In Your Shoes

by Donna Gephart

  Grandpop Billy groused and grumbled.

  “Ah, never mind, Pop.” Miles’s dad took the mug. “One cup of freshly brewed coffee coming right up.”

  “I’ll take a burger and fries, George,” the man called from his wheelchair near the pool table.

  “You got it, Stick. Give me a few minutes to get the grill going.”

  “Appreciate it, my man.”

  Miles’s dad knocked twice on the counter and disappeared into the kitchen.

  The banter fascinated Amy. She always paid attention to conversations, thinking they might make good, realistic dialogue in future stories. Amy inhaled the sounds and smells and sights of the bowling center, then blew on her hot chocolate and watched steam spiral and swirl.

  Her shoulders relaxed.

  “You like to bowl?” Miles asked.

  She almost said I like to write, but she didn’t want him to think she was weird. Did she like to bowl? She remembered how much fun she had the few times her mom took her bowling, how her mom taught her to hold the ball properly and how they laughed between frames at their terrible scores. “Yes,” Amy said. “I guess so.”

  Miles turned his back to his grandfather and spoke quietly to Amy. “When you’re finished with your hot chocolate, you want to play a game?”

  Amy felt her forehead tingle. A boy was asking her to bowl. Was this a date? Her first?

  Answer the poor boy already, sweets.

  Amy hadn’t realized she was sitting there staring at Miles. Sometimes she forgot she wasn’t the only one observing people; they could see her, too. “Oh, um, sure. But I have to warn you, I’m not any good.” Amy imagined Miles was terrific at bowling, since he wore bowling shoes to school and his family owned a bowling center.

  “Not any good, huh?” Miles tapped his chin. “In that case, want to bet five bucks on the game?”

  “Miles Louis Spagoski!” Grandpop Billy barked.

  Miles startled. “Kidding, Pop. I was only kidding. Sheesh.”

  Miles’s cheeks turned pink, which made Amy like him all the more.

  Amy was feeling so good from the atmosphere in the bowling center and from hearing her mom’s words in her head that she boldly said, “Okay, I’ll play a game with you. But first you have to tell me one story about a photo from that board.”

  Miles leaned back. “You want me to tell you one of the greatest stories ever bowled?”

  “Yup.” Amy thought she’d made a reasonable request.

  “Okay,” Miles said. “See that photo of the lady in the jeans and white top?”

  Amy squinted. “Yup.”

  “She came here every night to bowl. Some nights, she was on a league and would come in and bowl a couple games before her league play started. Some nights, there was no league and she’d practice for several games. She told some people that during league play, she planned to bowl a nine hundred series—three perfect games in a row.”

  “Wow,” Amy said. “Is that even possible?”

  “It is,” Grandpop Billy interrupted. “Becoming more common all the time.”

  Miles gave him the side-eye. “It does happen,” Miles said. “But I’ll tell you, I’d be happy to bowl one perfect game. You know?”

  She didn’t. The few times Amy had bowled, she’d counted it a success when her ball didn’t roll into the gutter. “I guess.” She took a good look at the photo. “Did she do it?”

  “Well, that’s the weird part,” Miles continued. “One night for league play, she bowled a perfect game and people gathered around to watch. Then she bowled her second perfect game. It was unbelievable.” His eyes grew wide. “She was on a total strike streak. Right, Pop?”

  “He speaks the truth,” his grandfather said. “It was a sight to behold.”

  Miles’s dad put a fresh cup of coffee in front of his dad. “And your food’s coming right up, Stick.”

  “Thanks, George.”

  When Miles’s dad went back into the kitchen, Miles finished the story. “So we’re all holding our breath for her third game. Everyone is absolutely quiet. And she gets strike after strike and people start whispering, ‘She’s going to do it.’ ”

  Amy leaned closer. Her writer curiosity kicked in completely.

  “Then, with three frames left to bowl, the woman takes her ball and puts it in her bag, changes into her street shoes and walks out.”

