“No, that would be humiliating,” Jude commented. “If you can give me a ride home, I’ll play.”
“Great!” Becka answered. And her smile was so genuine, her happiness so pure, it was all Jude could do to keep himself from leaning in and kissing her on the lips. He wanted to, but something stopped him. Not yet, not here, but they were close. On some unspoken level, Becka hadn’t given him permission yet.
Uncertainty crept into Jude’s thoughts.
Maybe she never would. Maybe they were falling head over heels into a mineshaft of disappointment called Let’s Just Be Friends.
Ugh, anything but the F-word.
THIRTEEN
The cards came like clockwork around the date of Lily’s birthday, June 28, though fewer arrived as the years passed. Jude’s mother displayed the condolences and prayer cards on the refrigerator, then mercifully packed them away shortly after. Jude hated those cards, hated the way everyone knew about his “family tragedy”—poor Jude, that poor family. As if anyone knew how he felt, as if they had a damn clue.
His neighbor, Mrs. Buchman, was the worst, with that bittersweet smile, the way she always asked, “How are you, Jude? Everything okay?” She watched him with those eyes of hers, a gaze that looked upon him with such tenderness and pity that it burned his skin and made Jude turn away.
Lily had been playmates with the Buchman girls, forever bouncing on their trampoline, doing what little girls do. Drawing pictures, practicing cartwheels, chasing after cats. Lily used to say that Zoe Buchman was her best friend in the whole big world. Jude still saw Zoe out on the block. Ten years old now and skinny as a pole. They never talked, never said a word, just warily watched each other out of the corner of their eyes, thinking whatever it was they thought. Jude the older boy who cast a sad shadow, Zoe the gangly girl who once played inside his house, munching on fresh-baked cookies: strangers now.
Each year, on the anniversary of Lily’s birthday, Mrs. Buchman left a basket of flowers on the front stoop. Pale yellow lilies of the valley, of course, always with a short, handwritten note attached. This year was no different. Jude almost tripped on them on his way out the door to Corey’s. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered, and angrily kicked at the flowers. The basket crashed against the front door, the delicate petals in disarray, scattered on the ground.
His mother must have heard the noise, for she came to the door. They stared at each other through the window, Jude standing there, trembling with a rage he couldn’t name; his mother’s lips set in a frown, her eyes turned down to look at the mess of flowers on ground. Click. She started to push open the door, but Jude pressed his hand against it. “Don’t,” he said. “Please, Mom. I’ve got it.”
He bent to his knees and one by one assembled the fallen flowers, painstakingly arranged them back in the basket. He picked up the card. It was plain and blue and read, “Our thoughts are with you on this difficult day.”
* * *
Jude didn’t have to say anything. Not to Corey. Because Corey knew. One look at Jude and he knew. Corey had that gift. And he said exactly the right thing: “Let’s go whack some frakkin’ golf balls.” So they grabbed Corey’s clubs and headed out together on foot, Corey talking nonstop while Jude’s thundering heart slowly returned to normal and he could breathe again.
“So when am I going to meet this Becka babe?” Corey asked.
“I don’t know if she’s ready for you,” Jude said.
Corey nodded thoughtfully. “All my manly manliness might be too much, huh? I can see that. Seriously, Jude—you’ve got to step up. How long are you going to like this girl without making a move?”
Jude didn’t answer. He grabbed a golf ball from the bucket and set it on the tee. The two friends stood in an empty soccer field behind a nearby elementary school, a perfect spot for banging around golf balls. Nobody to bean in the head, no grandmas sprawled on the ground, blood gushing from their noses.
“You should invite her out with us sometime,” Corey suggested. “We could double-date, catch a movie or something.”
“‘Double-date’?” Jude stepped away from the tee. Corey did not currently have a girlfriend, though different girls always seemed to set their sights on him. “What are you going to do? Go out and buy an inflatable doll?”
“Oh, big laugh,” Corey replied. “Come on, dude. This Becka hotness must have a friend for me. See what you can do.”
Jude shanked the ball to the right, tossed his driver to the ground. “I so suck at this sport,” he complained.
“You’re collapsing your right side,” Corey pointed out. “You can’t attack the ball like a Viking with a battle axe. It’s got to be one smooth motion. Watch and learn, my friend.” Corey set up a new ball on the tee and drove a long, arcing shot into the center distance.
