by Ginger Scott
“Look at you, throwing an eleven-pounder, Mabee,” Tory teases as June walks up with a bright green ball cupped in her hands. She curls one arm to form a bicep and Tory laughs.
“Can I use yours?” I ask her, standing and walking over to the ball return where she’s just sat the green ball down. June twists her mouth up on one side and Tory snickers before turning his body away from me in his seat. I stare at the top of his head, doing my best to burn laser beam holes through his skull.
“What’s so funny?” I object, shifting my stare from his head to June’s face.
“It’s just, eleven is kinda heavy,” my friend says, tapping her finger on the 11 etched into the ball.
“It’s fucking eleven pounds. That’s like a cat!” I reach for the ball as she laughs at my comparison.
“You’re not throwing a cat down the lane, Abby.”
I glare at her while I poke my fingers awkwardly in the holes. They’re enormous, and too far apart.
“I know I’m not throwing a fucking cat at pins, June. That would be cruel.”
Her eyes widen as she glares at my hand along the smooth surface. Her mouth pops open, but before she can talk me out of it, I drop the ball on the return with a clunk and brush my hands off on one another, determined to throw the eleven-pounder.
“I’m using yours. Thanks,” I say, taking the seat next to Tory. He gets up the second I sit.
“Are you seriously that appalled by my ball selection?” I shoot my question at him, but he keeps walking toward the balls to pick his own.
This vibe is strange, as if I’ve walked in mid-fight, or to an intervention that’s not quite fully started. What the f—?
June slips into the seat Tory just vacated and types on the keyboard, changing Lucas’s name to Princess. I smirk and puff out a laugh.
“Funny, right?” she says, pushing enter just before the boys come back with their balls.
Tory goes first, stepping up on the smooth wooden floor and positioning his feet with this super serious stance. He holds the ball in front of his body, lining it up, then takes three quick steps toward the pins, launching the ball down the lane dead center. Pins explode at the other end, leaving one standing on either side.
“Nice!” I say as he walks back toward us.
“It’s a seven-ten split. Nothing nice about that,” he huffs.
I shrug and glance to June, not knowing what the hell is so wrong with what I just said.
“It’s really hard to knock both of those down now at once,” June explains in a whisper.
I look back up to Tory as he stands with his hand hovering over the stream of air blowing from a vent on the ball return.
“Don’t choke,” I say just before his ball appears on the rack. He only offers me a sideways glance.
“I love when you two give each other shit,” Hayden says, stepping up behind me and running his palms along my shoulders, then squeezing gently.
“Yeah, don’t choke, bro!” Hayden tacks on. Tory’s feet stop short of the arrows on the floor and his hand holding the ball lowers to his hip as he turns and looks at his brother, his head leaning to the side. Hayden bends down and rests his chin on my head, wrapping his arms around my neck and shoulders completely. Tory’s body quakes with a short laugh.
“Fifty bucks says I nail it,” Tory says. Even though he’s talking to his brother, his eyes are on me, almost as if he wants me to take the bet. Hayden’s arms relax and unwind from around me as he stands tall and pulls out his wallet.
“I’ve got twenty,” he says to his brother.
Tory’s mouth ticks up on one side. “So, you’ll owe me thirty.”
The pregnant pause as they dare each other is filled with the pumping beat of the pop music on the Eight Lanes’ sound system.
“Deal,” Hayden says.
Tory nods in agreement, and their little rivalry is sealed.
“He’s going to blow it.” Hayden’s voice carries over my shoulder.
I lean in, resting my elbows and palms on the small counter in front of me, suddenly not sure whether I’m rooting for Tory to succeed or fail. He rolls his shoulders and positions the ball in front of him, just as he did before, only his body is lined up on the far right side of the lane. My gut knots as he begins his approach, and all I can envision is his ball roaring angrily down the right gutter.
I hold my breath with his release, a mixture of hexes and hopes coming from everyone else.
“Do it, Dude! Do it!” Lucas shouts as Tory’s ball teeters along the very edge of the lane, practically skating without spin as it heads toward the single pin on the right.
