Cure for the Common Universe Read Free Page A

through the window,” I said, my voice wavering, “and I’ll decide if I’m going to get out or drive away.”
    My dad signaled to the tanks, who stepped in front of and behind the Xterra, blocking me in. I pressed into my seat.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Tell me through the window, and I’ll decide if I’m going to commit vehicular manslaughter.”
    â€œYou’re going to rehab,” my dad said.
    â€œI’m what ?”
    â€œYou’re going to re—”
    â€œI heard what you said.” I rolled down the passenger window, just a crack so that my dad’s hand couldn’t get through. “What am I supposedly addicted to?”
    â€œVideo games.”
    I was too stunned to speak for a second.
    â€œVideo game rehab? That can’t be a real thing.”
    â€œIt’s real,” my dad said in his maddeningly calm voice. “And you’re going.”
    I gripped the steering wheel and tried to gather my thoughts.
    Did I play a lot of video games? Yes. Did I love them and believe they were the fastest-growing medium that was quickly approaching a golden age that would transform the world for the better forever? Yes.
    Was I addicted to them?
    No. No, I was not.
    â€œYou can’t be addicted to video games,” I said. “It’s a compulsion .”
    Casey came out of the garage holding two handfuls of wires. Even in the heat of the sun, my skin ran cold. The wires were from my computer. My window to adventure . . . to my friends. Casey was dismantling it.
    She dumped the wires into her Jetta’s open trunk, next to my monitor. Then she finally looked at me. “We’re selling your computer and buying a treadmill,” she called.
    â€œCan you hold off on that for a minute, sweetie?” my dad said.
    She made a show of brushing her hands clean and went and leaned against the porch. At least she’d stopped marching in place.
    â€œAn addiction is a compulsion,” my dad said.
    â€œNo,” I said, trying to keep the tremors from my voice. “It isn’t.” My dad and I had had the video game argument dozens of times. I’d done my research. “You stop doing a compulsion if something good comes into your life.” I thought of Serena’s laugh. “With an addiction, you can’t stop, no matter how much you want to. Like alcohol.” I looked atCasey and yelled, “Or organic cottage cheese!”
    She glared. My dad ignored that comment.
    â€œI’ve been timing how long you spend in that room of yours. Every time I hear things start to blow up and die—”
    â€œI don’t just play violent video games,” I interrupted.
    â€œYou know what I mean,” my dad said. “Every time your stepmother or I hear anything that sounds like a game, we start a timer. You have clocked—” He took a little piece of graph paper out of his back pocket. “You’ve clocked more than two hundred and fifty hours in the last month alone. That’s more than a full-time job.”
    I tried to hide my own shock at that number and attempted another approach.
    â€œDad.” I looked him dead in the eye. “I can’t go to rehab right now.”
    â€œYou absolutely can and will.”
    â€œYou don’t understand. I just met a girl.”
    My dad narrowed his eyes. “Where?”
    â€œAt the car wash,” I said. “That’s why the Xterra’s still dirty. I used the money to clean her bike.”
    He glanced at the spotty back end of the Xterra, then back at me. “What’s her name?”
    â€œSerena. She had a Schwinn. Purple.”
    The Mountain didn’t budge. “Show me her number on your phone.”
    Shit. Why did my new girlfriend have to be a Luddite?
    My hands didn’t leave the steering wheel.
    â€œFacebook?” my dad said.
    I shook my head, and he gave a smile that seemed a touch more satisfied than