Out of the Pocket by Bill Konigsberg Page A

have to leave the playing area immediately once you’re out, following the neon exit signs,” she screamed.
    “Also a darn, sounds like a place where I could really settle down,” I responded.
    “When you’re shot, your pack will vibrate and go dead for a few seconds. During this time, you can’t shoot and no one can shoot you.
    So it’s a good idea to run! Fast!”
    I looked over at Carrie, who seemed very intent on all the information, a girl on a mission. “Okay, guys,” the girl said, at the peak of her manic enthusiasm. “Are you ready! Go go go!” She flung open the black door leading to the maze and shouted after us that we had two minutes to fi nd a place to hide.
    That’s basically what it is, I realized. Hide-and-go-seek for the over-six crowd.
    It was a three-story maze. I discovered this as I ran toward the other end of the maze, where I encountered first stairs leading up, and then stairs leading down. Seeing metal grating in the ceiling, I 92
    headed down, figuring it would be easier to not have to worry about being shot from a floor below. Blaring guitars seared into my brain as loud rock music pounded through the corridors, Kelly Clarkson screaming that she would never believe some guy, never again. My thought was to hunker down low, crouch, make myself small, and stay where I was. The more you moved, the more likely you were to get shot. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to fi gure that one out.
    After a few minutes I began to hear screaming and feet scampering above me. I looked up and watched people sprint across the floor above me, scampering legs and flashing laser packs. One kid stopped and stood still right above me. I watched as he carefully looked both ways and felt the same adrenaline I feel on the football fi eld.
    I quietly, precisely, raised my gun and shot his pack. Bull’s-eye.
    I watched from below as he looked around, no clue what hit him. He didn’t look down, but hurried off, in search of a target. All seemed quiet on my level. Of the ten or so of us, I wondered if I was the only one in the basement.
    Then I felt a buzzing around my midsection, and my first thought was that I’d put my cell phone on vibrate. Then I realized I’d been hit, and I looked around, but saw no one. My laser pack stopped shaking after a few seconds, the lights on it died, and when I picked up my gun and fired it, nothing happened. A few seconds later the pack lit up again as if someone had recharged the battery, but only for a second before I was once again shaking.
    “What the hell?” I said, and then I heard laughter, from above and behind me. I turned around and looked up and there was some kid, maybe twelve, with his gun pointed down at me through the grating.
    No way was he going to hit me again.
    I jumped up and moved positions, raised my gun, and was about 93
    to shoot him when once again I shook. Anger flooded through my veins, and I could feel my head pounding. I hated losing.
    The kid took off running when he saw me move toward him.
    It reminded me of my tenth birthday party. My parents rented out a gym and we played dodgeball, the sport I lived for at the time, all day. I was feeling invincible until my friends ganged up on me. They waited until I threw the last red ball on my side, and then I noticed that five of them, all on the other side of the middle line, were holding onto red balls and smirking at me. They all attacked at once, hurling the balls at me. The plastic orbs collided with each other and ricocheted into different parts of my body—one got me in the nose, one in the chest—and I fell under the impact of them. My so-called friends then crossed the center line, against the rules, gathered the balls, and proceeded to pummel me. My fists clenched with rage as I lay on the ground. My eyes welled up, my head pulsed and I screamed at them to stop. I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in, and didn’t come out for hours.
    So as I felt myself hit for the third time in less