by Donna Cooner
“This is going to be great,” Alex says.
I’m still not so sure, but he’s so happy not knowing the truth. And his arm feels so perfect around my waist. So I nod, picking up the ugly pink-and-black-striped shoes with two fingers, and head toward the racks of brightly colored bowling balls.
It takes a while to pick out just the right ball and get settled in at the lane. I choose a yellow ball with green swirls because I like the way it looks, but have no idea if it’s the right size.
Alex gets everything set up at the scoring desk, typing his name first, then mine on the screen. Seeing Linden projected up there for everyone to look at makes me even more nervous.
A group of four ladies are at the lane next to us. They are all wearing coordinating striped shirts that say “Dolls with Balls” on the back in pink sparkle, and each has a bowling glove on one hand to match. Even their shoes are matching, and I’m jealous they don’t have to share them with hundreds of other feet.
The tallest one, who’s wearing retro eyeliner, smiles at me when I sit down. Her name, Belle, is embroidered over one pocket in bright pink. I nod at her self-consciously, then slide into the bright orange plastic chair next to Alex.
Alex goes first and knocks down most of the pins with the first roll. It looks effortless, his arm swinging gracefully at his side as he hurls the ball toward the pins at lightning speed. A baseball star and a bowling ace? Is there anything he can’t do? And what in the world is he doing with a klutz like me?
His second ball knocks down the rest, and the Dolls with Balls high-five him and yell congratulations. Now it’s my turn. All I can think of is how short the skirt of my dress is, and how everyone is looking at my backside. I take a couple of breaths to try to calm the frantic pounding in my head. Pointing the ugly shoes toward the pins, I swing my arm back as fast as I can, holding on tightly to the ball. Too late, I can feel it slipping away from my fingers. It sails out of my hand, flying through the air and bouncing across the floor toward the booth.
Crap.
I drop my head in embarrassment. I can feel the ghost of that stupid loser medal hanging there around my neck. Only now it’s grown to the size of a bowling ball.
I turn around, clapping my hands over my mouth, to stare at Alex. He stands up, walks over to me, and slowly pulls my hands down from my face.
“Are you okay?” he asks. I nod, feeling the heat burning in my face. “How about some lessons?” he offers.
“That’s probably a really good idea.”
“Let’s try this without the ball first. Face the pins.” Alex stands behind me, one hand sliding down my elbow to my hand. My breath catches. “Swing your arm backward … like this.” He pulls my hand gently back toward his body, and suddenly bowling is the last thing on my mind. His breath is in my hair. Against my neck. I look over my shoulder, and he is so close I could almost kiss him. But who does that at a bowling alley?
Then the moment is shattered.
“I really think you need a different ball.” Belle is standing beside the ball return with her hands on her hips. “I can help you pick one out.”
Reluctantly, I agree, and between her and Alex and the rest of the Dolls, I eventually knock down a few pins and avoid the gutter. Then something magical happens. All the lights go off and everything glows—the balls … the pins … Alex’s teeth … my shirt. The Dolls with Balls cheer and I can’t help but smile, too.
I walk up to the line, glowing ball in hand, and throw it out onto the lane. And to everyone’s surprise, it rolls straight and fast and right into the first pin. The chain reaction is impressive. I watch, mesmerized, as one pin after another falls until the last one sways, then topples.
Oh my God.
My first strike!
I jump up and down, yelling and screaming like I’ve just won a million dollars. The Dolls are whooping and dancing around like they won, too. Then Alex sweeps me up into his arms, congratulating me and hugging me so tight I forget all about the stupid worst-score medal from years ago.
I don’t have to pretend anymore.
I love bowling, ugly shoes and all.
Later, we go to the tiny snack bar, and Alex picks up a plastic menu from the counter.
“May I take your order?” he asks, bowing slightly beside my chair. “Unfortunately, we have a bit of a limited menu tonight.”
I pause, look down at the choices, then back up at him. “Is there a special you recommend?”
He winks at me. “I highly recommend the corn dogs.”
“Perfect. Exactly what I had in mind.”
“My kind of girl,” he says, and we both blush. He heads over to order us the corn dogs and I watch him walk away, my head spinning from all the details. Like how his shirt bunches and tightens across the muscles of his back and the way his thick black hair curls up just a tiny bit right at the base of his neck. I swallow hard and look down at the tabletop.
When Alex comes back carrying the plates and drinks, we eat the corn dogs and share a plate of fries, laughing about my horrible start at bowling.
“Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t bowl?” he asks, dipping a fry into a pool of catsup.
“Was it that obvious?”
He tilts his head and looks at me like I must be kidding.
I bite my bottom lip and then admit, “I didn’t want you to think I didn’t want to go with you.”
“Did you want to go?” he asks, pausing with a French fry halfway to his mouth.
“No. I mean … ” I look him in the eye. I don’t want to lie to him. “I didn’t want to go bowling, but I wanted to go with you.”
His brows draw together. “I hope you still had fun.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “It was a blast.”
“And you could have told me … ” he says.
