by Holly Bourne
“Well, you would be in all the sports teams, wouldn’t you? Rugby, football, cricket. Male chauvinism 101? You’d gallivant around the city en masse, boasting about having chlamydia and playing ‘hilarious’ drinking games with dares. I’d have to pretend I didn’t know you.”
Frank bristled. “Oh yeah? Well, you’d probably spend all your time watching obscure bands playing gross venues, hanging out in coffee chains arguing about communism, and organizing student protests. And I’d have to pretend I didn’t know you either.”
“See. I told you we wouldn’t be friends at uni.”
“Are we even friends now?”
“God, I hope not.”
“Me too.”
And we both laughed.
Frank began colouring in the squares of the newspaper crossword with a smeary biro. “What about your fella? What will Mr. Rock Star be doing while you further your mind?”
Noah.
Uni.
It was something that had briefly crossed my mind but I’d shoved it out of my brain violently and immediately. The thought was just too painful.
“We’ll work something out.” I couldn’t meet Frank’s eye.
His voice was sarcastic. “Yeah, because so many couples stay together when one of them starts uni.”
His words stung like ice picks. Remembering what had happened in Dr. Ashley’s office, I tried not to let the panic rise up in my throat.
“Well, it’s not for some time yet,” I replied, breathing deeply.
“It’s only a year away. Think how fast a year goes.”
I swung to face him. “Seriously, Frank, quit it! What’s wrong with you? You jealous? Is that it? Or do you just hate seeing people happy? Well, shut up. I don’t care. And I don’t want to talk about uni, okay?”
Frank’s face went through a number of emotions pretty quickly. He opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. His cheeks went red and he looked down at his paper.
An agonizingly long silence passed while I thought it through. Had this awkwardness with Frank begun when Noah and I began? Was he jealous?
I shook my head.
No. That was impossible.
The train pulled into the station. Passengers began to stand up, fellow students included, and started pulling their bags down from overhead.
“Is it over then?” I asked.
“Is what over?”
“Your male equivalent of PMS.”
“Me? PMS? You’re the one that yelled at me.”
“Yeah, well, you were being a dickhead.”
“Maybe I was.”
“No apology.”
He sashayed his hand out like I was the queen. “I’m very sorry, Poppy Lawson,” he said. “I’m sure you and Mr. Emo are soulmates and will be together for ever.”
His words hit something in me and I got a sudden horrid feeling in my stomach that something was wrong.
“Does your silence mean my apology has been rejected?” Frank was giving me a quizzical look.
I shook my head. “Umm…no…it’s fine. I forgive you.”
“Poppy, are you okay?”
No. Something terrible is going to happen.
“I’m fine.” I grabbed my bag and prepared to get off the train. “You coming?”
Frank stood up and stretched. His rugby shirt rose slightly, showing just the lowest part of his midriff. He caught me looking, and rather than joke about me perving, he just blushed and pulled his shirt down.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m coming.”
“He fancies you,” Noah announced, swinging his hand in mine as he walked.
“It’s not like that. I’m not his type.”
“Poppy.” He steered me left. “You’re most guys’ type. Beautiful, smart, funny. What’s not to like?”
I blushed. “You don’t understand. We’re just friends.”
“For you, maybe.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Well, I think he fancies you.”
“Well, I don’t think you’re being very supportive of my problem.”
“How can I be? You’re basically telling me another guy fancies you.”
“HE DOESN’T FANCY ME!”
A passing jogger looked at us in shock and Noah burst out laughing.
“Okay. Calm down, gorgeous.”
“How can I be calm? You won’t take my side AND you’re making me go bowling.”
Something peculiar had happened after the ballet and it was beginning to piss me off. When Noah and I did manage to see each other between rehearsals, he kept picking the unsexiest dates you could think of. They were always in the daytime. We were never alone. First there was the pancake house, then we went shopping, then for coffee, and now we were frickin’ bowling.
“Seriously, Noah, no one bowls any more,” I told him, as we walked up to Middletown’s bowling alley.
“Then why are there bowling alleys?”
“To personally torture me with.”
Noah stuck out his tongue. “It might be fun.”
“Nothing involving shoes that ugly can be considered fun.”
He grabbed my arm, pulled me inside and paid for two games.
We handed over our shoes to the grumpiest woman in the history of the world, who swapped my red ballet pumps for sweaty clown shoes.
“Isn’t one game enough torture?” I hissed to him, slipping my foot in. “Eww! These are still warm.”
Noah only laughed. “You look sexy in them.”
“Shut up.”
But, putting the ugly shoes to one side, I cheered up considerably the moment I bowled a strike on my first go.
“Woohoo!” I screeched, jumping up in the air in celebration. “Did you see that? I’m officially amazing.”
Noah nodded in appreciation. “Lucky shot.”
“Not lucky. Skilful.”
After picking his ball, Noah stood for a while, practising his swing, before taking a run-up and releasing it down the aisle. It took an unpromising angle, before veering off and thumping into the gutter.
I was gleeful.
“You suck!” I covered my mouth with my hands to make a loudspeaker. “Gutter ball.”
