by Laura Preble
“Hello,” he says in a deep, gently accented voice. When he speaks, it sort of vibrates all through me, like bass drums in a marching band at a parade. “I’m Anders Sorensen. Pleased to meet you.” He shakes Becca’s hand, then turns to me. I extend my hand, the one with the gold bowling ball wedged to it.
“Oh. Sorry.” I giggle in a disgusting girly way and try to dislodge the ball from my fingers, but apparently excessive lust has made them swell. “I guess I’m sort of, uh, stuck. Hi.” I give him my other hand. He laughs gently, presses the ball-less hand to his lips, and kisses it. I feel very dizzy. I guess the blood rushing to my head makes my fingers smaller, because the gold bowling ball suddenly falls off my hand and onto Anders’s gorgeous Norwegian foot.
Howling in pain, he dances on one foot like a great Viking flamingo. Running into the pin changer to hide is looking better and better.
“I’m so sorry.” I dive for the ball, which has rolled off on its own toward lane thirteen. I guess it’s embarrassed too.
“Here, Anders, sit down,” Elisa purrs, grabbing his arm and leading him to a chair next to hers. “You poor thing. Here, let me take off your shoe before your foot swells. Shelly, could you get some ice?”
“Shelby,” I mutter as I dash for the concession stand. Becca scampers after me.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you did that.” She is giggling uncontrollably. “That has got to be one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m glad my misfortune amuses you.” I ask the lady behind the counter for a bag of ice. She looks at me as if I just crawled out from behind the pin changer. I wish. “The universe hates me.”
Becca is still shaking with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. “Seriously, Shelby, that was so priceless.”
“Yeah, I get it.” I grab the baggie of ice and stomp back to the cubby. “Here you go.” I throw the ice at Elisa, who dodges it and mutters something indignant.
Tim and Brian have decided to team up with us, so Elisa has made the executive decision to start the game over. Anders is on the long plastic bench with his foot up, the ice bag draped over it. “How’s your foot?” Becca asks, barely able to keep from bursting out laughing all over again.
“It’s okay, I think.” Anders checks the swelling; the foot does look red and puffy. Fantastic. Now I’ve started an international incident. “I don’t think I’ll bowl, though.”
“Do they bowl in Norway, Anders?” Elisa oozes what she supposes to be charm. I wish I’d dropped the ball on her foot.
“Umm, yes. But we don’t usually throw the balls at other people.” Everybody busts up laughing. I shoot a look at Anders, who is staring straight at me with this absolutely heart-stopping twinkly smile and he winks—winks!—at me.
So we bowl, but all I can think about is that smile. I don’t even know if I hit any pins or not. We’re there for almost forty-five minutes, and I keep trying not to look at him, but my eyes are magnetically drawn in that direction. I try to pass it off like I’m looking at the clock or checking the front door, or monitoring how many people buy Slushies at the concession stand. But every time I look back, Anders is looking at me with that sexy smile. I feel him watching me, and it makes my tummy churn, not in a too-much-cotton-candy-and-nacho way, but in the could-this-be-love way.
While Elisa is bowling, Anders says, “Shelby, could I ask a favor?”
“Anything.” I stand up, hoping my legs don’t collapse.
“Come here.”
Walk, legs, walk. Please be team players. “Sure.” I walk over to him, conscious of every clunky move of every part of my body, which now feels like a Macy’s Thanksgiving parade float.
When I’m within a foot of him, I smell this clean soap scent mingled with sandalwood. I want to put him in a bottle and dab him behind my ears. It is all I can do not to dive into his cream-colored sweater and roll around like a puppy.
“I wonder, could you perhaps get some food for me?” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a wallet. “Something not too greasy. Also, I’m a vegetarian.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Shelby’s a vegetarian too,” Becca pipes up.
“Really?” Anders smiles at me again, his perfect white teeth lined up against his perfect lips. “Well, then you know what I want.” I check his eyes to see if that was a flirting line or if I’m just taking it wrong. His eyes, those ice-blue eyes, are crinkling at the edges as he teases me.