Jude wasn’t interested. “Whatever we do, let’s not take ’em golfing.” Even so, he was warming to the idea. Maybe it would work, take the pressure off, keep it loose. “I wouldn’t call it a date, though, you know? It would be just hanging out.”
“With benefits,” Corey said.
Jude rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure about a movie, either. You can’t talk to each other in a crowded theater. If you do, people throw Milk Duds at your head.” This time Jude hit a beautiful ball, high and far. Corey, now seated cross-legged on the grass, whistled in appreciation.
“Three words, Jude.”
“Yeah, and? What are they?”
“Make-out session.”
“Oh, please,” Jude said. “You’ll be lucky if I can find a date for you.”
“How about bowling?” Corey suggested. “We could do the Rock ’n’ Bowl at Alley Cat Lanes on Friday night. I heard they canned the deejay because he became obsessed with death metal. It was ‘kill, hate, vomit, kill’ song after song. It threw off everybody’s game. Nothing but gutter balls and mayhem. Now they’re hiring real bands.”
“I don’t know about bowling,” Jude said.
“Dude, it’s not about the score,” Corey argued. “Nobody cares about that. It’s all about the shoes. I’m dead sexy in a pair of two-toned, cream-colored bowling shoes,” he joked, giving a halfway decent impression of Austin Powers.
Jude slid his club into the golf bag. “Let’s pick ’em up,” he said, ignoring his friend.
“Okay, boss,” Corey joked. “Your balls are there, and over there, and way over there,” he said, pointing at scattered spots on the empty field. He grinned at Jude. “So are you going to ask her or not?”
“Maybe.” Jude got an idea. “How would you feel if your date’s name was Roberto?”
“Roberto?”
“He’s my friend from work.”
“Oh,” Corey said. “Well, that kind of throws a wrench into the make-out session. Can he bowl?”
“Doubtful,” Jude grinned.
Corey slid a club into the golf bag, hoisted it on his shoulder. “I like seeing you like this. You’ve changed.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you’re happy,” Corey said.
Jude made a face. “What are you talking about? I’ve been happy.”
“Okay, whatever. I don’t know,” Corey said, considering Jude. “Lighter maybe. Something’s different. I think this girl’s good for you. But one thing hasn’t changed. You still suck at golf.”
FOURTEEN
It was true. Jude was happy. He sat in the back of the car, pleased to see that he’d managed to bring together two friends from different worlds, Corey and Roberto.
Roberto was wearing a brown Big Lebowski bowling shirt; it read, THE DUDE MINDS, MAN. So tacky it rocked the house. He had borrowed the family car, a red Taurus, and Corey was stationed in the shotgun seat. It was a kick for Jude to sit back and watch those two together—a satisfying feeling.
It was Friday night, and the boys were headed to the Rock ’n’ Bowl out on Sunrise Highway. The double-date idea didn’t work out with Becka. She had called in sick for work that morning. Jude texted her, and they bounced a co
uple of messages back and forth. Becka said she was under the weather and taking it slow for the weekend. So Jude never asked her, exactly. He invited Roberto instead. A mini brodown, second degree.
“Could we make a short detour, Berto?” Jude asked.
Corey turned around, one eyebrow arched, suspicious. “Where to?”
“I’m going over to Becka’s house soon; we’re supposed to jam together. I was thinking—I kind of wanted to scope out where she lives,” Jude said, and felt instantly naked for saying so, fully revealed for the lovesick sap he’d truly become.
“So you’re like a stalker now?” Roberto asked, eyes twinkling in the rearview mirror.
Corey laughed, a loud bark, and Roberto jiggled his head, body shaking.
“Our boy’s got it bad,” Corey confided to Roberto. “Jude is besotted.”
“Besotted?” Jude echoed. “What the hell?”
“Really, Jude, come on,” Corey said, enjoying himself. “Drive by her house? What do you want to do after that? Go to Build-A-Bear?”
“Wait a minute,” Roberto interrupted. “You’re going to jam with her, but you’ve never even heard her play guitar?”
Jude nodded. “Yeah. I bet she’s good, though.”
“Good? Who gives a crap?” Corey said. “You could strap a guitar around, I don’t know, the mummified corpse of Mother Theresa, and she’d be sexy as hell. It’s the ultimate turn-on.”