“I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security.”
“Yeah, right.”
He picked up another ball, practised again, swung and released. This time the ball careered down the aisle quite aggressively but deviated from course, knocking down only one measly pin.
“Hmmm,” I said. “I believe you. Millions wouldn’t.”
This time Noah didn’t smile. He only grimaced.
“I actually quite like bowling,” I said, a smug grin on my face. I gave Noah a quick kiss on the lips and got a bowling ball. I lined up and rolled it down. It knocked over nine pins and I let out a little whoop. “I really like bowling. Isn’t this fun?”
Noah grimaced harder.
One game later (I won, of course) and Noah and I were ready to abandon the traditional approach to bowling.
“I can’t believe you got told off by the shoe lady for heckling me so badly.”
I giggled. “I can’t believe she threatened to chuck us out.”
“You were getting quite abusive.”
“I got excited by winning. I didn’t mean to offend that random man. He must’ve thought I was heckling him as well.”
“Well, do you think you can control yourself enough to play another game?”
We sat together, my head on his shoulder. The place was pretty grimy. There were unexplained stains all over the carpet, groups of tweenagers wearing belly-tops were either flirting or fighting with each other, and Justin Bieber had played on the overhead TV at least three times since we’d arrived. But, despite all that, it still felt like the most romantic place in the world. Whenever I was with Noah it was like someone had rubbed a massive dollop of Vaseline over my peripheral vision, creating this hazy, perfect world.
“I think I can contain myself,” I said, thinking it through. “I’ve got an idea though, o
n how to revamp the game.”
Noah stopped stroking my hair. “I’m excited.”
“Did you ever read horoscopes when you were younger?”
“Funnily enough, no, I didn’t. I’m a bloke, remember?”
“You don’t even know what star sign you are?”
“Oh. I know that. Virgo.”
I turned to face him, our noses touching. “Well, how do you feel about Cosmic Bowling?”
His gorgeous grin appeared. “Tell me more.”
“Well, I’m obviously too easily excited to bowl the usual way and have to behave, otherwise Moodypants is going to kill us. But how about we switch the meaning behind our scores?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well, we’ll ask the bowling ball questions about our lives. Cosmic questions, like a Magic 8 Ball. And when we bowl, depending on what score we get, it will reveal our future.”
Noah stood up. “I like it.”
“You’re up first.”
“Okay.”
He picked up his favourite blue ball. “What question should I ask it?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Hmm. How about, is my band going to end up bigger than Ponyboys?”
“Good one.”
He was about to bowl but I stopped him. “Wait!”
He turned around, his ball in mid-swing. “What is it?”
“You have to give conditions to the bowling ball first, so it knows which cosmic path to take you on.”
Noah smiled again. “Of course.”
“So,” I continued, “if you bowl a strike, it means your band is going to destroy Ponyboys. Your first album will go multi-platinum, you’ll win every NME award going and end up selling out Wembley stadium.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Yeah. But if you only get a half-strike, you’ll only do okay. You’ll get a record deal and earn enough to be a musician for a living, yet you’ll remain obscure and spend your life touring student unions.”
Noah nodded. “That still sounds pretty good. What if I don’t get any kind of strike?”
I shrugged.
“Well, besides being a terrible bowler, your band will never make it. You’ll end up still trying to ‘break in’ in your thirties, playing gigs in bad venues with empty dance floors. You’ll end up doing an office job so awful that you spend half your time crying in the toilet cubicles over how you’re wasting your talent.”
Noah spun the bowling ball in his hands. “I’m feeling the pressure now,” he said. “I’m scared of Cosmic Bowling.”
“Aww, you wimp. Just bowl.”
Noah really concentrated on his swing this time. He flung his arm back, bent forward, and released the ball. It smashed its way down the aisle, obliterating the pins.
He jumped into the air. “Woohoo! Wembley, here I come!”
He picked me up, swung me round, and planted a dizzying kiss on my mouth.
“You happy?”
“Happy? I’m playing Wembley! The bowling ball said so!”
“Well done. I’m glad for you.”
“Right. Now your turn.”
We found out quite a lot about our future in the following half-hour. I was going to pass all my A levels, but still only end up at my second-choice university. Noah discovered he would end up obese (gutter ball). I was going to beat Ruth in our who-ends-up-with-the-better-life competition. And Cosmic Bowling also revealed I would have two children, a boy and a girl.
Noah took my hand and squeezed it tight. “Imagine how gorgeous our kids will be,” he said.
And I almost passed out, delirious with the promise that thought held.
“Wow,” I said. “Our lives are pretty much decided. I don’t think there’s going to be any surprises now.”
Noah pointed to the scoreboard. “Well, it’s even-stevens. And you’re the last one to bowl, so make it a good one.”
“Okay.” I picked up a ball. “This last one’s about us. If I get a strike, we run off into the sunset and live happily ever after like in a fairy tale.”
“You’d better get a strike.”
“Oh, I will, don’t worry. But, in any case, if I get a half-strike we still end up together but it takes work. We both have a wobble in middle age but eventually we get through it with a lot of marriage counselling.”
