarter into the cabinet’s slot, Spencer moves the joystick around to get a feel of how sticky it is and chooses his usual fighter.

  He becomes so invested in landing a ten-hit combo on his computer opponent he doesn’t notice the person standing next to him until he catches the flickering image of a green mohawk—bowing slightly to the right—reflected on the dusty screen.

  The sight almost costs Spencer the match, but at the last minute he’s able to counter his opponent’s super move with a combination of harsh flicks of the joystick and sheer luck. The win still looks impressive. “Not bad,” Eddie Tornado says, the thick Southern drawl sounding strange coming out of his pierced lips. He’s wearing a jean jacket adorned with multiple patches of band’s logos and stands with his hands in his pocket, an easy confidence unspooling from his skinny frame.

  Spencer doesn’t say anything and just waits for the next match to load.

  Eddie slides a quarter into the coin slot and presses down on the faded second player button. “You don’t mind, right?” he asks Spencer, stepping forward to grab the joystick.

  “No,” Spencer says as they return to the fighter select screen. He sticks to the same fighter he’s been using and watches Eddie’s blinking cursor move from fighter to fighter before ending on a buxom woman.

  “I get a kick of seeing them bounce,” Eddie says by way of explanation.

  Their match is over quick, Spencer making such short work of Eddie he surprises even himself.

  “Fuck, that right there demands a rematch. What you say?”

  Spencer nods his head, never turning away from the arcade screen. He’s trying to figure out if Eddie knows who he is.

  This time Eddie picks a big, but slow moving fighter. The match takes longer than before, but Spencer still comes out winning.

  “Goddamn, fucking thing must be busted,” Eddie says, swatting his joystick. “I bet if I was on your side I could win.”

  Before he can help it, Spencer asks, “Want to switch?”

  Eddie pushes his mohawk back and eyes him, “Yeah, let’s do that.” He places yet another quarter into the machine.

  Both teens select the same fighters from their first match. True to his word, Eddie plays better on that side, but Spencer is still the superior player, and is close to winning the match when Eddie asks, “You’re Billy’s brother ain’t ya?”

  The question catches Spencer off guard and his onscreen fighter pays for it, Eddie landing several punches before Spencer manages to tap the block button and push his fighter away.

  “You two don’t look nothin’ alike, I tell ya.” Eddie’s fighter moves in, forcing Spencer to remain in a crouching block. “Guess I can see why you remain on the sidelines while he gets the belt.” Eddie wiggles his joystick and taps out a Morse code of punches and kicks through the arcade cabinet’s buttons. There’s a flash on the screen and then Spencer’s fighter is on the ground, his entire life bar depleted.

  “Not that being the champion of your little rinky-dink promotion is much to crow about,” Eddie adds.

  Spencer takes a deep breath and hunches down on his side of the cabinet, prompting a laugh out of Eddie. “Look who’s gotten all aggro on me. Told you I was a better player on this side.”

  They start the second round of the m
atch. Spencer tries all the moves which previously worked only to find Eddie can block and counter them all. And in return Spencer is unable to block every other move Eddie does with his character. Spencer gives himself a second to flick his eyes upwards to where his long, rectangular life line is flashing red, an indication he’s about to lose the match.

  “You guy don’t even have a real ring. Ain’t no wonder everyone prefers WTF.”

  Biting his lower lip, Spencer desperately moves the joystick around to move his fighter out of the corner he’s been wedged in and tries to block out Eddie’s words. He blinks away the sweat from his eyes and tries to focus on his onscreen avatar. The joystick is slippery in his hands and his fingers can’t quite seem to hit the button as quickly as he’d like.

  “You know what I don’t get? Why in the blue hell Tori hangs around with you guys. What does a broke ass boyfriend and his porker of a brother have to offer a fine ass girl like that, huh?”

  The words cut through Spencer’s defenses as easily as Eddie’s avatar breaks through Spencer’s fighter and continues the beating. The life bar above his character’s head dwindles down and pulses red. The copper taste of blood fills his mouth, having bitten his lip so hard to break the skin. Before he fully realizes what he’s doing, Spencer lets go of the joystick and swings his fist in Eddie’s direction.

  The punch lands awkwardly on Eddie’s lower jaw, and isn’t even hard enough to get him to release his joystick.