What I Like About You
Page 13
Samira Lee
YES
5:36 PM
Elle Carter
YES
5:36 PM
Samira Lee
Kels? Join us this time?!
5:37 PM
Amy Chen
WE MISS YOU
5:40 PM
November 16
OMG just seeing this now—congratulations, elle!! that’s SO ridiculously amazing
8:36 AM
Elle Carter
Thanks, Kels.
8:39 AM
Elle Carter
Glad you’re still here with us! We were about to send out a search party.
8:40 PM
TWELVE
Fact: Bowling nights are stupidly competitive.
It’s kind of hilarious.
Like, I haven’t taken bowling this seriously since I was twelve and determined to beat Sinclair Daniels, the product of the douchiest producer Mom and Dad ever had the—ahem—privilege of working with. Us doc kids usually made our very limited social life at the bowling alley, because every town in this country has a bowling alley within a ten-mile radius. If my parents had a late night or a long weekend of interviews and filming, one of the assistants would corral all the kids into the minivan and take us to the nearest one.
Sinclair Daniels was the only brat to ever give me a run for my money.
Because, plot twist: I, Halle Levitt, am a bowling prodigy.
Okay, fine, prodigy is a strong word for what is probably the most useless talent on the planet. But I’m good. I can’t draw or run a mile without running out of breath, but I can consistently bowl over 200 like it’s my job.
It impressed Le Crew the night of my first bowling appearance.
Now, they’re just annoyed.
Because that’s the thing about bowling. It’s the type of game that everyone thinks they can win, with no actual skill.
When Nash and I arrive at the bowling alley, Autumn and Molly already have their shoes on. Sawyer is sitting on the floor, his feet in the butterfly position. He leans forward, his head barely touching his toes. Of course, Sawyer is stretching before the bowling begins.
“It’s a sport,” Sawyer had said the first time I witnessed his elaborate routine. “Gotta get limber.”
Do you, though?
“Hey!” Molly says, greeting us with a hug.
I’ve learned to lean in to Molly’s embrace instead of flinch away. Autumn waves from her seat on the bench in front of our lane. She’s hunched over the table, writing phrases on notecards and putting them in Sawyer’s upside-down Red Sox hat.
“Is it lyrics night already?” Nash asks.
Molly shakes her head.
“Shakespeare?” Autumn asks.
“Sports metaphors?”
See, Le Crew doesn’t just bowl. That would be too easy, after years of doing it weekly. No, to raise the stakes, there is a challenge string. During this string, there is a very particular set of rules that must be followed. If someone breaks said rules, the first person to shout penalty gets to throw a gutter ball on the rule-breaker’s behalf.
Like I said, stupidly competitive. But also, stupidly fun.
Last week, Molly filled our score screen in with the most ridiculous names, and we could only call each other by those names all night—I lost that round so bad. We’ve also practiced our Spanish skills, and I don’t know if Señor Carpenito would be proud of us or horrified.
I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as hard as I do bowling on crisp November Saturdays with Le Crew—and sometimes I wonder what challenge strings I’ve missed out on and why it took me so long to say yes.
Molly holds the Red Sox hat out to me.
“Pick one.”
I do.
Lefty, it reads.
“First round, you’re bowling lefty,” Molly says.
“Just me?” I ask.
“Just you,” Molly confirms.
Since when do the challenges not apply to everyone?
Molly bats her eyelashes at me, all innocent.
“Come on, it’ll be fun! You can stink like the rest of us.”
“Speak for yourself!” Sawyer says, now standing up and bent over in a forward fold.
“Find your breath, Sawyer,” Autumn says.
Sawyer flips her off.
She’s so competitive, Nash mouths to me.
I smile at him, but this weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. I shake out my hands and go over to pick up my ball, but I still can’t quite calm the bubbles building up in my throat. It’s all fun when everybody has stupid rules against them to hinder their game. And okay, I get it, they’re targeting me since I’m good. But if my winning streak is so detrimental to their good time, why am I even here?