“I know. I’m working on the speaking-up thing. Sometimes I don’t tell people what I’m thinking … but that’s not your fault.”
He hesitates and then says, “I like hearing what you think.”
I freeze with the corn dog halfway to my mouth. The look on his face is sucking up all the oxygen in the room, but in a good way.
Then the door flies open and a group of middle school boys push into the tiny snack bar, slapping one another on the back and congratulating one another on a game well played. The moment between us is broken and we go back to casually eating French fries while the boys order soft drinks and hamburgers at the counter behind us.
Then Alex laughs and says, “If you hadn’t come bowling, then we never would have seen how fast those Dolls could duck when that bowling ball was coming toward their heads.”
I grin. “That was totally worth it.”
I take another bite of the corn dog.
“What do you think of the food?” Alex asks.
“Your culinary tastes are excellent,” I say.
“They should be. I’ve actually been working at one of my family’s restaurants for … ” He pauses. “Well, as long as I can remember. I’ve been a cook, waiter, dishwasher, and busboy. You name it, I’ve done it.”
“How many restaurants does your family own?” I ask, tucking my hair behind my ear. I fumble for the straw in front of me and lean in to take a long sip of Coke, my gaze never leaving his face.
“The new one out on Highway 30 will be our third when it opens up next month. I’ll help out there when baseball season is over,” he says.
I wonder how it would feel to walk through the door and see Alex waiting tables. I bet he’s good at it. Just like he’s good at baseball and bowling. And hugging. Instantly, the heat is back and crawling up my throat to my face. The snack bar smells like hamburgers and French fries, but all I can think of is the clean, soapy smell of Alex’s neck.
“How is your story coming along?” he asks me, and I blink at the reality jolt.
I make a face and sigh. “Not great. I don’t really have an idea.”
“I’m sure it’s hard,” Alex says. “I think it’s amazing how
stories and characters can just come out of your brain,” he says, and takes another bite of his corn dog. The boys at the counter take their food to go and head back out to the sound of crashing pins and shouts of celebration. The door closes behind them, shutting out the noise and leaving only a faint whiff of hamburgers behind.
“It gets a little crowded in there sometimes,” I say, tapping my forehead with my finger.
He raises his eyebrows in question.
“I’m always making up some kind of backstory,” I tell him. “Like that guy working behind the counter?”
Alex nods and looks over.
“See his silver metallic computer case by the cash register?”
Alex nods again. “I do now.”
“Pretty out of place for a guy working in a bowling alley snack bar, don’t you think?” I ask, but then lean across the table and quickly add, “So I’m thinking he actually works for the CIA and he’s carrying around classified documents inside.”
Alex laughs but looks impressed. “See. I told you that brain of yours was incredibly cool. I never notice those things, and I sure wouldn’t have thought of anything like that even if I did.”
I hesitate. I’ve never tried to explain my writing brain to anyone before, but his attitude makes this part of me feel special and unique—not totally bonkers.
“It’s not only about the thinking part. It’s also about putting it into words, and that’s the part I’m struggling with right now.” I lean back into my chair, pushing away from the table. “Do you know how many writers have tried to describe the green of the grass or the blue of the sky? Hundreds? Thousands? I have to somehow come up with something different. Different words in a different order. Something better?”
“That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.” He finishes the last bite of the corn dog and wipes the crumbs off his mouth with the paper towel.
“Even more if you consider the reader is a totally unknown partner in this whole thing. Say I wrote a story about a cow and two people read it. One person may never have seen a cow, and the other may have lived on a farm with cows all their life.”
“Never thought about it like that before, but you can’t predict what someone is going to think before you even write it.” He dips the tip of the empty corn dog stick in the edge of the catsup and draws out a red line on the paper plate. “I guess that makes it hard. Risky.”
I nod. “And I’m not a fan of risk-taking.”
“I don’t know much about writing, but I do know baseball, and a good coach always helps. Maybe you need someone to read your stuff and give you feedback. Like a coach.”
It is good advice, but I’m not sure I’m ready. Just talking to Alex about writing is a huge step for me. And even though he’s making me feel like a rock star right now, I don’t know if I can trust him, or anyone else, to actually read my writing.
“It’s hard for me to share my stories with anyone,” I admit. “If someone reads what I write, then they know how I think. Who I am,” I say. “They might not like me … I mean, the story.”
“But if someone never reads what you write, are you really a writer?” he asks.
I frown, thinking about it. “What came first—the chicken or the egg?”
“Exactly. Can you be a real writer if no one actually reads what you write?”
I don’t like his logic. Mainly because it’s hitting way too close to the truth. I let out a fake little laugh. “Sure you can. Anyone can write.”
This time I’m glad when our conversation is interrupted. A man wearing a black T-shirt and jeans comes through the door. His reading glasses are propped up on top of his head and he has bands around his ankles, the kind that keep pant legs out of bike spokes. The man pulls his glasses off his head and reads the menu, then orders a latte from the guy behind the counter.
Alex nods in the direction of the two men, then leans across the table. “You think he’s the contact?”
