The rematch went no better.
“How’s it feel to lose to a seven-year-old?” Jackson asked with a smile.
“Why don’t you try it and find out?”
“He’s having too much fun.”
“You’re just a chicken.”
“Oh yeah? Watch me, Cantrell.”
Can I play?Jackson signed to Tony, who nodded happily, as if to say it would make no difference.
“Look at him,” Jackson said. “He’s pretty cocky for a seven-year-old.”
“He’s probably going to whip your ass.”
“Keep dreaming!”
Jackson always took his games seriously, as if the fate of the known universe rested on whether he won or not. He used to go on and on with Noah, both of them driving me nuts with their constant competitiveness.
It took Tony about five minutes to wind up with four of his pieces kinged while Jackson had none.
“Dammit!” Jackson cursed under his breath.
“I told you!”
“He’s really good.”
“Or you’re just a loser,” I suggested.
“I am nota loser!”
“You will be, you keep screwing up the way you are.”