“I might be able to figure it out.” I boldly put my hand over his when he tries to take money out of the wallet. Zing! “But let me take care of it. My treat. It’s the least I can do since I crippled you. Drink?”
“Just water, thanks.” As I brush past him, he touches my arm lightly; I feel as if I’ve been shocked by a million-volt lightning bolt.
“I’ll help you,” Becca yells and scrambles up the steps after me. We quickstep to the concession stand. “Oh my God. He’s flirting with you, isn’t he?”
“I think so.”
“You’re all red!” She turns me so she can look at my face, then puts her hand to my forehead. “I think you have a fever!”
I shake her hand off as the counter person comes over. “No I don’t. Oh, hi, could I have a medium veggie pizza and two bottles of water, please?”
“Pizza? You can’t eat pizza in front of him.”
“Why not?”
“It’s messy, first of all. Second of all, it’s full of cheese. You’ll start farting.”
“Thanks for that helpful dating tip. Let me write that down: ‘Don’t fart in front of cute guy.’ I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
She ignores me. “Seriously. He is absolutely amazing, Shelby. And he definitely has the hots for you. Elisa is so jealous!”
“Can I help it if the Norwegian people have good taste?” I look over toward our bowling area, and Anders is watching me over the edge of the plastic bench. “Oh God. He’s staring at me.”
“Yeah. He’s been doing that since you dropped the ball on his foot. What a cute story to tell your kids.”
I slap her arm. “Shut up!”
“Do you think he’ll ask you out?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in Norway they do things differently. Maybe there’s some mating ritual that involves whale blubber and icicles.” He’s still watching me. I am terrified to walk back there. Knowing me, I’ll fall face first into the pizza and burn my features beyond all recognition. I’m not sure my dating life can recover from that.
“Here’s your pizza and water,” the clerk says. “Ten ninety-eight. Napkins and utensils on the cart over there.” I pay her and grab the cardboard box.
“Could you get napkins and grab the water?” I ask Becca. She does, and I make my way back toward Anders, hoping against hope that I don’t look too much like a drunk baboon as I walk.
“Here we go,” I say, gracefully lowering myself to the bench next to him. I put the box between us as Becca hands him a bottle of water and a stack of napkins. “Hope you like pizza.”
“Do they have pizza in Norway, Anders?” Elisa is still desperately trying, but I think she senses it’s pointless.
“Oh, yes.” He turns toward me, edging his foot off the bench and onto the floor. He flexes it. Even his foot looks sexy. “I think I’m going to walk again.”
“That’s great. So you’re not going to sue me?” I use a little plastic knife to cut the pizza into slices.
“I do think I’ll need some kind of compensation,” he says in a very quiet voice that only I am meant to hear. “And just so I can be sure you’re not some government agent trying to poison me, I think you should take the first bite. Here.”
He picks up a goopy piece of pizza and aims the pointy end toward my mouth. Our eyes lock, and as I take the first bite, I wonder if any pizza has ever tasted this good.
We finally end the bowling after another forty-five minutes. I’ve come in last, but I couldn’t care less. “Okay, well, I’d better call my dad,” I say. �
�He’s picking us up. You all have a ride, I guess?”
“Yeah, my brother’s in the parking lot waiting,” Tim says as he takes a last swig from his soda cup.
“He just sat there the whole time?” Elisa asks. “Why didn’t he come in?”
“He didn’t want to be bored,” Tim answers, then shrugs. “His friend Fletcher is out there too. I think they’re playing PlayStation. That’s pretty much all they do, except football.”
I walk up the stairs again so I can get cell reception. “Dad? Hey. We’re ready to go. Can you come get us?”
“Sure, honey.” I hear a woman’s voice giggling in the background.
“Where are you?” The Conversation suddenly slams back into my head.
“Finishing dinner. We’re—I’m finished, though. Just waiting for you to call.”
“Who’s with you?”
“What?”
“Dad, who are you having dinner with?” I can hear the anger edging my voice.
There is an awkward pause, and then Dad says, “Listen, honey, I can’t hear you very well, you’re breaking up. I’ll be there in about ten minutes, okay? Meet you outside.” The call cuts off.