Maybe I’m getting worked up over nothing. I’m not going to overthink it.
Holding the ball in my left hand makes everything feel off-balance. I know this isn’t going to go well, so I attempt to position myself to minimize the damage. Step back, three steps, except now my right foot is in front and it’s all wrong. I release without really meaning to, but the ball doesn’t curve off into the gutter like I expect it to. Five pins fall. That was … not terrible?
Molly’s face melts out of its confident smirk.
My second ball still feels awkward but knocks down four more pins.
Maybe I am a bowling prodigy.
“Damn, Levitt. You could’ve mentioned you’re ambidextrous,” Sawyer says, hand up for the high five. Then he leans in. “Please excuse my girlfriend,” he says, voice low.
I sit at the score screen seat and Nash slides next to me with a basket full of fries. I take one and dip it in ketchup. It’s a good fry—it has the perfect ratio of crunch and salt. It’d just be better dipped in honey mustard, but that’s a Kels-Nash argument.
“Nice work. Molly’s going to pop a blood vessel before the night’s over.”
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“SAT scores,” Nash mouths.
After we took the in-class practice SAT, Molly asked everyone their best scores from previous exams. At lunch. It was awkward for me, but everyone else is used to Molly’s grade nosiness, so they spilled their numbers without hesitation.
But October scores were emailed this morning. Molly took the SAT last month too—she’s extra like that. If she liked her number, she’d have been the first to share it.
“Did she tell you?” I ask.
Nash nods. “It’s not even bad. It’s just not Molly.”
“Damn.”
Nash’s box lights up on the score screen and he is off to bowl. “Uptown Funk” blasts through the Rock n’ Bowl speakers and Nash dances over to the balls like he’s Bruno Mars.
It’s adorable. He’s adorable.
Nash, a lefty, bowls the frame with his right hand. The first ball flies into another lane and knocks down four pins, to the absolute delight of a giggling toddler. The second ball is much less aggressive in execution and rolls down its proper aisle, but barely clips two pins off the left side.
“What are you doing?” Molly asks.
“Only Halle can bowl lefty, right?” Nash asks.
Molly rolls her eyes. “You are a lefty.”
“That was not specified.”
“I probably would’ve yelled penalty,” Sawyer admits.
“You can’t … I didn’t. That’s not the rule!”
Molly has the look on her face that I get when everything is Suddenly Too Much and it doesn’t matter that she’s been cold and competitive to me all night. I grab her hand, look to Autumn to grab the other, and we drag her across the alley and into the bathroom. Inside, I see Molly’s eyes are wet. Her perfect eyeliner is smudged at the edges.
“Breathe,” I say.
Molly exhales.
“I’m not going to college,” she says.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Autumn says.
“Well, I’m not going to Cornell,” Molly says.
“Screw yo
ur parents’ Ivy League expectations,” Autumn says, rubbing Molly’s back.
I hold Molly’s hand like Ollie would hold mine.
“Their faces,” Molly says. “The first thing Mom did when Shabbat ended was check my score, and when she saw it I couldn’t run away fast enough.”
“Molly,” I say, “you’re the actual definition of well-rounded. If Cornell doesn’t want you because of a number, NYU is definitely not going to want me for mine.”
Molly wipes her eyes. “You’re stressed about scores too?”
I nod. “I’ve been killing myself to improve my math score. It’s not happening.”
“Also, look at it this way. If you don’t get into Cornell, it’s because of something arbitrary. If I don’t get into USC, it’s because I straight-up suck at my dream career!” Autumn says, biting her lip.
Molly shakes her head at Autumn. “But that’s completely subjective!”
“Exactly,” Autumn says.
Molly pulls a paper towel from the dispenser and wipes her nose. “So what you’re saying is we’re all stressed about things we cannot control?”
“No. I’m saying we can control not being stressed about this!” Autumn says.
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” Molly says.
