Hallway Hurdles and Half-Truths

Monday morning arrived with the unwelcome insistence of Kaizer's screeching alarm clock. The weekend, a whirlwind of high-stakes pool, digital maneuvering, and manual labor, felt like a fever dream compared to the mundane reality of getting ready for Northwood High. Pulling on another nondescript t-shirt and baggy jeans, Kaizer felt the familiar dissonance – the sixty-three-year-old mind trapped in adolescent routine.

The primary source of anxiety today wasn't trigonometry or a pop quiz on The Great Gatsby; it was Mark Jessop. Facing his friend after the loaded BBS exchange felt like walking into a social minefield blindfolded. Had Mark truly accepted GhostCue's vague deflection, or was he waiting for an opportunity, a slip-up, a confirmation of his impossible suspicion?

Kaizer forced down some toast under his mother's watchful eye, mumbled noncommittal answers about his weekend ("Just hung out, did some yard work"), and escaped to the relative anonymity of the school bus stop. He scanned the usual crowd, spotting Mark near the back, headphones on, seemingly engrossed in his Game Boy again. Kaizer hesitated for a beat, then decided delaying the inevitable was pointless. He walked over.

"Hey, Mark."

Mark looked up, pulling off his headphones. There was a flicker of something in his eyes – surprise, curiosity, maybe guardedness? – but his expression quickly settled into his usual mild-mannered neutrality. "Oh, hey, Kaizer. How's it going?"

"Alright," Kaizer replied, searching Mark's face for any sign of lingering suspicion from the online encounter. "You?"

"Okay. Just trying to beat this level before the bus comes." Mark gestured vaguely at the Game Boy screen. The conversation felt… normal. Almost too normal. There was no immediate follow-up about pool, no sly reference to GhostCue or BBSes. Had Mark really just dropped it? Or was he playing it cool, waiting for Kaizer to bring it up?

The bus arrived, and they boarded, finding seats together near the middle. The usual cacophony surrounded them – loud conversations, bursts of laughter, the whine of portable cassette players. Mark launched into a description of a new comic book he'd picked up over the weekend, talking about alternate timelines and character crossovers. Kaizer tried to follow along, nodding in what he hoped were the right places, but his mind kept drifting. He found himself analyzing Mark's tone, searching for hidden meanings, second-guessing the normalcy of the interaction. Was Mark deliberately avoiding the pool topic?

The paranoia felt exhausting. Maybe Mark had just been taking a wild stab in the dark online and accepted GhostCue's brush-off. Maybe Kaizer was overthinking everything. Or maybe Mark was just being a good friend, sensing Kaizer's recent distance and weirdness, and giving him space. Either way, the direct confrontation Kaizer had braced himself for didn't materialize on the bus ride.

School itself was a slog through familiar territory. Hallway navigation, locker combinations, the drone of teachers' voices. Kaizer found himself mechanically taking notes in history class, his mind simultaneously calculating the trajectory needed to bank the nine-ball off three rails while also worrying about how to earn forty-two dollars by Friday. The dual processing was becoming second nature, a necessary survival mechanism.

He noticed whispers following him, more so than last week. Glances from kids he didn't know. He caught snippets – "...the kid who beat Spike…" "…jump shot at Benny's…" "…Vince was pissed…" The garage game hadn't stayed secret for long, apparently. The rumor mill was churning, embellishing his performance, likely painting him as some kind of rising underground star. It was unwanted attention, dangerous attention, especially if it reached his parents or amplified Vince's bruised ego. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, trying to project an aura of utter disinterest.

Lunchtime brought the inevitable reunion with Mark at their usual cafeteria table. The other regulars – quiet kids into sci-fi and computers – were already there. Kaizer grabbed a tray of mystery chili and sat down, bracing himself again.

Mark looked up from a textbook. "Hey. Heard you signed up for that pool tournament."

Here it comes, Kaizer thought. "Yeah," he confirmed cautiously. "Saturday morning."

"Cool," Mark said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "So… you've been practicing a lot, then? To get good enough for a tournament?" The question was innocent on the surface, but Kaizer detected the underlying probe. How did you suddenly get so good?

"Been hitting some balls," Kaizer said evasively, focusing on his chili. "Watched some old videos my dad had, picked up a few things." It was a weak lie – his dad despised pool and certainly wouldn't own instructional videos – but it was marginally more plausible than 'I died and came back with fifty years of experience'.

Mark frowned slightly, clearly unconvinced but perhaps unwilling to call him out directly in front of the others. "Right. Videos." He paused. "So, uh, speaking of online stuff… I saw your reply on The Phreak Zone."

Kaizer's spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. He looked up, meeting Mark's gaze. "Oh yeah?" he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Yeah," Mark continued, lowering his voice slightly so the others at the table wouldn't necessarily overhear. "Funny coincidence, huh? A guy named GhostCue giving pool advice, right after you start getting into pool? And Northwood… just a wild guess, I guess." He offered a small, searching smile.

Kaizer felt his facade wobble. Mark wasn't letting it go entirely. He was circling back, testing the waters again. "Weird coincidence," Kaizer agreed, forcing a light chuckle. "World's full of 'em. Besides," he added, trying the deflection again, "GhostCue? Sounds way cooler than Kaizer Saint, doesn't it?"

Mark just looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. Then he sighed softly and shook his head, turning back to his textbook. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbled, effectively ending the conversation.

Kaizer felt a strange mix of relief and unease. Mark hadn't pushed further, hadn't directly accused him. But the suspicion was clearly still there, simmering beneath the surface. Their friendship, already strained by Kaizer's secrets and preoccupation, felt increasingly fragile. He'd managed to keep his secret, but at the cost of potentially alienating his only real friend in this timeline. Another regret in the making?

The rest of the school day passed uneventfully, but Kaizer's mind remained preoccupied with the forty-two dollars. Raking leaves wasn't cutting it. The BBS hadn't yielded anything. Mel's job tryout wasn't until tomorrow. He needed another angle, and he needed it now.

Walking home from the bus stop, racking his brain, an idea – half-formed, slightly absurd – began to surface. It stemmed from his father's world, the world of numbers, logic, and… taxes. His father, the accountant, was currently drowning in work, stressed about deadlines, muttering about disorganized clients. Kaizer, in his previous life, had picked up more than just pool skills; dealing with finances, managing winnings (and losses), even understanding basic accounting principles had been necessary for survival. He certainly understood organization and logic better than the average fifteen-year-old.

Could he… offer to help his dad? Organize receipts? Input data? Do some basic bookkeeping grunt work? His father would probably scoff at the idea initially, dismiss him as just a kid. But if Kaizer could demonstrate competence, maybe, just maybe, his father might be willing to pay him for the help, seeing it as productive work rather than funding a 'distraction'. It was a long shot, requiring him to navigate his father's stern demeanor and deep-seated skepticism. But it felt… legitimate. And potentially lucrative enough, if his dad valued the time saved.

It was a gamble, different from the ones played on felt, but a gamble nonetheless. Approaching his father, offering help in his domain, risking dismissal or suspicion… it felt almost as daunting as facing Vince. But desperation was a powerful motivator. He needed that cue. He needed the forty-two dollars. And appealing to his father's world might be the only legitimate avenue left that could yield results fast enough.

He reached his house, the plan solidifying. Tonight, after dinner, after his father inevitably settled back down with his piles of paperwork, Kaizer would make his pitch. He just hoped he could bluff his way through his father's scrutiny as effectively as he'd bluffed Vince.