I blink at him, not understanding at first. Then I get it and smile slowly. Not only is Alex supporting my wild imagination, he’s actually joining in. “Yeah,” I say. “He’s passing him the secret code on that napkin right about … now.”
We both watch the man settle into a seat by the window. He blows on his cup of coffee, then stretches his legs out onto the seat in front of him. When he glances over to see us watching, we simultaneously look down at the table.
“The napkin,” Alex whispers, rolling his eyes toward the man at the window. “He just crumpled it up and put it in his pocket.”
After we finish laughing at the close call, Alex says, “Name me one person who wrote something that was never read.”
I don’t want to hear this. It’s making way too much sense. “I can’t … because I don’t know who they are.”
“My point exactly.” Alex is staring at me so hard I have to look away.
“Okay. I do want people to read what I write, but what if they don’t accept me?” Then I blurt out, “Or, even worse, what if they accept me and I’m not good enough to actually keep going? What if I let everyone down?”
“What if you let yourself down? What if you don’t even try?”
It is a huge dilemma. One I’ve struggled with in my head for a long time.
“I’m scared,” I say quietly. “What if they don’t like it?”
“What if they do?” he asks. Then he smiles in a way that makes my neck go hot.
When we leave the bowling alley, Alex drives me home. As he turns onto my street, he says, “I have a baseball game in Conroe on Monday, but I was wondering if you want to come over to my house Tuesday after school and do homework?”
My heart jumps. I’ll get to see where Alex lives. “That sounds great,” I say, not even bothering to hide my big grin. “I can ride the bus to school and then ride home with you?”
He nods, pulling the car up to the curb. “But I have to warn you, my family is pretty crazy right now.”
I laugh. “Crazier than a house full of firefighters?”
He grimaces. “You haven’t met my grandmother yet.”
“Does she live with you?”
“No, she lives with my uncle and my cousin Luis. But these days she’s always at our house helping with the quinceañera plans.”
“Your uncle owns the Rivera Funeral Home, right?”
He nods, then turns off the car. It has been a perfect evening, and I don’t want this date to end. Not by a long shot. But he opens his door and reluctantly I get out, too. I lead the way up the sidewalk.
“Wait,” he says quietly behind me before I can reach the front steps.
I look back over my shoulder and his hand is reaching out for mine. I turn around and take his hand.
“You don’t have to go in yet, do you? Let’s sit out here a minute.”
My fingers tangle into his. I look around at my front yard. “Where?”
“Here.” He sinks onto the grass and gently pulls me down beside him. It should probably feel weird to be sitting outside on my front lawn on a Saturday night, but it doesn’t. Instead, I almost forget where we are and that the romantic lighting is really just the streetlight two doors down.
We sit like that a few minutes, legs outstretched. A car rumbles down the street in front of us, the headlights briefly lighting up the “Vote Max Rossi for Student Council President” sign on the lawn across the street, but then it is quiet again. The sky is black now, clouds covering all the stars above. A half-moon slides into view briefly and is quickly swallowed up again by the darkness. It reminds me of something I haven’t thought about for a very long time.
“I was fascinated by stars when I was a kid,” I say, leaning back on my elbows. “When we used to go camping, and there were no city lights, I would stare up at the stars for hours.”
“Was this before or after the s’mores?”
I’m surprised he remembered. “After. There would be one or two stars out at first, then by the time the fire died down to just the glowing embers, there w
ould be layers upon layers. Deeper and deeper. It was like you could almost see into another universe.”
“That would be a great beginning to one of your stories,” he says. “Sorry we can’t see any stars tonight.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I whisper. “It’s good just the way it is.”
Then we sit there for a long time in the quiet because it’s perfectly okay to not say anything at all. The air is so still, I can feel his body moving gently beside me as he breathes.
Finally, Alex speaks. “If you could choose to be a character in any book, who would you be?”
“I’m more of a secondary kind of character,” I say. “Like the best friend.”
“But if you were the main character?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, thinking about it for a minute. “There are so many to choose from and they are all so different. Jo from Little Women. Anne from Anne of Green Gables. Katniss from The Hunger Games. I could go on and on.”
“Why haven’t you recommended any of those books to me?”
It’s a good question, and I think about it for a minute. “I didn’t know if you would like them. They’re about girls.”
I can see him smile even in the dark. “I like girls.”
“I’m a girl,” I say.
He laughs quietly. “I know.”
He raises his hand, still caught up in mine, and traces his thumb gently against my lips. My face explodes with heat, and when his hand slips away, I lean in toward him. The first kiss is soft. Just a touch. There is one more and then another, longer and deeper. I slide my hands up his arm to his shoulders. I wrap my arms around his neck, feeling the power of his muscles under my hands. He leans back on the grass, pulling me against his chest, and we are kissing …
And kissing.
And kissing.
Ross Adams & Raylene Anderson
IS SHE WORTHY?
Here’s what you are saying:
* Talk about an odd couple. He’s six inches shorter and ten times smarter.
* No way this is going to last!
* He must have a thing for crazy girls.