“Hmm. Not perfect. But I like that we get to stay together. What if you don’t knock any pins down?”
I sighed and thought of my appointment with Dr. Ashley.
“Well, that means we don’t make it. We end up just being each other’s ‘first loves’, downgraded to conversation fodder at drunken dinner parties. We move on, meet other people, lead separate lives.”
The words caught in my throat. Noah, too, looked deeply uncomfortable.
“Well then,” he said, trying to make light of it. “You’d better get bowling and decide this future of ours.”
I’d never cared about a competitive sport before in my whole life. But right then, I wanted a strike more than anything. I squinted at the set of pins and they seemed further away. I took a breath and lined the shot up in my head. I lifted the ball and ran towards the aisle…but just as I was about to let go, I slipped on something. I wobbled for a second, trying to regain my centre of gravity, but couldn’t. I plummeted to the floor. The bowling ball flew out of my hand and backwards into the air, almost hitting the family playing next to us. I landed on my bottom with a massive “Oooph”.
There was laughter. Most of it was coming from Noah, some from the near-miss family.
He stood behind me, applauding. “That. Was. Classic,” he said, through hiccups of laughter. “If only you could’ve seen the look on your face! Though I dread to think what that means for our future together. I don’t think we made a rule in Cosmic Bowling for hurtling the ball backwards.”
I began to laugh too, yet stopped abruptly when I realized that grumpy bowling-shoe lady had stormed over.
Her face was red, her piggy eyes bulging.
“I thought I told you,” she said, panting with rage, “not to cause any more disruption.”
I looked down at my clown shoes and saw my shoelace had come undone. That was what must’ve caused my fall.
“It was only an accident,” I said. “These aisles are slippery.”
“I don’t care. I want you both to leave.”
I opened my mouth to protest but Noah, sensing trouble, steered me away.
“But it was an ACCIDENT,” I said loudly as we swapped our shoes back.
“Shh. Come on. I’ll buy us something to eat.”
Grumpy lady followed us through the bowling alley, making sure we were leaving.
It was cold outside.
“Did that just happen?” I asked.
Noah put his arm around me. “Yes.”
“Seriously? Did I just get chucked out of a…bowling alley?”
“You sure did.”
And then we laughed. A lot. Until Noah pulled me further into him.
“I love you so much, Poppy Lawson,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “You make me sublimely happy.”
I wanted to smile, but also knew I needed to speak up.
“If I make you so happy, then how come you won’t see me alone?”
Noah turned me to him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Poppy?”
I looked back down at my feet. “Well, it’s just…I’m not stupid, you know. I’ve not been to your flat for ages. In fact, we’ve not been alone together since London, and it’s like you’ve planned this huge itinerary of non-sexy activities for us. And I know why.”
Noah scratched his ear and looked uncomfortable. “What do you mean ‘I know why’?”
“Sex. You’ve been trying to avoid us being alone.”
Noah sighed. “I just thought it would be easier if we kept away from anywhere private. Anywhere with a bed.”
“So we’ve come to bowling alleys and pancak
e houses?”
Noah pointed at me. “Hey. You can’t deny it’s been fun.”
“Yes. But still…Noah, I don’t think it’s fair that I don’t get a say in all this.”
“In all what?”
I gestured to the gap between us. “This. Us. Sex. I don’t like the fact you’re in charge of deciding when we’re ready.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s my choice too, you know? I’m not some emotionally deficient minor you’re taking advantage of. I’m your girlfriend.”
“I just don’t want to rush you.”
“You’re not.”
“But I’m scared I would if we were alone.”
I smiled. “Do you not think when and when not to control our impulses should be a shared decision?”
And he smiled too. “I suppose you’re right.”
“If I can beat you that easily at bowling, I’m sure I can handle myself in the bedroom.”
“You’re right.”
“How many times do I have to say it, Noah? I’m always right.”
And then he squeezed me tight and we went to get some food.
Rain had just about perfected the art of concentrating and sleeping simultaneously. In fact, if there’d been an Olympic sport called concensleeping, he would have won the gold medal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in the ordinary sense of the word. Sleep conjured images of bed, pyjamas, eight hours, alarm clocks. Whereas he hadn’t seen his bed in weeks. Clothes and food were delivered to the lab, showers were in the high-tech toilet facilities and socializing was, of course, off the cards until the situation was dealt with. Not that he had any friends left anyway. Most of them had drifted away during his intense training. It turned out that people didn’t have a lot of patience when it came to you frequently missing events but being unable to tell them why. The truth was, they wouldn’t have been able to handle the truth. It destroyed everything. Everyone. He wished he didn’t know the truth. They were encouraged to make friends and date within the company, like some kind of scientific ultra-restrictive dating agency. It made sense in some ways. Rain couldn’t imagine finding a girlfriend and not being able to tell them. To hear them say they loved him and not be able to say it back. What was the point? It didn’t mean anything.
He was barely computing what he saw on the monitor. His eyes had grown so used to it, he could pick up a reading almost subconsciously. It was almost an instinct now. Dr. Beaumont had said that would happen.
