In Your Shoes

by Donna Gephart

  “Spagoski?”

  “Yeah, Rand?”

  “Shut up and bowl.”

  So he did.

  It was the first game Miles had bowled since his grandfather died. And it was a good thing Randall hadn’t placed a bet on the game, because Miles beat him by fifty-seven beautiful points.

  But a perfect game still eluded him.

  There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.

  —Leonard Cohen

  “I feel terrible for Miles,” Tate said as she put the graphic novel Smile on a shelf.

  “Yeah. Me too.” Amy shelved Yummy: The Last Days of a Southside Shorty. “He must be so sad. I wish there were a way to cheer him up.”

  “Well…” Tate twirled a bit of blue hair around her index finger. “We could talk him into coming to the party at my house the night before the school dance.”

  “Do you think he’ll come to your party?” Amy hoped he would.

  Tate filled her cheek with air and let it out slowly. “Randall told me Miles doesn’t leave his house or the lanes, except for school. He’s really upset.”

  Amy understood how he felt. “You talk to Randall a lot?”

  “Sure, we’re neighbors. Remember?”

  “I mean…you know.”

  “Yeah.” Tate ducked her head. “He calls me some nights. Told me he had to sit in his closet so his brothers and sisters didn’t bother him. One time, I fell asleep while he was talking and woke up like five minutes later and he was still at it.”

  “That’s hilarious,” Amy said.

  “He’s definitely a future lawyer,” Tate said.

  “He already dresses like one,” Amy said, thinking of his stylish clothes. “Even his jeans have sharp creases in them.”

  “Oh, you should have seen him in his bow tie days. He wore one every single day of fifth grade. Ooh-la-la!”

  Both girls cracked up.

  “Hey!” Mr. Schu called back to them. “Are you girls shelving or chatting?”

  “We’re chatting,” Tate replied.

  “Yes, absolutely chatting,” Amy echoed.

  “In that case…” Mr. Schu saluted them. “Carry on, young pages!”

  So they did.

  Mercedes texted Miles late one evening.

  How you doing, Miles?

  OK. You?

  I miss Pop. You?

  Yeah.

  Then Miles didn’t text anything for a while. He wasn’t sure what to say to his sister, so he held the phone and waited to see if she’d write anything else.

  Hey, how’s that nice girl doing?

  Amy?

  Yeah.

  How should I know?

  Miles! Don’t you ever see her?

  He bit his bottom lip, deciding whether he should tell his sister the truth.

  I haven’t left the house or the lanes. Don’t want to leave Mom and Dad alone.

  Oh, Miles.

  He didn’t want his sister’s pity.

  Going to bed now.

  G’night Miles. Love you.

  Miles made sure he told the people who mattered to him that he loved them. Just in case.

  Love you, too, Mercedes. <3

  Aw. You’re the best brother.

  Yeah. I know. ;)

  Miles turned off his phone and lay in bed, recalling how his grandfather had looked in the casket. He remembered what he hadn’t said to Pop before he died. Miles ached to have one more day to tell his grandfather those things, to hear Pop’s voice saying that he forgave him and that he loved him.

  Randall, Tate and Amy walked into Buckington Bowl after school.

  “Hey there, Mrs. Spagoski,” Randall said to Miles’s mom.

  “Oh, hi, guys.” Miles’s mom came out from behind the counter and hugged each of them. “I’m so glad you’re here. Miles could sure use his friends.”

  The trio walked along the worn carpet, where a woman was measuring.

  “New carpet going in?” Randall asked Miles when they reached the snack counter.

  “Yup,” Miles said. “Dad’s finally making some of those improvements he’s wanted to.”

  There was a heaviness in the air surrounding that statement.

  “I kind of like this carpet,” Randall said. “Used to it after all these years.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Miles said.

  “Hey there.” Tate gave Miles a hug.

  “What can I get you guys?” Miles’s dad asked, knocking two knuckles on the counter.

  “Nothing,” Randall said.

  “Nothing for me either,” Amy said.

  “Loaded fries,” Tate said. “And a vanilla milk shake, please.”

  Randall and Amy glared at her.

  “What? I worked out really hard this morning. I’m hungry.”

  “Okay then,” Randall said. “Guess I’ll take a burger and fries.”

  “Hot chocolate, please,” Amy added.

  Miles ate and drank nothing. Not even a sip of his usual root beer.

  “Um, Miles,” Amy said, “how close have you ever come to bowling a perfect game?”

  Miles perked up, but before he could answer, his dad called from the back, “He bowled a two eighty-nine once. One of the proudest days of my life.”

  Miles ducked his head. “Yeah, I thought I was going to finally do it—bowl my first perfect game—but I choked on the last frame. Maybe I should have walked away before I played that frame, like the lady who never completed her three-game series.” He looked toward the “Greatest Stories Ever Bowled” bulletin board, but the empty place in the middle hurt his heart, so he looked down.

  “Hey, two eighty-nine is amazing,” Amy said. “I’ve never even broken a hundred.”

  Randall laughed.

  Tate punched him.

  “Ouch! What?”