Roberto nodded, grinning. “He’s right, Jude. That’s the power of rock and roll. Any girl is ten times hotter if she plugs into an amp.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Corey said; he fist-bumped Roberto.
Roberto glanced back at Jude. “Man, you’re so whipped,” he said. “Oh, Becka, sweetheart, I love your luminous eyes,” Roberto purred in a high-pitched falsetto. “They are like limpid pools of … I don’t know what the frak.”
“‘Frak’?!” Corey repeated, laughing. “You’re a Battlestar Galactica fan?”
“Oh, yeah, big-time,” Roberto said. “I have the complete series on DVD. Best sci-fi show ever. I could power disk that shit all night long.”
“Adama’s the man,” Corey said.
“Don’t even get me started on Kara Thrace,” Roberto replied.
“I’m more into Number Six,” Corey admitted.
“Ohhhh, she’s a bad, bad Cylon,” Roberto joked.
Corey turned in his seat, grinned at Jude. “Nice shirt, by the way,” he said, noting Jude’s pastel polo.
“Yeah, does it come in guy colors?” Berto cracked.
Jude laughed along with his friends, told them it was only a matter of time before they had a show together on Bravo. Besides, they were kind of right. Lately he couldn’t think of much else besides Becka. She kept creeping into his thoughts. At work he was attuned to her every movement; watched her at the cash register, knew exactly when she took breaks, and tried whenever possible to arrange quasi-accidental time together. Becka, for her part, sent signals the same way. There was something definitely going on between them. Some sort of dance. Where it was all headed … Jude didn’t know.
Roberto blew off Jude’s request to visit Becka’s house and drove directly to the Alley Cat Lanes. “Don’t be mad, Jude. We’ll hide in her bushes another time,” Roberto half apologized.
“Oh, yeah, we’ll have all the handy stalker tools,” Corey chimed in. “GPS tracker, night-vision goggles, whatever it takes to get you hooked up, my brother.”
* * *
Jude felt there was something undeniably cheesy and yet thrilling about your basic Rock ’n’ Bowl experience. It was like a bizarro blend of the coolest things you could imagine and the lamest things ever, like, um, bowling itself, all mixed together. The Alley Cat was packed with teenagers and college kids, most of the girls wearing complicated haircuts and expensive denim. Some guys did the cliché thing and wore vintage, two-toned bowling shirts with thick vertical stripes, others saw it as an opportunity to impress the girls with their bulging biceps, a trick that required wearing T-shirts that were two sizes too small. It was a wonder they could swing their arms.
Roberto poked Jude, whistled softly, said that watching the redhead in lane six bend over to pick up a ball was alone worth the price of admission. Four center lanes were reserved for the band, a five-piece outfit that was actually not too bad. Very jam bandy, they were covering a Dave Matthews tune when the guys walked in, and not without skill. It sounded good, featured a propulsive groove, but at the same time, you didn’t have to pay attention to the band, either. The right sounds for Rock ’n’ Bowl. The place was all dark corners and cheap laser lights, punctuated by the clatter of crashing pins. It had been a while since Jude had been to the Alley Cat, and he was happy to be back, hearing the pins rumble like thunder. Jude was sure that half the crowd was buzzed on something, tripping the light fantastic. With that many guys and girls jumbled in one place, rock music blaring, strobes flashing, it felt like what school might have been like without the teachers and hall monitors.
Corey, Roberto, and Jude settled into their assigned lane to the far left of the cavernous alley. Jude typed in the names, which were displayed on an overhead screen, while Roberto read aloud from a paper place mat he’d picked up off the floor. “Did you know that bowling is the number-one participation sport in America?” he enthused. “More than seventy million people bowl annually!”
“These lights are very Dark Side of the Moon,” Corey observed, only half listening.
“I’m getting a pitcher of Coke,” Roberto announced. “Anyone need anything?”
“Curly fries,” Jude said.
“I’ll take the redhead in lane six,” Corey ordered. “To go!”
When Roberto returned, he poured a plastic glass for Jude. “Here,” he said.
Jude took a sip, then instantly reared back to look into the cup. “What the hell?”
