Cure for the Common Universe by Christian McKay Heidicker Page A

hands.”
    The coach glared at me. He pinched more snot from his nose, shrugged, and pointed to the Four Square court. “Go fill a square.”
    I nodded like that was exactly what I’d expected would happen. I went to the ball rack, and grabbed what I hoped was a Four Square ball. It was raspberry-red, pocked with little star-shaped indents, and had a peeling logo of a place called Happy Sun Summer Camp.
    I bounced it a few times. It felt . . . unnatural. Video games, for all of their hand-eye coordination, do not prepare you for sports. Pushing a button on a controller is a far cry from hurling a weighted sphere through the atmosphere while accounting for gravity, distance, and my damned fingers that never seemed to want to let go of the ball at the right moment.
    My recovery might have been set up like a video game, butI did not have the luxury of reloading so I could try it over and over again. I had to do this perfectly the first time.
    I brought the ball close to my lips and smelled the sweet rubber. “Okay, ball,” I whispered. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. My entire romantic life hangs on this game. So when you come at me, I want you to be as light and easy to predict as a bit of dandelion fluff. But when I hit you, I want you to leave my fist like a meteorite.”
    â€œWho you talking to?”
    I turned and found Soup, right in my shadow again.
    â€œOkay, new rule,” I said. “If I can feel you breathing, then you’re standing too cl—” Something dawned on me. “Do you have any undeclared health issues?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œNever mind. Wanna play Four Square?”
    â€œIf you’re playing!”
    â€œGreat.” I squeezed his little shoulder. “Listen, buddy, pal, friend, ace. I need you to throw this game for me.”
    His nose crinkled. “Like, don’t win but let you win instead?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œOkay!” He leapt onto the Four Square court.
    â€œThank you so mu— Okay, oops . Stay behind your line. You don’t have to stand so close.”
    â€œWe need two more,” Soup said, looking at the empty squares.
    I searched the Coliseum.
    â€œGo ask that kid,” I said, pointing to a Sefiroth who walked without swinging his arms. “And that one.” I pointed to another, lying on the asphalt, belly hanging out of the bottom of his shirt.
    Soup fetched them.
    â€œMiles,” I said to the new players, trying to sound intimidating.
    â€œDevastator,” the kid with the stuck arms said in a pinched voice.
    â€œSir Arturius,” the chubby one said, nervously squeezing his hands together. “Even Final Fantasy has its blitzball, right?”
    They were perfect.
    â€œCan I be commentator?” Soup asked.
    â€œIf you do it under your breath,” I said.
    I got real low, filling my square. I was a wall. I was a Halo shield. I was the little rocket ship in Galaga . I could stop an asteroid field.
    The game began.
    Every time Devastator or Sir Arturius sent the ball in my direction, I hammered it at Soup, who let it pass.
    â€œPoint!” I called.
    Soup didn’t even have to help much. Devastator kept missing the ball with his awkward arms, while Sir Arturius tried to hit the ball back with so much force that it threw him forward in his square, leaving the back wide open for me to fill with rocketing raspberry red.
    â€œPoint!”
    On my date I’d be able to tell Gravity how I had heroically won a sporting competition since we’d last met. I’d just be vague about the circumstances.
    â€œPoint!”
    Devastator fumbled. Sir Arturius sweated. Soup didn’t try. And I kept winning.
    Until the whistle blared.
    â€œAll players to the Four Square court!” the coach called.
    I froze as the Cheefs, Sefs, and Burds gathered around us like an impending storm.
    Keeping one foot in my square, I leaned in to the coach. “Uh, I