by Piper Banks
I smiled at him. “Thanks, Dad.”
“And Peyton . . . well, I know she hasn’t been entirely welcoming to you.”
That was the understatement of the year, I thought. Peyton’s nostrils flared with dislike every time she saw me.
“But it’s not personal. I know that might not make sense to you, but it’s really not about you. It has more to do with her relationship with me. I don’t think she ever envisioned sharing her house with a stepchild,” Dad continued. “She has a hard time adjusting to new situations.”
I nodded. “I understand,” I said, although I really didn’t. Peyton had everything in the world—money, status, a beautiful house, a nice husband, a gorgeous daughter. She spent her days getting facials and having lunch with her friends. What did she have to be bitter about? But I appreciated that for once my dad hadn’t lied to me by insisting that Peyton loved having me live with them.
Willow whined again as she caught sight of a flock of seagulls foraging on the beach. In Willow’s mind, she was a great hunter. I decided not to point out to her that she’d never actually managed to catch anything. It wouldn’t be good for her self-esteem.
“Come on, girl,” I said, giving her leash a gentle tug. “Let’s go for our walk and see if today is the day you finally catch a seagull.”
Chapter Eight
When we got to the bowling alley the next afternoon, Amelia seemed nervous. She hesitated just inside the front door, standing with one leg twisted around the other, and her arms folded over her thin chest. Her eyes, normally large, seemed huge and dark in her small, angular face.
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I said encouragingly.
Amelia shot me a scathing look. “I’m not worried,” she said.
She’d been touchy all morning, ever since I first got to the Fishers’ house. Any progress we’d made the day before seemed to have vanished. Amelia had barely acknowledged me when I greeted her—although she was practicing her scales at the time—and then became positively mulish when I’d reminded her we were going bowling.
“I can’t,” Amelia had said flatly. “I have to practice extra today to make up for the time I took off yesterday to go paint pottery.”
“We were only at the ceramics studio for an hour,” I’d said.
“I know! A whole hour!”
I’d tried to sweet-talk her into going with me, then tried to bribe her—promising that we’d cut tomorrow’s activity short to allow her more practice time—and when that failed, I resorted to threats.
“Bowling,” I said firmly. “Or else, I won’t give you a moment of peace for the rest of the day.”
Amelia had not given in gracefully. She scowled, and huffed, and dragged her feet getting ready to leave, until I finally pointed out that the longer it took us to get there, the less time she’d have to practice later. She finally came along, silent but seething with resentment. Amelia hadn’t said a single word to me during our bike ride to the bowling alley. I decided it was time to make peace.
“Come on, this will be fun,” I said encouragingly.
Amelia just looked at me, disbelief stamped on her face.
“The first thing we have to do is get bowling shoes,” I said. “Look, my friend Charlie is working. Let’s go say hi.”
Amelia and I stood in the shoe rental line behind a family of four. Charlie smiled and waved when she saw us.
“Who’s that?” Amelia asked.
“That’s Charlie,” I said.
“But Charlie’s a boy’s name,” Amelia said.
“Not always. It’s short for Charlotte,” I explained.
Amelia’s mouth twisted. “That’s stupid. Girls should have girls’ names. And her purple hair looks dumb.”
I bit back the impulse to say something equally immature—something along the lines of Oh yeah? Well, I’m rubber and you’re glue, so anything you say bounces off me and sticks to you! But then I remembered that I was supposed to be the mature, responsible one in our relationship, so I just smiled serenely. The family in front of us finished collecting their bowling shoes, and Charlie waved Amelia and me forward.
“Hi!” Charlie said brightly. She smiled at Amelia. “You must be Amelia. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Amelia shot me a deeply suspicious look, clearly not believing that I could have said anything nice about her, but finally muttered, “Hi.”
Charlie raised her eyebrows at me. I rolled my eyes heavenward.
“I take it you two are here to bowl?” Charlie said.
“That’s right,” I said. I took off my shoes and handed them to Charlie. “I’m a size nine.”
Charlie took my shoes, holding them gingerly with two fingers.
“My shoes aren’t stinky,” I said indignantly.
“That’s what you think,” Charlie said, sliding them into a cubby and handing me back a pair of ugly red-and-black bowling shoes. “But handling people’s footwear is what gets me the big bucks.” Charlie smiled at Amelia. “Hand over your shoes, and I’ll get you set up with a pair of lovely bowling shoes, too. What size do you wear?”
