The young lady in the beanie leans against an out of order frog game while looking on at the crowd around a dance machine on the main floor. Two men between their forties and fifties are currently going their third round on expert mode. Whatever the music they chose will forever be a mystery, as the crowd cheers the combatants louder.

“MAD FLASH MITCHELL!” Half the crowd roars.

“KEVIN, KEVIN!” The other half responds in succession.

The atmosphere is consumed by the competitive steps. The floor pad lights flash the ceiling like lightning cracks with every ostentatious stomp. Mad Flash Mitchell is a stocky gentleman, sporting tank top commemorating a lobster roll eating contest from 2011. He squeezes the back bars while his shockingly wiry legs finesse the track pad at high speed. Scoring AMAZING and PERFECTION every second, yet his eyes are locked on the dancer to the left, piercing Kevin with a glare only intensified with time.

Kevin’s middle-aged hands sail the air as his flip flops maneuver the pad with expert dexterity. Each foot on the arrow tapping twice as his heel pins his loose sandals. Kevin re-parts his brown hair, his graying strands absorbing the colorful lights from the screen.

“I get it,” Kevin responds to Mitchell’s gaze. “You know the song.”

With one spin and closed lids, Perfection appears on the screen in a cluster of five.

“SO DO I!” Kevin exclaims with pure bravado and a pitch thought unfitting for a man in a short leave button up, decorated with tiny sailboats. His eyes remain closed as every confident step racks up the scoreboard.

Skull Cap sees her friend chanting for team Kevin, hopping so fast that her ponytail cracks like a whip. She approaches the crowd, lips tightening as the crowd pummels her headache.

“Back,” she shouts two feet from her friend.

“Hey-ya,” the friend returns, still glued with the crowd as the drowned song’s bridge ends. “How’d it go?”

“Two friendly wins,” Skull Cap replies, squinting through the crowd. “And I lost a quarter in a stakes match against some smug jackanapes.”

“What’s a jackanape?”

“I don’t know, but I need to borrow a quarter to take him again.”

“No!” The girl puts distance between the two of them in one defensive leap and clamping her faux leather purse. “I’m using these to challenge Kevin! You had two wins Ruth, just call it a night!”

“Those friendly matches were crooked!” Ruth snaps, massaging her tense forehead. “The first lady was near sixty and goofing off, and the next guy turned out to be Alec Tillman’s brother.”

“Oh, gross.”

“Yeah,” Ruth agrees with a grimace. “The whole time he was asking for my socials. I need a real win, Shelly. Please!”

Though frustrated, Ruth's desperation casted a clear shadow. There’s more to this re-match than pride, but Shelly’s attention is stolen by the uproar of applause.

“Wait,” Shelly screams in a panic, somehow shoving her diminutive frame through the masses. “WHO WON?”

Standing alone, Ruth presses the inside of her bottom lip with her tongue to nurse her tension while waiting for the wild mob to lessen in numbers. One or two around her begin to scatter, oddly holding their noses.

“Excuse me,” a voice approaches Ruth from behind. She turns to find the boy who waited his turn while she faced The Wall. His face glistening from sweat, both shirt and shorts at least fifteen pounds heavier from the excess water weight. The stench from Riley’s pores finally hits Ruth and she immediately recoils.

“No,” she musters while sewing her hands to her nose and mouth. “Oh god, no. Dude, you smell like a soup exclusively made with onions.”

“I'm sorry,” Riley passively takes the jab. “But I was coming over here, and I know I don’t- or you don’t know me, but I-”

“No again.” Ruth states bluntly. Still defensive after her match with the persistent Tillman brother.

“No to what?” Riley asks as he holds up a quarter, washed and scrubbed shiny by perspiration. Ruth’s eyes twinkle while her nostrils drop their guard. “I’m not challenging you. I saw your last match and I’m going home in a bit. You can have it if you want.”

Ruth pauses for a moment, contemplating potential layers to his kindness; but mostly wanting to preserve dignity. Her open palm elevates to Riley’s, sizing up his woolly gray look.

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“Cool,” Riley drops the quarter into Ruth’s paranoid grip, flashing a tight lip grin as a show of good faith. “Well anyway, see you I gue-”

“YOU WANNA SAY THAT OUT LOUD?” Mad Flash Mitchell’s holler sweeps the nearby area, stunning the two in an inch high hop.

“YOU ALMOST HAD ME TRYING,” Kevin condescendingly fires back with halfhearted rhythm. “GET GOOD BEFORE YOU STYLE!”

“Sounds like it’s getting stupid over there,” Ruth says. “Where is Shelly?”

Riley's phone struggles to vibrate in his damp pocket and wriggles his hand to answer. Ruth walks away to find Shelly two rows of onlookers ahead, crouching only a few feet away from the middle-aged meltdown taking place. The two men now stand only a hair apart, venomously peering into each other’s souls.