“No way it kicks around. Not enough juice, bro. Not enough—” Hayden’s curse is cut off by the flinging pin that strikes into and takes out its twin on the far side of the lane.
“Yes!” June and I both say together. I guess I was rooting for Tory to make it. I feel as though maybe he needs a win.
Tory saunters back to us and his brother steps out from behind me with his hand outstretched to congratulate his brother. After they shake, Tory comes in close and pats Hayden’s chest with a heavy palm.
“Better hope you get tips at Two-fers,” he says, his eyebrows lifting just before his gaze sinks down to where I’m sitting. “Unless you wanna make another deal? Double or nothing?”
The smile on my face flattens under the heat of his eyes. I don’t get the sense he’s bargaining with dollars anymore, and the insinuation pisses me off.
“I’m not on the table,” I interject, turning to the side and crossing my legs. My bare knee pops through the ragged hole in my jeans and my green sweater falls down on one shoulder as I cross my arms over my chest.
A slow laugh brews in Tory’s chest, soundless at first until it comes out loud as he holds his stomach.
“I don’t know what your obsession is with me having you on a table, but that’s not appropriate now, Cortez. You went and picked the wrong brother.” It’s a typical barb from him, the kind I’m used to mostly, but there’s also an extra bite to it, and I can tell it’s made everyone uncomfortable. Hayden shoves his brother, pushing into his shoulder and knocking Tory off balance.
“Not cool, Dude. Knock that shit off,” he says, throwing the twenty dollars at his brother’s chest. Tory catches it against his sweatshirt, crinkling it up in his palm. “I owe you thirty.”
Hayden moves toward the balls to take his turn, brushing into his brother’s shoulder, clearly on purpose. Tory’s body twists from the force and his half smile lingers on his lips as he looks down at the money in his palm. His mouth finally shuts into a tepid straight line and he pushes the money into the back pocket of his jeans, the prize apparently no longer worth bragging about.
“Glad this isn’t awkward or anything,” Lucas says from behind me.
“He’s just going through things,” June adds, her eyes softening on mine. She’s trying to communicate to me without words, using our friend code, hoping I understand. I do. Hayden is a talker, and he’s opened up to me about how hard his parents’ split and the ugly way it all came to a head has affected him. Tory locks it all inside. I identify with him more than he thinks.
Hayden takes his turn, only knocking down nine. When June vacates the seat next to me to get her ball, Hayden slides in, a tight look on his face from the reaction from his brother. I can tell by the way he avoids his brother completely that it bothers him, but I’m not sure I’m the person who should step in to ease the situation. I tend to inflame things with Tory.
“Of course she bowled a double,” Hayden mutters as June spins on her heels and holds both hands up in the air to gloat.
“I mean, she does kinda work here,” I say, leaning into him. He leans back, meshing our shoulders together.
“Gotta love it when your girl kicks your ass in a sport,” Lucas grumbles teasingly, cradling his ball in both hands and bending forward to dust a kiss on June’s lips.
“That was sexist, but the kiss was sweet, so I’ll forgive y
ou,” my friend says. Hayden and I both laugh, but stop at the sound of Tory’s feet slapping against the floor in his slick bowling shoes. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see his goofy grin or his hand up to high-five June for putting Lucas in his place; but instead, my gaze locks with his and there isn’t a smile to be found. His mouth is pure nothingness, a lifeless line. He’s in a dark place.
I wait for him to wander down the row of balls and out of earshot before I mention my thoughts to Hayden while Lucas takes his turn.
“Do you think you should go talk to him?” I spare another glance as I lean in closer to Hayden. His hand flattens along my thigh, his fingers curling to scratch at the frayed threads of one of the holes in my jeans. It tickles, and I let out a little giggle that catches Tory’s attention.
“Nah, he’s just moody. Probably stressed about therapy next week.” Hayden’s words conflict with my gut and the look on Tory’s face, but I don’t need to poke my nose into more drama. I have enough of my own.
“You’re up!” Hayden brings me back to the action on the lanes, and I stand, wiping my hands along my hips. I have no clue what I’m doing.