I stomp back to the group; the glow of meeting Anders has evaporated like mist in strong sun. My heart is beating so hard I’m afraid it might break through my ribs, and Anders is studying my face, trying to figure out if he has done something wrong, I suppose.
“Is everything okay?” Becca asks gently.
“Sure. He’ll be here in about ten minutes.” I angrily throw my stuff into my purse, grab my street shoes, and yank the laces of the bowling shoes apart.
Tim and Brian say good-bye and help Anders stand up. “I think it’s fine,” he says, testing the swollen foot. It supports his weight, but still looks puffy. To Tim and Brian, he says, “Could you guys meet me at the car? I’ll be right out.”
“Sure,” Tim says. “Think you can walk?”
“I’ll make Shelby help me if I can’t.” He smiles at me again.
“Elisa, come on. Let’s return the bowling shoes.” Becca grabs Elisa’s arm and pulls her from her chair as she protests.
“So. You had a bad phone call, or just realized you don’t really like blonds?” He leans on the bench for support.
“No.” I stare at the floor, willing tears to stay put. The last thing I need is for this guy to see me as an emotional basket case. Even if I am one, I don’t want him to know it. “It’s my dad. We . . . he’s just doing some stuff that I don’t like.”
Anders nods, but says nothing. “Come here.” He puts his arms out and folds me into his cream-colored sweater. Something that must be pure joy rushes through my veins and zooms from my head to my toes like a high-speed roller coaster, makes my eyeballs burn, and makes my legs all rubbery. I am swimming in the cloud of sandalwood-soap smell, stronger now that my head is resting so perfectly against his neck. He’s the absolute perfect height for slow dancing too. I lean into him, let him support me even though he’s the one with the injured foot.
He breaks the hug, puts his hands on my shoulders, then looks deeply into my eyes. “I’d like to see you again. What do you think?”
“I think so.” I can’t help but smile, even after the weird conversation with my dad. It’s like Anders is a feel-good drug and when I’m around him, all the bad things sort of fade.
“Good. Can I call you?”
“Oh. Yeah, that’d be great.” I rummage in my purse for paper and pen, then scribble my numbers on it for him. “If you hear kind of a weird mechanical voice answer the phone, don’t get freaked out. It’s my robot.”
“Your robot?” He searches my face to see if I’m teasing him.
“Seriously. My dad’s a scientist. He builds stuff like that. I just want to warn you ahead of time.”
“I think science is fascinating. Do you like science fiction movies?”
I feel a glow burning in my tummy again.
We walk outside, and Tim’s brother has already pulled his old Cutlass up to the curb and it’s rattling so loud I think it might break the chrome-glass bowling-alley doors. It’s dark now, so the car is lit from within by the glow of video games and the yellowish streetlights. The friend of the brother is leaning out of the front seat window. “Hey,” he calls to me. “Be careful of this guy. He’s a player, you know.”
Anders grimaces and climbs into the backseat next to Tim and Brian. The kid in the front seat keeps needling him by talking to me. “Did he tell you about his recent adventure with the Norwegian naked volleyball team? I’m just saying, make sure you have all your shots.”
I blush violently and give this kid, a red-haired guy who looks older than us, a dirty look. “I’m sure if you had a date, she’d need shots too,” I say lamely.
“Ooo. Feisty. I like that. I’m Fletcher, by the way.”
“Not so nice to meet you,” I reply to the jerk. The guy grins at me, a lopsided, slightly off-center smile that’s kind of cute, but maddening since he’s being such a jerk. Jerks shouldn’t have nice smiles. I turn my attention to the backseat, and our eyes meet. I feel that golden glow of pure yumminess melt down through my legs and into my toes, totally eliminating any jerk residue. Anders waves to me as the Cutlass rattles away, trailing clouds of loud metal music.
“So?” Becca squeals. “What happened?”
“Yes. Do tell us,” Elisa says dryly.
“He wants to go out.” I still feel doped. “I gave him my number.”
“Wow!” Becca jumps up and down. “That is so cool! He is so gorgeous. Is he as nice to talk to? What happened in there?”
“He saw I was upset after talking to my dad, so he asked me why, and I didn’t tell him, and then he hugged me.”