“I saw you get two Okays, you adequate joker!” Mitchell hisses theatrically. “None for me!”

“That may be well and true, Mitchell,” Kevin breaks from their standoff, turning his back as Mad Flash’s fans jeer. Ruth and Shelly can see his impossibly plain face smirk, and with a quick turnaround, Kevin plunges his pointer finger to the screen, presenting his score of 9,037,119. “Did seeing those Okays put you at ease a little? Then you took the bait.”

“The bait?” Mitchell blurts in a cross between a gasp and a scoff. “STOP LYING!”

“You teach math,” Kevin tackles back. “Add 300 to your score, and you’d have mine. You didn’t think I could turn it around. I got in your head Mitch!”

Kevin presses a finger to his temple and makes a screwing motion, the crowd melting into a pot of wails and dry heaves.

“NEW SONG,” Mitchell spits. “NOW!”

“Kevin,” a shaky voice calls from below the men’s stage. Riley stands alone on his portion of the floor as his putrid barrier of body odor cleared his path to the front of the crowd. “Mom texted me; she says she’s ordering Pad Thai in half an hour. What do you want?”

“Riley,” Kevin’s demeanor shifts in an instant upon seeing his clammy stepson. His cavalier grin warps into a smile. A smile decompressed and full of regard. Mitch vanishes from his field of vision and take steps off the pad. “My goodness, you smell like a punishment.”

Braver than the rest of the crowd, Kevin steps closer, gripping Riley's spongy shoulders. “Did you win?”

Riley nods, and the celebratory lights from the dance machine blinks, shimmering off a proud tear rolling off Kevin's right lid.

“Tell your mother to add two orders of crispy duck noodles!”

“No way,” Riley gasps, frantically unlocking his phone. “That's like eighteen dollars each!”

“And spicy!” Kevin adds, pointing a finger gun at his stupefied step kid. “Text your mom that I'll pay her back in gas money.”

As the two gush over crunchy skin and Bok choy, Ruth is left perplexed, Shelly impatient, and Mitchell ignored. Only now did Ruth realize Riley's offering was a return. This gaunt, russet mop with legs and a target on his forehead beat that big braggart?

“Hey!” Mitchell leaps from his trackpad. “We were rivaling over here!”

“And my wife is getting Pad Thai,” Kevin snaps back, raising a finger. “We'll dance again before August. Don't you worry.”

Mad Flash's grimace subsides at the mention of August, and his shoulders drop.

“By the way,” he says. “Did you ever find your missing grade book?”

“Oh yeah,” Kevin perks up. “It fell in with Courtney's books.”

“That'll happen," Mitch nods considerately, and the two share a chuckle while Riley sends his mother the order. Meanwhile, Ruth and Shelly inch closer and closer to the group, both with their own agendas.

“Kevin!” Shelly's voice shrills, darting to the two with quarters in hand. “My name is Shelly Doyle, and I’m here to challenge you to a-”

“Michelle Doyle?” Kevin asks. He and Mitch cock their heads in the same direction, thinking in tandem to the familiarity. “Wait, I think I have you in my class this year!”

In an instant, Shelly’s blood ran below zero. The sudden realization sends flocks of goosebumps up her spine, freezing her brain and speech. Her dream of challenging the legendary Track Master, Kevin Saylor, undercut by the realization that she just charged and yelled at her soon to be ninth grade English teacher in an arcade at four o’clock in the afternoon. Meanwhile, Ruth’s curiosity gifted her with enough constitution to approach the quiet human gym sock.

“So that guy who beat me,” she catches Riley’s attention. He looks back at the girl for only a moment before timidly lines his sight to the skull on her beanie. As if prolonged eye contact would evoke hostility, like a cat. “You won against him?”

“Yeah?” he hesitantly answers her hat. “That’s why I gave you back the-”

“I got that.” Ruth interrupts him, “but what was the score?”

In a quick flick, Riley makes proper eye contact again, immediately intimidated by the girl's green eyes narrowing on his very being. He could feel something coming, but it’s a fifteen-minute drive back home, and he had already burned buckets of calories. Any minute later and his crispy duck might get home before him!

All of a sudden, Shelly rushes fearfully at the inquiring girl, gripping a handful of her big sleeveless t-shirt. “Ruth, we need to go. I can’t, I feel stupid. I need to recover.”

Riley takes his opportunity and connects with Kevin as he waves Mitch goodbye. Quietly he pulls his stepfather from the scene, leaving Ruth resisting her flustered friend. She squints with intent at the kid while he skitters up the stairs with his head down.

“Did anybody here see a smelly kid in a headband?” A nearby voice calls out to the area. “Did he leave?”

Ruth’s head snaps to the man from her left.

“Why?”

“The guy played my buddy and won by five! I got three quarters and wanna take him!”

By five? Ruth thought. Her stomach begins knotting into a monkey fist. Is he gonna compete in the tournament too?