  “What?” Amy put her hands on her head. “She was that close to getting three perfect games in a row and she just walked away?”

  “Yup.” Miles scratched his head. “It was the weirdest thing. No one could figure it out.”

  “But that’s no kind of ending, Miles. What happened the next time you saw her? Did she explain why she left like that? Did she get an important phone call? Was she sick?”

  “No one knows,” Miles’s grandfather said.

  Miles nodded. “She never came back.”

  “Is that true?” Amy asked.

  “Absolutely true,” Miles’s grandfather said.

  “Wow.” Amy took a few swallows of her hot chocolate. “That was actually a great story, but I’m dying to find out what happened to her.”

  “I know. Me too,” Miles said.

  “Me too,” Miles’s grandfather said. “But some things will always remain a mystery. Isn’t that right, Louise?”

  Amy leaned closer to Miles. “Who’s Louise?”

  Miles’s cheeks grew pink. “Hey, let’s bowl. Meet me on lane forty-eight.” He got off his stool and pointed toward the last lane. “I’ll be right there.”

  Amy scooted off the stool, took a breath for bravery—because this totally felt like a first date—and walked to the farthest lane. She sat on a chair and checked her phone. No messages. She tried to imagine what might have made that woman leave when she was so close to bowling three perfect games in a row. Maybe Miles’s grandfather was right. Some things in life would always be a mystery.

  Miles arrived at lane 48 dragging his bowling bag and holding a pair of women’s bowling shoes up to Amy.

  She took them from him and saw the number 8½ on the backs. “Um, how’d you know my size?”

  Miles smiled. “It’s sort of my superpower. I’m really good at guessing people’s shoe sizes.”

  “That’s an unusual superpower.”

  Miles changed from his street bowling shoes into the ones for the lanes.

  Feeling self-conscious, Amy quickly yanked off her sneaker with the heel lift and shoved it under the chair. She slipped into the bowling shoes, which fit perfectly but felt heavy and clunky.

  Miles told Amy to go first, so she did, but was uncomfortable. It seemed so obvious to Amy that her right leg was shorter than her left. She wished she hadn’t agreed to bowl with Miles. They should have stayed at the snack counter, and he could have told her more stories about the people in the photographs on the bulletin board.

  Amy was so focused on herself and not on what she was doing that she managed to bowl a total of six gutter balls on her first three turns.

  Miles, on the other hand, bowled three strikes in a row. He gave a fist pump and shouted, “Turkey!”

  “Yes, you are,” Grandpop Billy called from his seat at the counter.

  Amy didn’t think Miles was a turkey. “Hey,” Amy said. “I think you have another superpower. You’re really good at bowling.”

  Miles stumbled, then steadied himself. “Um, thanks. But I’m not that good. Not yet, anyway. I’m still working toward my first perfect game.”

  “You’re not hustling that nice girl, are you?” Grandpop Billy yelled.

  Miles sank low in the chair next to Amy and covered his face with his hands.

  “Your grandfather’s funny,” Amy said.

  “Yeah.” Miles glanced back, then shook his head. “Hilarious.”

&
nbsp; “Should I, um, take my turn?” Amy asked.

  “Please,” Miles said.

  And they continued to play.

  At the end of their second game, Amy kept rubbing her left hip.

  She noticed Miles peeking under the chair at her sneaker, the one with the heel lift. His gaze lingered too long. She felt something inside herself crumble, like he’d managed to peer inside her and view the most sensitive part.

  When Miles turned back and saw the look on Amy’s face, he blurted, “Did you know that in 1974 a guy named Basil Brown died from drinking too much carrot juice?”

  “What? Huh?” Amy shook her head, trying to convince herself it didn’t matter that Miles was looking at her sneaker. That it wouldn’t make him think differently about her. That it was such a small part of who she was.

  “It’s true,” Miles said. “He died from drinking too much carrot juice.”

  Amy sat on the chair next to Miles, glad to take the weight off her aching hip. “How can that be?” she asked. “Aren’t carrots supposed to be good for you?”