“Me either,” I say.
“Well, I say if Cornell or NYU doesn’t want you because of a number, screw them,” Autumn says.
“Screw them,” I repeat.
Molly squeezes my hand.
“Screw them,” she whispers.
* * *
I win again, but I throw two genuine gutter balls with my left hand.
“You did it for Molly,” Nash says as he drives me home.
Yeah, Nash drives me now. That’s a thing. It’s kind of the only option, if I want to socialize with Le Crew on the weekends. I don’t have a car and Gramps has rejoined his brotherhood friends for Saturday night card games. I’m so happy he’s going out and socializing that I don’t even care that I had to stop treating the Corolla like it’s mine.
“Did not. Bowling lefty is hard,” I say.
“If you say so. But thank you,” Nash says. He turns the radio down so the soft rock guitar hums in the background. “I love Moll, but sometimes it’s hard to empathize.”
“I’m stressed too,” I say. “I get it.”
“But at the end of the day, Molly is going to get into Cornell. If not, well, at least she knows she can still go wherever she wants. Molly is getting out of here, and …” Nash’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel.
“You’re not,” I say, finishing his sentence.
Nash nods. I suck in a breath and think about what words should come next. At first, I was nervous accepting rides from Nash—I almost said no. But I’ve been starting to like hanging out with Le Crew too much to continue to turn down bowling. The rides are usually a mash-up of stupid jokes and car karaoke, though. Not this.
“Why?” I ask.
Nash shrugs.
“Money. Paranoia. Fear. Hypochondria. All of the above. It changes daily. I swear, if my parents had it their way, I’d never leave the house. I get it, sometimes. But I’ll be lucky if I can convince my parents to let me live on campus at UConn. Molly is sobbing over Cornell and Autumn is lusting over USC and Sawyer has multiple offers from recruiters—and it’s hard not to hate them sometimes.”
“That sucks,” I say.
“A lot,” Nash says.
Rain ricochets off the windshield, beating down heavier than the quiet drizzle that has accompanied the first part of our drive home. I focus my eyes forward, watching the windshield wipers crank up in speed, trying to imagine what the hell will come out of Nash’s mouth next.
Online, Kels and Nash are going to New York. We’ve always acted like it was never even a question. But it’s so much more complicated than getting in or not. Especially if his parents are seriously not letting him leave Connecticut.
“Yesterday, my mom asked me what I thought about getting my degree online. She tried to argue the economics of it, but she’s so transparent. I nodded along and told her I’d consider it, but seriously? Just because Nick left home and died doesn’t mean I’m going to.”
Nick? Nash’s words don’t compute. Am I forgetting something? This seems like a major thing to forget. My brain runs through every story Nash has ever told Kels or Halle—until it hits me like a punch in the stomach.
Neither of us knows who Nick is.
And now Nash is driving too fast and it’s downpouring.
“Nash,” I say.
He’s never told Kels about anyone named Nick. He told me he’s an only child. Or maybe I assumed. I don’t know. I do know I’m the last person in the entire world who should be in this car with Nash right now. Where is Molly or Autumn or Sawyer or literally anybody else?
“Nash, slow down.”
We hit a giant puddle and the car hydroplanes. Headlights blind my vision, so I cover my face with my hands and scream. Nash regains control of the car and I’m suddenly having an out- of-body experience, because I’m literally screaming at him to pull over, to pull over right now. He pulls into the parking lot of the Middleton Public Library, the first place we met, of course.
Nash presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
He’s crying. Then I’m crying.
We’re a hot mess.
And I can’t help but think if we had just hydroplaned into a tree and this was the end, Nash would never know I’m, well, me.
“Nash,” I start.
“I don’t know why I said that,” Nash says.
“Nick?” I ask, thinking back to Rosh Hashanah and our moment on the swings. Nash saying, It sucks so bad, losing the people who are supposed to still be here.
