One-nothing, Ellie in the lead. She won the last game, too, and I’m determined not to lose again. My face flushes at the thought of her smug grin when we exchanged scorecards. She knew she had me beat, and I knew it too. She did that unbelievably annoying hair flip and sashayed away, just daring me to try to do better. Well, I’ll show that bitch.
I won the game before last, but Ellie won the two before that. Honestly, it’s not really a fair match—she’s been playing for longer than me, and anyways, no one ever suspects a girl. Especially a pretty one. This time, however, I’m pulling out all the stops. There’s no way I’m losing this.
I head down Elm Street towards Maple, hands deep in my sweatshirt pockets, hoodie pulled up against the cold. Maple Street is an exact copy of Elm Street, from the matchbox houses to the soccer mom minivans and the plastic playsets in the back yards. On Maple, Mr. Jinks walks his 9-year-old beagle around the block every evening at 9.
It’s 8:58.
I reach the junction of the two streets, peer down either way. It’s a relatively bright night--the moon’s out, and the streetlights are lit, and sure enough, Mr. Jinks strolls on down with that damned dog stopping to sniff every two feet. I lean back against the lamppost casually. He passes on the other side of the street, gives me a casual salute. Used to be in the military, I heard. I don’t respond.
He gives the dog a tug and walks on by. I turn my head to watch. 10 feet. 20 feet. I slide my hand out of my sweatshirt pocket, unable to suppress a small smile. Suck on this one, Ellie. Then once, twice, a third time, I fire my gun.
He collapses. Shadows hide the scarlet stain I know must already be seeping into the concrete. That obnoxious little dog stands over him barking, and the screen doors start slamming open. I drop the pistol, turn, and slouch back down Elm.
One-one. That bitch is going down.