“Green ball, I’m gonna make you my bitch,” I say, wrapping my hands around the ball June used. I bring it toward my stomach, masking the strain I feel because this shit is way heavier than I thought it was.
“Just remember, your goal is straight,” June encourages, clasping her hands together like she’s praying. She’s probably hoping I don’t launch this sucker at her feet.
“Need help?” Hayden gets up from his seat, and I can imagine how this whole scene plays out, with him standing behind me, holding my arms and helping me push the ball forward from between my knees like a child. It’s a cliché romantic scenario but I’m having none of it. Hayden is sweet, and comforting. But we are not doing the romance thing. And I won’t be handled like a baby.
“I got it!” The words come out forcefully, and his slight flinch tells me I might have offended him.
I work to soften it.
“If you help me, nobody is going to believe I got this strike all on my own.”
Hayden’s mouth curves on one side and he sits back down with a nod and a chuckle, knowing that I’m talking shit I can’t back up. This is my way.
My focus returns to the line of pins sixty feet or so away from me. This ball in my hands feels twice as heavy as it did before, when I tested it. No matter. It’s just a rock. And I just need to push this rock on the floor with enough umph to knock over one of those things at the end. Easy.
Doing my best to mimic the approach everyone made before me, I hold the ball in front of me and stretch my palm as wide as it will go, inserting my fingers in the damn holes that I can barely reach. After I line up my ball with what I estimate to be about the middle, I slide my slick bowling shoe-clad feet along the floor toward the line where the lane officially begins. My arm drops to my side, swinging as my hand clenches with every bit of strength I have not to drop this heavy fucker on my feet. The ball rocks back then swings forward across my hip and I let go when my body is lined up with the pins as good as it’s going to.
“Ohhh, shit!”
Lucas’s exclamation registers in my mind a fraction before I realize what I’ve done. My arm did not swing straight at all. Far from straight, actually. More of a veering extremely to the right. And the ball slipped out maybe a little later than I planned, causing it to fling rather than roll. Not that it matters, because it bounced two full lanes over, careening into the gutter of lane six, then swishing its way toward the dark pins still guarded by that thingamabob that lines them up.
I want to repeat what Lucas just shouted, but all I can seem to do is stare at my results with my mouth gaping open. The ball is slowing, and by the time the slow drawled “fuuuuck” leaves my lips, the green sphere that I was so sure I could handle is stalled in the middle of lane six’s gutter.
“Here.” Tory’s tone isn’t his usual tongue-in-cheek, and I’m sure my expression shows how surprised I am by it when I turn to face him. He’s holding an orange ball, an eight stamped in its surface. His eyes dip and see what I’m noticing, so he shifts his hand and covers the number completely.
“It’s just a ball. That one isn’t made for you. This one is, though.” He isn’t laughing, and that’s odd. No jokes about how I can’t even handle throwing a ball straight. Tory D’Angelo must truly be broken because he’s not even picking on the low hanging fruit to tease me. His low-key demeanor is unsettling.
“Ohhh-kayyyy.” I cock my head slightly in trained suspicion. Tory breathes out a short laugh through is nose.
“Fingers go in the holes,” he finally says through a crooked grin.
“Double entendre in that statement?” I plunge my fingers in and hook my thumb in the final hole, lifting the ball from Tory’s palm in a brisk, confident movement. It’s lighter, and the right fit.
“Just helping a girl out,” he says, again avoiding the shot I teed up for him.
I turn my attention back to the still complete set of pins waiting for me, and shuffle my feet forward, pushing my shoes together and squinting as I align the ball with the center. Tory’s still in my periphery, and I catch him walk away but do a full turn and come back, stopping a couple feet to my right.
“Can I?” he asks.
I turn my head to face him, finding his open palms waiting tentatively, slightly reaching toward me. I nod quickly.
“Go on,” I say, twisting my lips.
“Oh, sure, you’ll take his help,” Hayden hollers. He’s joking, but there’s a hint of jealousy in the tone. I think.
