genius; he was a plagiarist. (Note that if the trick had worked, I promise I would have given Mike full credit as Chet lay on the sidewalk with his bloody lip.)
"Oh," I said.
"I can't believe you were going to punch me," said Chet. "Why don't you walk by yourself today?"
I obliged, standing in place until Chet was once again a block ahead of me. I didn't deserve to have any friends, not if I was so inept as to try an ancient gag on them.
When I got home from school, Mike (whose school let out fifteen minutes earlier than mine, which was unfair to me, but he had to get up fifteen minutes earlier each morning, which was unfair to him, so it all evened out) was in the kitchen, making a sandwich. "Hey," he said. "Do you want to play a card game?"
"No."
"It's a fun one!"
"No, thank you."
"Jeez, what's up your butt?"
"Nothing," I said. And then I wondered if I was being too pouty. Maybe this was a genuinely fun card game. "What's the game?"
"It's the best card game ever. It's called Fifty-Two Pickup."
I sighed. Even I, who had clearly been shielded from much of the world until now, knew about Fifty-Two Pickup. "Uh-uh. You'll just throw the cards on the floor and make me pick them up."
"No, this is a different version."
"I'm not playing."
"All right," said Mike, taking a gigantic bite out of his sandwich. He talked as he chewed. "It would've been the most fun game of Fifty-Two Pickup in history. Nobody in the world has ever played a more fun game of Fifty-Two Pickup, but if you're okay with missing out, there's nothing I can do." He shook his head in great sorrow. "I can't force you to have the most fun of your life. I can't force you to create memories that you'll look back on fondly in your old age."
"Shut up," I told him. "I'm not gullible."
I was pretty gullible, to be honest, but not that gullible. His variation would probably be something like Fifty-Three Pickup, where he included the joker.
"How about a different game, then?"
"Like what?"
"It's called Stop Stabbing Me."
"That doesn't sound fun."
"It's lots of fun. Basically we each get a knife, and we take turns seeing who can go the longest without saying 'Stop stabbing me.' Once they ask you to stop, you have to stop, you can't just keep going."
"I don't think Mom will like that."
"Mom doesn't get home until six." Mike set his half-eaten sandwich down on the counter and opened the silverware drawer. He took out two butter knives and gave one to me. "We start out easy. For round one, you can only do hands. Give me your hand."
"No way."
"Give me your hand."
"I said, no way."
"Stop being such a wuss."
"It's not wussy to not want to get stabbed."
"It's a butter knife. Is your hand made of butter? I've never seen such cowardice. How do you expect to ever get a girlfriend if you live your life in such a cowardly manner?"
"Okay, fine, whatever." I held out my hand, palm up, trying not to let Mike see that I was cringing.
He began to rapidly tap the tip of the butter knife against the center of my palm, not exactly gently, but not too hard. It was more annoying than painful.
"Does that hurt?" he asked.
"Nope."
He began to tap a little faster and a little harder.
"How about now?"
"Kind of."
"Is it more than you can take?"
"No."
He kept tapping, getting progressively faster and harder. It finally started to hurt quite a bit, so I said, "Stop stabbing me."
Mike stopped, which was nice because I kind of thought the whole punchline to his game was that he wouldn't. I had a big red mark in the center of my palm, but nothing had broken the skin.
"That was thirty seconds," he said. I hadn't seen him check his watch so I assume he was just estimating. He held out his palm. "Your turn."
I began to poke at his hand with my knife. I was tempted to hit slightly harder than Mike had, but I knew deep inside that to do so would be unfair, so I tried to match his intensity and frequency as well as I could recall it.
He didn't look like he was in much pain,
"Oh," I said.
"I can't believe you were going to punch me," said Chet. "Why don't you walk by yourself today?"
I obliged, standing in place until Chet was once again a block ahead of me. I didn't deserve to have any friends, not if I was so inept as to try an ancient gag on them.
When I got home from school, Mike (whose school let out fifteen minutes earlier than mine, which was unfair to me, but he had to get up fifteen minutes earlier each morning, which was unfair to him, so it all evened out) was in the kitchen, making a sandwich. "Hey," he said. "Do you want to play a card game?"
"No."
"It's a fun one!"
"No, thank you."
"Jeez, what's up your butt?"
"Nothing," I said. And then I wondered if I was being too pouty. Maybe this was a genuinely fun card game. "What's the game?"
"It's the best card game ever. It's called Fifty-Two Pickup."
I sighed. Even I, who had clearly been shielded from much of the world until now, knew about Fifty-Two Pickup. "Uh-uh. You'll just throw the cards on the floor and make me pick them up."
"No, this is a different version."
"I'm not playing."
"All right," said Mike, taking a gigantic bite out of his sandwich. He talked as he chewed. "It would've been the most fun game of Fifty-Two Pickup in history. Nobody in the world has ever played a more fun game of Fifty-Two Pickup, but if you're okay with missing out, there's nothing I can do." He shook his head in great sorrow. "I can't force you to have the most fun of your life. I can't force you to create memories that you'll look back on fondly in your old age."
"Shut up," I told him. "I'm not gullible."
I was pretty gullible, to be honest, but not that gullible. His variation would probably be something like Fifty-Three Pickup, where he included the joker.
"How about a different game, then?"
"Like what?"
"It's called Stop Stabbing Me."
"That doesn't sound fun."
"It's lots of fun. Basically we each get a knife, and we take turns seeing who can go the longest without saying 'Stop stabbing me.' Once they ask you to stop, you have to stop, you can't just keep going."
"I don't think Mom will like that."
"Mom doesn't get home until six." Mike set his half-eaten sandwich down on the counter and opened the silverware drawer. He took out two butter knives and gave one to me. "We start out easy. For round one, you can only do hands. Give me your hand."
"No way."
"Give me your hand."
"I said, no way."
"Stop being such a wuss."
"It's not wussy to not want to get stabbed."
"It's a butter knife. Is your hand made of butter? I've never seen such cowardice. How do you expect to ever get a girlfriend if you live your life in such a cowardly manner?"
"Okay, fine, whatever." I held out my hand, palm up, trying not to let Mike see that I was cringing.
He began to rapidly tap the tip of the butter knife against the center of my palm, not exactly gently, but not too hard. It was more annoying than painful.
"Does that hurt?" he asked.
"Nope."
He began to tap a little faster and a little harder.
"How about now?"
"Kind of."
"Is it more than you can take?"
"No."
He kept tapping, getting progressively faster and harder. It finally started to hurt quite a bit, so I said, "Stop stabbing me."
Mike stopped, which was nice because I kind of thought the whole punchline to his game was that he wouldn't. I had a big red mark in the center of my palm, but nothing had broken the skin.
"That was thirty seconds," he said. I hadn't seen him check his watch so I assume he was just estimating. He held out his palm. "Your turn."
I began to poke at his hand with my knife. I was tempted to hit slightly harder than Mike had, but I knew deep inside that to do so would be unfair, so I tried to match his intensity and frequency as well as I could recall it.
He didn't look like he was in much pain,
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