  “Yes,” Miles said, “but he drank a gallon of carrot juice every day for ten days, plus he took vitamin A supplements. Way too many. Really dangerous. It ruined his liver.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Amy said.

  Miles let out a breath. “It is?”

  “Well, I think it is. Unusual stories like that always interest me.”

  Miles sat a little taller. “I guess it is a cool story.” Miles offered one more odd fact. “Basil was bright yellow when he died.”

  “No way.”

  “Yep. Big Bird yellow.”

  Amy cracked up at the image. She considered telling Miles she lived over a funeral home because she thought he might appreciate the odd fact, but then she worried he’d think it was weird. “Well, I’d better go,” Amy said, even though she didn’t want to leave.

  “Um, okay. Want me to walk you?”

  “You want to walk me? Home?” Amy reminded herself that Eternal Peace was not her home, but a place she had to live for now. And she wasn’t ready for Miles to see where she was living.

  “Sure,” Miles said. “It’s dark out.”

  “I’m not afraid of the dark,” Amy said.

  “No, I know. I just thought—”

  “I’ll be okay,” Amy said. “Thanks, though. And thanks for the bowling. It was fun. Sorry I was so bad at it.”

  “You were great,” Miles said.

  “Um, right.” Amy put on her sneakers quickly, handed Miles the bowling shoes and shrugged on her coat. “Well, see you around, Miles Louis Spagoski.”

  “Bye, Amy.”

  As Amy walked toward the doors, Miles yelled, “Don’t drink too much carrot juice!”

  Amy laughed and gave a little wave. She heard Miles’s grandfather yell, “Smooth line there, Casanova!”

  Outside, as cold air hit her face, Amy inhaled deeply and realized she felt so much better than when she’d walked in. “Carrot juice.” She shook her head and smiled. Then she walked back toward the funeral home, whistling, and rubbing her aching hip every so often.

  The cold air felt delicious on her warm cheeks.

  That night in bed, Miles didn’t obsess about death and dying.

  Instead, he obsessed about something else. Or, to be more accurate, someone else: Amy.

  Miles worried his last comment about the carrot juice was so idiotic it ruined all the good times that had come before it. He wished he’d said something smart and smooth, but the carrot-juice line was what spilled from his mouth. He hoped Amy didn’t hold it against him.

  Mostly, though, Miles kept thinking about the heel lift on Amy’s sneaker. He thought about how she had an uneven approach when she wore bowling shoes. Miles remembered how she had rubbed her hip at the end of the second game, like it hurt, but she never complained or even mentioned it. And she’d seemed to be having a good time with him. At least, he hoped so.

  Then he remembered something wonderful. Before he’d joined Amy at the snack counter, Miles had bowled with a few guys and won the rest of the money he needed to get the special gift for his grandpop’s seventy-fifth-birthday party.

  He let out a long, slow breath. He was done hustling people on the lanes for good. That was one less thing he’d have to be nervous about.

  Maybe he’d set up a business helping people work on their technique and bring up their averages. He wasn’t sure whether people would pay him, because he was a kid, but he knew he could help them improve. And his parents had told him he could start hosting the little-kid birthday parties on weekends. He’d have to set up tables in the party room, serve pizza and pitchers of soda, make sure the kids got their rental shoes and clean up when the party was over. After those parties, the parents almost always tipped the host.

  Things were working out. Miles had gotten the money for his grandpop’s gift in time, he was done hustling and he’d had a nice time with Amy. Except for his stupid carrot-juice line and Amy rubbing her hip, it was perfect.

  Maybe the bowling shoes he wore to school every day were lucky.

  When Amy got back to Eternal Peace, the parking lot was nearly empty. She let out a big breath.

  In the kitchen, her uncle was poring over papers at the table.

  “Hey, Uncle Matt.”

  He startled. “Oh, hi, Ames!” His voice was bright, but his eyes looked tired. “Thanks for texting so I knew where you were. Did you have a good time bowling?”

  Amy slid onto a seat at the table and thought about how much she’d enjoyed bowling with Miles and hearing his stories. “I had a really good time.”