“Um, no, thanks. I’m good,” Amelia said.
“Aren’t you going to bowl?” Charlie asked.
“Yes, she is,” I said firmly.
“I want to wear my sneakers,” Amelia said.
“You have to wear bowling shoes on the lanes. It’s the rule,” Charlie explained.
“But I don’t want to wear someone else’s shoes,” Amelia said, looking appalled. “That’s so gross.”
“I know, isn’t it?” Charlie agreed. “But we clean them out after every use.” She demonstrated this by picking up a shoe, and spraying a perfumed cloud of Lysol into it. “See? Ninety-nine point nine percent germ free.”
Amelia reluctantly kicked off her sneakers and handed them over. Charlie pushed a pair of baby blue bowling shoes with Velcro fasteners over the counter.
“I call this pair the Lucky Blues,” Charlie said, with a wink in Amelia’s direction. “Everyone who wears them bowls nothing but strikes.” She handed me a flyer with instructions on how to log on to the computer for our assigned lane. “You’re on lane three. There are instructions on how to use the bumpers—you know, those things that keep the balls from going into the gutters—on there. People like to use them for kids.”
“Do I get to use the bumpers, too?” I asked.
“No,” Charlie said. “You’ll have to rely on your skill.”
“I think I’m in trouble,” I said, and we both laughed. Amelia didn’t join in. She just stood there, blue shoes clutched in her hands, looking miserable.
Amelia was not a natural bowler. At first, she was too tentative, pushing the ball so gently, I wondered if it would come to a complete stop before it reached the pins. I tried coaching her—I wasn’t a great bowler myself, but I knew the basics—but Amelia ignored me. Clearly she had decided that if I was going to make her participate in nonmusical activities, she would do her best to make the outings as unpleasant for me as possible. So far, her plan was working splendidly.
“Good job,” I said when Amelia had finally put a bit of heft in her toss and managed to knock down five pins.
“Whatever.”
I could feel my temper reach its breaking point. “This isn’t supposed to be torture.”
“You could have fooled me. You’re the one who made me come here,” Amelia retorted.
“I thought it would be fun,” I said.
“I didn’t,” Amelia said. She shrugged her thin shoulders. “You can make me bowl, but you can’t make me enjoy it.”
“There’s the spirit,” I muttered.
“Hey, foxy ladies,” a familiar voice said.
I turned, and saw Finn slouching over, his hands stuck in his pockets. He looked pleased with himself. I hoped he hadn’t finally realized his life’s ambition of successfully hacking into the CIA’s computer system.
“Hey,” I said, holding up my borrowed purple bowling ball. “
What are you doing here?”
“I have a hot date,” Finn said.
“Does anyone ever say they have a cold date? Or a lukewarm date?” I asked.
“Not me,” Finn said. “I only go for the hotties.”
“Lovely,” I said. “Who’s your date? That girl you met here the other day?”
“Yep,” Finn said smugly. He regarded Amelia. “Hello. You must be Miranda’s underling.”
“Finn,” I said warningly. Then, turning to Amelia, I said, “Amelia, this is my friend Finn. Finn, this is Amelia.”
“Hi,” Amelia said so softly, I wasn’t sure she’d spoken at first. I glanced at her, and saw that her eyes had gone very large and very round, and she was staring at Finn as though he had personally invented the piano.
Uh-oh, I thought. I hoped Amelia wasn’t developing a crush on Finn. Crushes are never easy. And crushing on an older teenage computer genius who lacks a moral compass is an especially bad idea.
“We should probably get back to our game,” I said, holding up my bowling ball.
But Finn—who has never grasped a subtle hint in his life—sat down on one of our lane seats. “I have some time to kill before Phoebe gets here. I’ll hang with you while I wait.”
“Lucky us,” I said, without enthusiasm.
While I bowled a spare, I could hear Finn chatting with Amelia.
“I hear you’re a musical prodigy,” he said.
“I don’t know about that,” Amelia said modestly.
“Are you one of those people who can hear a song once and play it perfectly?” Finn asked.
“No,” Amelia said.
“That’s too bad. That would be a cool thing to be able to do. Almost like a superpower,” he said. Then, reconsidering, he said, “Or maybe a minor superpower. I mean, it’s not like being able to morph into an animal or run faster than the speed of light.”