My insides clench before Nash even speaks, and for the first time, I really hate that I haven’t told him I’m me. I’ve been collecting Nash stories that are mine, Halle’s. Things about him Kels never could know—the scar on his hand, his goofiness in front of a camera, his smirk whenever I say something that surprises him, his Bruno Mars dancing.
I don’t know if I’m ready for this story.
“My brother,” Nash says. “He was so excited that my parents were letting him go to soccer camp, right? He was twelve, finally old enough to attend a whole week of sleepovers and soccer with his friends. He couldn’t stop bragging about it. I was eight—too young to go. Also, I hate soccer.”
It takes every fiber of restraint in my body not to say, I know.
“He had a collision with another kid during a scrimmage. Bonked heads. Everyone thought he was fine. He was fine. Kids hit their heads all the time. Except it turns out Nick had a tiny bomb in his brain and that set it off. He never came home.”
I close my eyes. Breathe.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
Nash shrugs. “It’s just bad luck. But Mom and Dad—they blame themselves every day. There are zero symptoms of a sitting brain aneurism, but it doesn’t matter. They think they should’ve known. They shouldn’t have let him go. It’s bullshit, but they believe it and now I’m the only kid they’ve got left.”
“That’s not fair,” I say.
“The worst part, though? I barely remember him. Like, at all.”
“You were little,” I say.
Nash shrugs again. He leans back against the seat and closes his eyes. The rain isn’t letting up. If anything, it’s getting worse. “It’s what my comic’s about. REX? It helps me to process things, I guess. Figure out what memories are mine or stories I’ve been told. I don’t know.”
I can’t stop the tears that continue to stream down my cheeks. When Nash says it straight like that, it’s so obvious that REX is personal. I—I thought it was just art. Fiction. I’m an idiot. Art is never just art.
“It doesn’t get easier,” Nash says. “People will say it does. They’re wrong.”
I wipe my cheeks. “I know.”
I think if I’m going to tell Na
sh the truth, I’d better do it now. This is probably as close to the point of no return as it’s going to get. Maybe past it. He told me, Halle, about Nick. If I can’t tell him about a blog, if I can’t trust him after that, I don’t deserve him.
I reach for his hand resting over the gearshift and cover it with mine. He doesn’t flinch away and I can do this I can tell him. But then he looks at me with his bloodshot eyes and tearstained cheeks and it hits me all at once—I can’t. He just trusted me with something major, how can I tell him he didn’t know who he was telling it to?
It’d be selfish to overtake Nash’s emotional moment with my own drama.
Except, now I’m not sure what to say.
What would Kels say if the screen were between us? Why didn’t Nash tell her?
“I’m sorry,” Nash says. “That was so stupid—driving that fast.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’re okay.”
“I’m applying anyways,” he says. “To NYU. I need to know if I can get in.”
“You will,” I say.
It’s late, way past curfew, but we stay put until the rain quiets into a soft pitter-patter.
Nash turns the car back on. “Thank you. I don’t talk about Nick enough. But it felt okay, talking about him with you.”
“Grief is weird,” I say. “I get it.”
“I know,” Nash says.
Nash drives us home slow and silent.
November 21
Kels @OneTruePastry 3hr
Welcome to #ReadWithKels! This month, we’re rereading FIREFLIES & YOU by @AlannaLaForest because FILM
ANTICIPATION!!!
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Kels @OneTruePastry 3hr
If you’re reading along, introduce yourself! Name, favorite genre & link your blog if you have one! #ReadWithKels
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Kels @OneTruePastry 3hr
“Summertime is for Mama’s blueberry pies and fireflies” GIVE ME A MORE ICONIC FIRST LINE, I DARE YOU.
#ReadWithKels
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Kels @OneTruePastry 3hr
JONAH. Grateful every day that I now can picture him as Elijah Rhodes. A++ casting, imo #ReadWithKels
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Kels @OneTruePastry 3hr
Where is the Daisy to my Annalee? #friendshipgoals
#ReadWithKels