  Tate shook her head.

  After they ate, the trio talked Miles into bowling one game with them.

  Miles’s heart wasn’t in it. He noticed again how Amy was off-balance when she wore bowling shoes, how she rubbed her left hip near the end of the game.

  And he wondered why nothing could ever be easy.

  Amy didn’t say it out loud, but when her dad dropped her off at Tate’s place, she hoped Miles would be there. The more she hung out with him, the more she liked him. Plus now, sadly, they had something in common—losing someone they loved.

  But he wasn’t there.

  Of course, no one outside of Tate’s family was at the bed-and-breakfast yet, since Tate had asked Amy to come an hour early to help set up for the party. And Tate’s parents hadn’t booked any guests for the night so she could have the whole place to herself with her friends.

  In her bedroom, Tate squealed. “Check it out!” And she showed off the blue dress draped over her bed.

  Marmalade walked right across the dress.

  “Marmalade!” Tate shrieked. She picked the cat up and put her on the floor. “What do you think, Amy? This is the consignment shop find I told you about, combined with some fancy-pants stitchery I did.” Tate smoothed the dress with her palm. “Just before you came, I sent Perla a photo, and she said it would definitely have been blog-worthy if we had ever created that fashion blog we’d talked about. What do you think? I totally have to bring my A-game to compete with Randall’s style. Right?”

  Amy ran her fingers over the silky dress and wished, wished, wished she had a dress at home laid out on her bed. Wished she were going to the dance tomorrow night. Wished she had a date to take her and a mom to fuss over her before
she left—taking photos and kissing her cheek, creating a lipstick smudge that she’d rub off with her thumb. “It’s beautiful.” Amy cleared her throat. “Randall will think it’s awesome.”

  Tate squealed again. “Thanks.” She hugged Amy tightly. “I wish you were going, too.”

  Amy shrugged as though it was no big deal, but she couldn’t help feeling like she was in the pages of Cinderella’s story. Tate’s sparkling pink nail polish distracted her. “You have the coolest nail polish colors.”

  Tate wiggled her fingers. “It’s from a line of nail polish called Wild Expressions. They have the best names for the different colors. This shade is called ‘The Color Your Cheeks Get When You See a Boy You Like.’ ”

  Amy laughed at the name, and it felt good.

  “Hey,” Tate said. “Why don’t we get ready for this party?”

  Amy nodded. “Let’s do it.” She was glad to have something to do to keep her from feeling sorry for herself.

  When they left Tate’s bedroom, Marmalade pranced out after them.

  “Oh no you don’t.” Tate scooped up her cat, put her back in the bedroom and shut the door. “Randall’s allergic to you, little miss, so you’ll be spending the party in there.”

  Marmalade meowed through the door in reply.

  Tate and Amy got snacks ready, picked out music and waited for the boys to arrive.

  But only one boy arrived.

  Back at Buckington Bowl, Miles was slumped over the snack counter, ice melting in an untouched glass of root beer.

  He looked behind him at the new carpet, sleek black with white flecks that glowed when the lights were low. He hated it, and he knew his grandpop would have hated it, too. Miles wished his dad had waited a little longer before making the changes Pop hadn’t wanted.

  “How you doing, champ?” Miles’s dad swiped a towel across the counter.

  “Lousy.”

  “I can see that. Would a fresh root beer help?”

  Miles looked past his root beer at the empty stool across the counter. “Nope.”

  “With a scoop of vanilla ice cream in it?”

  “I said NO!”

  “Okay.” Miles’s dad held up his hands. “You don’t have to take it out on me.” He walked back into the kitchen.

  Miles was glad his dad had left. He wanted to be by himself. But he also didn’t want to be alone. It didn’t make any sense, but so little had, lately.

  Miles’s mom slipped onto the stool next to him. “I have only a minute because we’re pretty full tonight.”

  Miles looked around. There were about ten lanes being used. “That’s full?”

  She shrugged. “For us it is.”

  Miles put his head in his hands.

  “Come on, bud. Please buck up.”

  “I don’t want to buck up,” Miles mumbled.

  “What are your friends doing tonight? Maybe you could invite them over to bowl a few games.”

  Without lifting his head, Miles said, “Tate’s having a party.”

  “Party? What kind of party?”

  Miles was sorry he’d said anything. “Just a party for Randall, her and Amy.”

  “And you?” his mom asked.

  “Well, Tate asked me to come, but—”

  “Get your coat.”

  Miles lifted his head. “Huh?”

  “Never mind. I’ll get it for you.” Then she yelled toward the kitchen, “Sweetheart, I’m driving Miles to Tate’s house. Say so long.”

  “So long, Miles!”

  “And please keep an eye on the front counter until I get back.”

  “Will do,” he called. “I’ll be right there.”

  “But—” Miles started.

  “But nothing,” his mom said. “Let’s go!”

  Once she’d grabbed his coat, Miles’s mom whisked him away from Buckington Bowl into the bright-orange van with the giant fake bowling pins and bowling ball on top. She drove like a firefighter heading toward a three-alarm blaze.