“She wants help from winners,” Tory says back, glancing to his brother briefly before meeting my gaze and winking at me. There’s a sudden lightness to his face and his smile reaches his eyes.
Tory places one palm along my back and holds my shoulder with the other, pushing lightly as I scoot to my left with his guidance.
“You’re lining your body up, but the ball is to your right, in your hand. You have to sort of correct for that. Make sense?”
It does. I nod.
He taps his foot into the side of my shoe a few times.
“Relax your legs, soldier. This isn’t marching band.”
A breathy laugh falls from my lips as I realize how tense I am. I do as he says, even adding a few inches of space between my feet, and bending my knees.
“Okay, so now . . . instead of the pins,” he says, timidly moving closer to my shoulder until he’s so near I can smell the spearmint of the gum he spit out in the parking lot on our way in. I don’t flinch but I can’t help but react to his closeness, turning my head to face him just as he does the same. When our eyes meet, he swallows hard. I can’t help but see it. Hayden is watching, and I’m sure Tory doesn’t want this to seem weird. It’s not weird. Only, it feels weird.
“The arrows,” he finally mutters, clearing his throat. His eyes shift out toward the lane, and I follow the direction of his gaze.
“What arrows?” I ask, scanning the pins. Tory leans in more and points toward the middle of the floor, where the small arrows are painted on the lane.
“Those aren’t for decoration?” I ask.
His body shakes with a short laugh at my side. “No, Abby. Those aren’t decoration.”
I glance at him briefly, catching the smirk. I shrug in response, partly to signal that he should make some space. He seems to get my hint, and drops his hands down to the pockets of his jeans, shuffling backward.
“Well, go on, then,” he says, nodding his head toward the pins.
Using Tory’s technique, I take a deep breath and line my arm up with the center of the lane, using the arrows to guide me. With nothing to lose, I pace forward and let my arm swing the surprisingly light ball, letting it go in just the right spot. I leave my hand in the air and walk back as it rolls forward, aiming for dead center.
“Go, baby! Go, baby!” Hayden’s voice echoes behind me, and soon his hands are on my hips
. My ball makes contact and knocks over seven pins, and Hayden lifts me up, spinning me in his arms and swinging me around in a giant bear hug as if I just achieved world peace . . . at the Olympics.
I smile because I’m proud, even as Lucas reminds us all that it’s only a seven.
I catch Tory’s eyes over his brother’s shoulder and he holds up his hands and gives me a golf clap with a nod.
“Thank you,” I mouth.
My God, that is the first time I have ever said those words to this boy.
The strange undertone of competitiveness between the twins carries us through the next nine frames, but by the time we start the second one they seem to have settled whatever silent pissing match they had going on. June kicks all of our asses anyhow, breaking two-ten for the first time, which I guess is a really big deal in bowling.
When Tory gathers our shoes to return to the counter and Hayden and Lucas drift over to the pool tables, I pounce on the free moment with June so I can finally tell her my news. I sit in a seat opposite her and fold my legs under me.
“You know Jordan Shotcraft?” I know she does. She has seen every single one of his movies. He’s dad hot, and married to one of our favorite singers, Lillian Ash.
“Oh, my God, did you get to meet him?” June is literally sitting on her hands and swinging her legs. She’s gonna die when I tell her.
“Better,” I say, letting my sly grin sit there to hold the moment. Her eyes widen slowly.
“No!” She grabs my arms and pulls them toward her, causing me to laugh and lose my balance. I unfurl my legs, but not in time to stop my fall. Before I hit the ground, though, Tory wraps his arm around my body from the empty seat next to me.
“I have that effect on women,” he says, giving me his classic wink as he rights me in my seat. The mint scent from his gum is now replaced by the faint aroma of his cologne. It’s different than Hayden’s—maybe richer, woodsier, if that’s a thing.
I’m trying to form a clever response when June kicks her feet forward and touches my knees with the toes of her shoes. I shift my focus to her and her eyes are still wide.
“Abby Cortez, you better tell me now. And if it’s what I think it is, you better take me with you.” Her head shakes on its own just to show me how firm she is about this.