to ask her what that has to do with what she wants to do with her life. Save people maybe?
Then she starts talking again. “Something about that painting, the way it reached out and touched me. That’s what I want to do. I want to touch people that way.”
“So are you good at it?” I sometimes say the first thing that comes to my mind and as soon as I do I realize that I sound like an idiot. I get what Hannah is saying, about doing something great. When I was about eight or nine I got into reading these little biographies of famous people, written for kids. Each one of them starts out with the famous person’s birth and then has about a hundred pages on their growing up. Then in the last chapter they become president or invent the light bulb or whatever. I think what I liked about these books was trying to figure what happened when they were kids to make them do great things. And then to wonder if I had any of these things working for me.
So even though the first thing that comes to mind is Hannah painting, I know she could mean a hundred other things.
“What?” Hannah says. Looking at me now like I’ve broken some rich and delicious trance.
“Well,” I mumble. “I was just wondering, you know, about painting. Do you paint?”
She looks up at the tag in front of her and sees that her pizza is gone. I point at the one in front of me as I put the finishing touches on it.
“I got it,” I say.
“Oh thanks,” she says. “Guess I got carried away. What did you ask?”
“Painting.”
“Oh yeah, sure. I paint. But I suck.” I wonder if it’s true or it’s like me and Starfare. Like I know I suck, but I’m still really good compared to almost anyone else.
“You know, I saw some of your photos. They’re sort of like that.”
Hannah actually jumps. “You saw my photos?”
Now I’m wondering if I should have said anything at all. Like she’ll think I was spying on her or something.
“They’re up on your Facebook page.” And before she can say anything about it I just start rambling. “You know, those color ones. I think they’re flowers. They remind me of this exhibit my mother took me to at the Art Institute. They were by this famous woman painter…”
“Georgia O’Keefe?” Hannah asks.
“Yeah, that’s it. I mean they reminded me a lot of her flower paintings, which when you look at them, they’re not just about flowers…”
“Exactly,” Hannah is saying, looking at me with a sort of shocked expression, as if I were a superhero whose mild-mannered secret identity had just been inadvertently revealed.
Then she picks up another crust and begins to work the sauce. After a minute she asks, “What would you do if your parents told you you’d have to move halfway across the country your senior year of high school?”
So I tell her about my mom moving to California and how close I was to having to move out there. Hannah has about a hundred questions about that and I get the feeling that she might actually like living in a place like the Institute.
“Anyway, at least you didn’t have to do it. Move, that is. Leave all your friends. I mean, it’s not like you can’t stay in touch. But I get a text from one of my old friends, and it’s all about some party some guy I don’t even know threw the night before with a bunch of new people I never met and after a while, what’s the point? And then some people you’d most expect to stay in touch with, they have no interest. Like it’s not as if you moved. It’s like you died.”
I say, “Yeah,” wondering if she’s thinking about some guy, back in New Jersey. And then thinking about how weird it would seem to Hannah to find out that my best friends, like DT, are online. True, I do still see Eric sometimes, but last semester he started hanging out with Becca, who is actually really into gaming. She was in our World of Warcraft guild for a while and now the two of them are inseparable. So mostly I’m online with DT and other guys. Not many people seem to understand how that works.
But that night, when I’m back at home, lying in bed, my mind still firing like a Starfare screen, I keep hearing Hannah’s voice, talking about seeing that painting and the passion for something special.
Back when I was in grade school Mom seemed to worry a lot about my gifted program. She was always saying that everyone is special in their own way and has their own talents and that I shouldn’t think I was better than anyone just because I could do more math than them. Not that that was a problem, because no one gave a crap that you could do long division in first grade. They were more interested in how far you could throw a football or who could run the fastest.
But when I think about it now, I’m thinking Mom was wrong. Not everyone can shoot a basketball into a tiny hoop from thirty feet, over and over like Garrett. Not everyone can paint a picture so great that it can stop a beautiful girl in her tracks. Not everyone can have the mental and physical skills it takes to absorb an entire Starfare map, assess your opponent’s strategy while tapping out commands on the keyboard faster than the hardest song ever on Guitar Hero.
No, very few people have what it takes to be great at any particular thing. And if you find that thing and don’t go for it, that would be the ultimate fail. I try to imagine what it would be like living with that. And all I can come up with is Dad.
21.
The next day I get up relatively early, at least for me, with a fresh determination to make some progress. But one of the hardest things for me is to figure out what I need to do to get better. It’s not like I can simply ask someone. I’m already the best player in Kansas City. Probably by far.
Sometimes I think about how much coaching Garrett got. From school coaches. From older players. From college coaches at sports camps. I once looked it up online. Garrett’s college basketball coach gets paid $350,000 a year. He damn well better know a thing or two about the game.
So I never really know if I should be spending more time watching pro gamers, or reading the strategy message boards, or just playing the best competition I can find. Which is also a problem, because when you get to my level, you can’t just click on a server and expect to pick up a really good game at random. Chances are you’ll be playing someone you can beat without any real effort. And how is that supposed to make you better?
So I do what I normally do, a little bit of everything, and then before I know it it’s time for my evening shift at Saviano’s.
22.
Two good things about work: Hannah, and for every four hours you work you get one ten-inch pizza. Of course there are downsides. Shifts without Hannah. Getting sent home after three hours when things are slow and not getting your ten-inch. And of course, those countless hours of lost training time.
But to be honest, walking from my place to Saviano’s, I’m not thinking about Starfare skills or lost practice opportunity or improving my national ranking. I’m thinking about Hannah.
Even though it’s only a few blocks and the sun is low, I can’t believe how hot it is. It’s not just that’s it hot and still. But the air is so thick and heavy you’d think that it wasn’t normal air at all, but something thicker and murkier, like a winter dream when you