  “Glad to hear that.” Uncle Matt patted her hand. “I hope you grow to like it here in Buckington.”

  Amy offered a weak smile. I really hope we don’t stay long enough for me to like it here. My life is back in Chicago.

  “Want an egg salad sandwich?” he asked.

  Amy suddenly realized she was starving. “Please.”

  The two of them ate egg salad sandwiches on sourdough bread, with a sliced kosher pickle on the side and chocolate pudding pie for dessert.

  Then Amy let her uncle get back to his paperwork and went up to her room. After texting with her dad and Kat, she pulled out her notebook and purple pen. Her unfinished story had been tickling her mind all day, feeling like an itch desperately needing to be scratched.

  So she scratched it by writing.

  Fiona was at the point of panic, worrying about how she’d get out of the cell high up in the castle’s tower. She was hungry, thirsty, sore and exhausted, and she knew her dog must be all those things, too. While grateful for Lucky, Fiona felt bad for taking him along on her foolish adventure. She should have left him back home with her father, where he could be safe and cozy in their cabin. Fiona realized she should have gone alone or maybe stayed home, too. Then she and Lucky wouldn’t be trapped.

  The heavy door to their cell creaked open.

  Fiona’s grip on Lucky tightened, and she backed up so her spine pressed against the damp stone wall.

  Then the most unusual creature entered.

  The creature was no larger than a boy her age. But it wasn’t like any boy Fiona had ever seen.

  “Hello,” the creature said. “I’m Prince Harry.”

  Again Fiona thought she heard the words “Prince Hairy,” and this time it would have made perfect sense.

  The creature standing before her was covered with long brown hair. His face. His arms. The backs of his hands. All covered with hair. He looked more wolf than boy. “Prince…Prince…Har—”

  “You think I’m hideous!” the prince cried. “I knew you would. Everyone does.” He covered his hairy face with his palms and let out a deep wail.

  Fiona placed Lucky on the floor and stepped forward. “I do
not,” she said, although she was still trying to figure out what she thought.

  “Then you would be the only one.” Prince Harry sniffed and wiped his hairy nose on his hairy forearm, leaving a sheen of snot, which Fiona found a tiny bit repulsive. “No one wants to be around me,” Prince Harry moaned. “Not the kids my age, not the servants or the guards who work here. Not even my own father.”

  Fiona wondered what the prince’s mother thought of him. She noticed he hadn’t mentioned her.

  “Oh, that can’t be true,” Fiona said. “Parents love you no matter what.”

  “Not always,” the prince muttered.

  And somehow, Fiona knew this to be true.

  The prince looked up at Fiona, and she saw that, behind all the hair, he had the most compelling green eyes. Eyes that were both a deep mystery and a shining light all at once.

  Feeling brave, Fiona thrust out her hand. “I’m Fiona, the one who found your shoe.”

  The prince took Fiona’s hand gently and kissed the back of it. The hair on his face tickled her hand. “You know,” he said, “I lost the shoe doing something I shouldn’t have.”

  Fiona was beginning to like Prince Harry.

  “I thought princes always did what they were supposed to. May I ask what you did that you shouldn’t have?”

  The prince let out a little laugh. “Oh, I simply wanted to be normal.”

  Fiona nodded, to encourage him to go on.

  Lucky went over and sniffed the tops of the prince’s feet.

  The prince bent down and petted Lucky, who rolled onto his back to be scratched on his belly—something he rarely did unless he trusted someone completely. Lucky was a good judge of character. Fiona thought this was a positive sign.

  “Here’s what happened,” the prince said. “Even though my father—you know, the king—said I must never leave the castle grounds, I disobeyed him.”

  Fiona leaned forward. She had a feeling this would be a good story.

  The prince continued: “Not only did I leave the castle grounds, as I was strictly forbidden to do, but I walked and walked and then walked some more. Freedom felt wonderful! I passed towns and fields and farm animals who didn’t care I was covered with more hair than they were.”