Both girls squeal. “He hugged you?”
Becca asks, “Is he a good hugger?”
How to describe it? “It was like being sucked up into a cloud in heaven and then being petted by an angel who smells like soap.”
“Oh,” they both sigh.
“Can you guys give me a ride home?” Elisa asks, breaking the mood.
“I guess.” I see my dad pulling into the parking lot. “Here he is now. Don’t say anything, you promise?”
“No way,” Becca says. Elisa stays silent. “Elisa?”
“Oh, all right. Don’t you talk to your dad about dating?”
“Do you?” I ask as he pulls the Volvo up to the curb.
“If I were dating somebody like Anders, I’d tell everybody I see!” Elisa yanks open the car door. “Hey, Mr. Chapelle. Elisa Crunch. Mind giving me a ride home?”
Becca rolls her eyes and climbs into the backseat next to her.
“Did you girls have a good time?” Dad asks cheerfully.
“We sure did,” Elisa chirps as she snaps her seat belt into place. “Bowling is a lot of fun.”
Becca interrupts, I guess to cut Elisa off in case she decides to rat me out to my dad. “Are you a bowler, Mr. Chapelle?”
“Not so much,” he answers, steering the car smoothly out of the lot. “I used to golf when I was younger, but it’s a damn boring game. Not quick enough. I have the same problem with bowling too. It’s too slow.”
“Sometimes it’s pretty fast,” Elisa mutters under her breath. Becca jabs her sharply with an elbow. “Ow.”
“Want to work on the video?” Becca asks.
“Oh, can I help?” Elisa pipes up.
“What video?” Dad asks.
“We’re shooting a promotional video for our club,” Becca explains. “It’s going to revolutionize high school society.”
“Oh, nothing too ambitious, then,” Dad turns to look at me. “Shelby, are you feeling okay? You look sort of feverish.”
The two girls both giggle. So do I, I can’t help it. “No, Dad, I’m fine.”
“It was just kind of warm in the bowling alley,” Elisa says teasingly.
“Really? I remember those places as being like meat lockers. Maybe they’re cutting back on the air condi
tioning for cost purposes.” He keeps his eyes on the road, but once we get to a stoplight, he focuses on me again. “So, it’s just the climate, huh? Nothing wrong?”
“Nope.” Right now, I decide, I don’t want to talk about my dad dating at all. I am going to pretend I know nothing about it. Instead, I am going to think over and over again about that beautiful sweatery hug, and about how Anders smelled, and about how he asked for my phone number and fed me pizza and likes me even if I did drop a bowling ball on his foot.
8
PLAYING TELEPHONE (or Love Between the Lines)
We finish filming our promotional video over the weekend; although I try not to, I keep jumping every time the phone rings, hoping it’s Anders.
Dad is gone most of the time, and in the back of my mind I keep remembering what Becca said: that he’s dating. Sunday night I’m alone, and I curl up on the big couch with The Day the Earth Stood Still. If you’ve never seen it, it’s about a space-man who comes to earth to have a friendly conversation, but instead the military practically disintegrates him. He has this robot, Gort, who looks like a guy wrapped tightly in tinfoil (with the dull side up). Gort never speaks, but he does walk around looking menacing. Euphoria actually watches this film with me; I think she has the hots for Gort.
“So you don’t have any idea where Dad is?” I ask Euphoria for, like, the tenth time. I glance at the digital readout on the stereo: eight-thirty p.m. “Isn’t it kind of late for him to be out?”
“Well, he is over twenty-one,” she answers. “I wouldn’t worry about him.”
“That’s easy for you to say. He’s not your father. Of course, you don’t have a father, so that makes it even less likely that any of this would bother you anyway.”
“Any of what?” She whirs and blinks wildly. “Oh, wait a minute. I love this part.” Gort has stalked out of the spaceship in all his Reynolds Wrap glory, and his face visor is flickering with some obscure message that only Euphoria could find exciting. “What a great actor,” she sighs.
The front door opens and closes quietly. I am struck by the oddity of the situation: My father is trying to sneak into the house without me noticing. As a teenager, isn’t that my job? I pause the movie. “Hi, Dad.”