“Captain Morgan sails again,” Roberto said. “Arrrr, yo-ho-ho, me mateys. I smuggled in a bottle of rum!”
“I don’t know,” Jude demurred. “You’re driving, Roberto.”
“Trust me, Lumbus,” Roberto said. “I’ll take it easy, just a drink or two. I’m not going to get all freak-tarded.”
Corey grabbed his glass and tapped it against Roberto’s. “Here’s to grog and wenches and designated drivers,” he said, and drank deeply.
The games got progressively sloppier as they goofed their way through the night. They rolled and drank, bowled and slurped, with Roberto keeping their glasses full. At first they watched the scoreboard, kept a brisk pace, and pretended to care. But after a while, Roberto dropped out entirely, claiming boredom; he preferred to provide color commentary from the back table. True to his word, Roberto sipped slowly on his rum and Coke, but it made him more talkative than ever. After a poor shot from Jude that left pins at each end, Roberto announced, “Hey, split happens.”
And when Corey missed an easy spare, Roberto lamented, “Corey, you’re being very undude right now.”
Corey shrugged, held up his hands in a gesture of indifference.
“Jude, dude. Look down there to the right,” Roberto suddenly instructed. “Way down on the far side of the band. Is that Becka?”
Jude didn’t see her at first. The place was dark. But Roberto was right. The band was getting ready to take a break. Becka stood at the top of the lane, amid a small throng of fans. She looked great and clapped enthusiastically.
Becka? What is she doing here?
“Which one’s her?” Corey was eager to know. “I’m dying to get a look at Jude’s future wife.”
Jude picked up a ball, stood a little unsteadily, got set to roll another. His brain didn’t seem to be fully functioning, like a slow computer that couldn’t download the information fast enough.
“What the frak?” Roberto said. “Stop bowling, Jude! Go say hi.”
“Yeah, bring her back here,” Corey urged. “I want to meet this girl.”
Jude felt lit and loose and Becka was actua
lly here, now. It was like the hand of fate. His friends were right. He’d go find her, say hello. Why not? Jude looked across the lanes. He’d lost sight of her. Becka was somewhere between the strobe lights and shadows.
“She’s going to love you in those shoes,” Corey said. “Believe me, they are total babe magnets. This is the night.”
Jude smiled, flung the ball carelessly down the lane, didn’t look back. “Back in a flew—I mean, a few,” he said, a little slurry.
The band had stopped, so more people seemed to mill around the carpeted area behind the lanes. Jude walked slowly, craning his neck, looking for Becka. Where was she? When he saw her, Jude stopped cold. She was seated with a group of older-looking guys. Well, not seated with. Seated on.
She was sitting on some long-haired guy’s lap.
Jude watched from fifty feet away as Becka fed the boy a french fry. She laughed, playful, bare-shouldered, gorgeous. Becka had a hand around the boy’s shoulder. Jude knew she had a couple of older brothers. But he could imagine Roberto’s voice in his ear: “Dude, I don’t think that’s her brother.”
No, this guy was the drummer in the band. The drummer! Probably drove a freaking love van with cheap carpet in the back. A night’s worth of rum and coke mainlined to Jude’s brain, fogging his thoughts. He spun, turned, staggered as if punched, more buzzed than he realized, and made his way back to Corey and Roberto.
“We gotta go, we gotta go right now,” Jude announced.
“Sit down, man,” Roberto said. “Pull up a chair. I can’t drive for at least another hour.”
“I don’t care,” Jude said. “We’ll walk, whatever. I’m leaving now.” Jude bolted, had to get out of there, the spinning lights, the crowds. He fled in search of fresh air.
Corey and Roberto exchanged glances, followed Jude out the side door.
“You all right?” It was Corey in Jude’s ear, holding him by the upper arm. “What happened?”
“She’s playing Santa with the drummer—the freaking drummer!” Jude sputtered.
They eventually got the story out of him, not that it was anything new: Boy meets girl, girl rips heart out of boy’s chest, feasts on his entrails. Welcome to the zombie apocalypse. Same old, same old. Corey wrapped an arm around Jude’s shoulders, steadied him. “The high school isn’t far from here. We can hang by the bleachers, howl at the moon. You’ll be okay.” He turned to Roberto. “Can you go back inside and smuggle out a pitcher of Coke?”
Before You Go Page 7