  When they screeched up to Buckington Bed & Breakfast, Miles’s mom practically shoved him out of the car. “Have fun with your friends!”

  And she zoomed off.

  “Miles! You’re here!” Tate yanked him into the living room.

  She pulled Miles’s arm so hard it hurt, but he didn’t say anything. Just stood there.

  “My man!” Randall slapped Miles hard on the back. “Glad you’re here. Now, drink some orange soda.”

  “What? Why? I’m not thirsty.”

  Randall thrust a paper cup of orange soda into Miles’s hand. “Yes, you are.” Then he walked off.

  Miles preferred root beer, but orange was okay, so he took a sip. Then he realized Amy was standing off to the side.

  “Hey, Miles,” she said. “I’m really glad you made it.” She was smiling. It reminded Miles of how Amy was there at his grandpop’s funeral, how she’d smiled at him when he needed it most.

  A flow of energy Miles hadn’t felt in a long time surged through him. It felt like shrugging off a heavy winter coat because the sun was shining and spring had arrived. Miles looked around the room at his old friends and his new friend. Music was playing. The room was brightly lit. There was a cup of soda in his hand. He wouldn’t have told her so, but Miles was glad his mom had driven him to the party. He belonged here. “Hey, Amy,” he finally said.

  Randall skidded over and nodded toward Miles’s cup. “Drink up, my man!” As if to show Miles how to do it, Randall chugged the orange soda from his own cup.

  Miles slurped some more soda, but his stomach wasn’t feeling terrific, so he put the cup down.

  That was when Randall grabbed Miles’s elbow. “We’ll be right back,” he said to Amy and Tate. He led Miles into the kitchen.

  There, Randall backed Miles up to the fridge, got right in his face and whispered fiercely, “When the soda bottle is empty, we’re going to use it to play spin the bottle.” Deep, rattling wheezes punctuated Randall’s words. “So drink the soda—now.”

  “Hey, your wheezing sounds pretty bad, Rand.”

  “I’m good,” Randall said. “Tate put her cat in the bedroom and vacuumed the rug in the living room.”

  “But even so, it sounds—”

  “I’m good.” Randall patted the pocket where he kept his inhaler. “Now drink the soda. Okay?”

  “Okay. Okay.” Miles was glad to be there, but he didn’t feel like drinking any more soda.

  * * *

  •••

  Somehow, Amy ended up sitting in a big chair with Miles. Tate was on the couch next to Randall. Really close to him.

  “Where are your parents?” Miles asked.

  “Back bedroom,” Tate said, moving a smidge closer to Randall.

  Miles did not move closer to Amy. In fact, the chair they were sitting on felt a little claustrophobic. He thought about telling Amy the true story of a forty-five-year-old man in Brazil who was crushed to death by a cow that climbed onto his roof from a nearby hillside, then fell through the roof on top of the man asleep in his bed. Miles thought Amy would especially appreciate the last part of the story: the man’s wife, who’d been sleeping next to him, and the cow were both unharmed. But Miles wasn’t sure this party was the right place to share the story. So instead he said, “Seems like you and Tate have become really good friends.”

  Amy nodded.

  Miles waited for her to say something more, but when she didn’t, he took another swig of orange soda, even though his stomach was feeling full and sort of cranky.

  Finally, Amy said, “Today, Tate showed me the dress she worked on for the dance. It’s really nice.”

  The dance. That stupid school dance. Miles had forgotten about it, especially after what happened to Pop. If Miles hadn’t cared about the dance before, he cared
even less about it now, if that was even possible. Then Miles looked at Amy. Really looked at her. She seemed eager, like she was waiting for him to say something. He remembered Randall telling him he should ask Amy to the dance. “Do you, um, like to dance?”

  “Oh yeah,” Amy said. “I do.”

  Miles wanted to say Me too, but the truth was, he didn’t. He liked to bowl. He wished the school would hold a bowl-a-thon instead of a dumb dance. And if they held it at Buckington Bowl, it would help business, too.

  “Do you?” Amy asked.

  Miles shook his head. He couldn’t lie to her.

  “Oh.”

  Amy looked disappointed.

  Miles’s heart was so hurt, he couldn’t stand seeing someone else hurting. So he blurted words that tripped over each other. “But maybe if you want to, um, we could…you know, go together. I mean, if it’s not too late for us to, I mean, get tickets and all.” Miles knew he said everything wrong, so he was surprised when Amy looked happier. Much happier.

  “Well, it’s about time, Miles Spagoski!” Tate screamed.

  Miles gulped down the rest of the soda in his paper cup.

  “Well, look at that,” Randall said, then sucked in a raspy breath. “Miles finally manned up about the dance and…and…Hey, the soda bottle’s practically empty.”

  “Oh yes it is,” Tate said. “But you know, we didn’t have to do it the old-fashioned way.” She held up her phone. “I have a cool spin-the-bottle app.”

  “Now you tell me.” Randall laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough.

  “You okay?” Tate asked.

  Randall nodded.

  “Okay, then.” Tate dove to the rug in the middle of the living room. “Come on, everyone!”