“I can play Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number Three,” Amelia said. “It’s one of the most difficult pieces a pianist can attempt.”
“That’s pretty cool,” Finn said.
“Your turn,” I said to Amelia. She reluctantly got up and retrieved her bowling ball from the return. I noticed that she had dropped the sullen attitude for the first time all day. I guessed it was for Finn’s benefit.
I sat down next to Finn. “You’re meeting Phoebe here?” I said.
“Yep,” Finn said.
“You couldn’t think of a better place for a first date?”
“What’s better than bowling?”
“I don’t know. A nice dinner out. A walk on the beach. A surprise trip to Paris,” I suggested.
Finn wrinkled his nose. “That’s a bit obvious, don’t you think?”
“But bowling is subtle?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Finn said. “Subtle and cool in a retro, old-school sort of way. Plus, I’m an excellent bowler, so it will give me a chance to show off my talents.”
“You’re a terrible bowler,” I reminded him. “You always do that weird shimmy thing with your hips, and end up throwing it straight in the gutter.”
Finn looked affronted. “I do not,” he said.
“Yes, you do.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Did you see me?” Amelia asked, appearing in front of us, her face pink with pleasure. “Did you see how many pins I knocked down?”
I glanced up at the overhead computer screen, where the ongoing score was kept. “You knocked down eight pins! Good job.”
“Not bad, kid,” Finn said. “But next time you should try it without the bumpers. Those are for losers.”
“Finn,” I said warningly.
“What?” he asked. He placed one hand, palm down, over his heart. “I always speak the truth.”
I was about to tell him where he could stick his truth, but Amelia surprised me by smiling broadly. “It’s okay. I should try it without the bumpers,” she said.
Amazing. I spent hours and hours with Amelia, trying to break down her defenses, without any success. And then Finn swanned in, make a few smart-alecky comments, and Amelia was suddenly all smiles.
“I’m getting a soda,” I said. “Amelia, do you want one?”
Amelia shook her head, but Finn perked up. “I’ll take one if you’re buying,” he said.
“You can get your own,” I said, and stomped off to the snack bar. On my way back to the lanes, I saw that there wasn’t anyone waiting at the shoe rental counter, so I stopped by to chat with Charlie. She was leaning forward, elbows propped on the counter, staring vacantly out at the lanes.
“I’m so bored,” she complained. “I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck in here for the rest of the summer. There aren’t even any windows. It’s like being stuck in a really loud cave.”
“At least it’s cool in here,” I said. “I feel sorry for Dex. He has to sit out in the sun all day.” Where he’s surrounded by cute girls in tiny bikinis, I added silently, before willing this unproductive picture out of my head.
“How is Dex?” Charlie asked.
I shrugged. “He’s fine.”
“Just fine?” Charlie shot me a shrewd look.
I sighed and tucked my hair behind my ears. “I met Dex’s ex-girlfriend the other night.”
“So?”
“She’s gorgeous. She’s actually a model, if you can believe that. And I’m pretty sure she’s still in love with him,” I said.
“Why? Did she tell him that?” Charlie asked.
“No, of course not. What was she going to do? Announce, Dex, I’m still in love with you, right in the middle of our date?”
“Probably not,” Charlie conceded. “But you have to admit, it would be a seriously gutsy move. You’d have to admire a girl who’s willing to put it all out there, damn the consequences.”
“Charlie!”
“Sorry. Why do you think she’s still in love with him?”
“Just from the way she kept finding excuses to touch his arm. Oh, and she kept stroking her hair. Aren’t those obvious signs of flirtation?” I asked.
“Hmm, I’m not sure. The arm touching, yes, definitely. But the hair stroking could just be a nervous tic. Did she expose her neck?” Charlie asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Like this.” Charlie lifted her chin and tipped her head to one side. This made her look like an inquisitive, purple-haired bird. “When you see a girl doing that around a guy, it’s a definite sign that she’s interested in him.”
“I can’t remember if she did that,” I said miserably. “But trust me, she’s interested. I could tell. And they have this whole history together. It just makes me . . .” Insanely jealous. Absolutely miserable. Engage in wild fantasies about Wendy’s perfect complexion breaking out in huge, pus-filled pimples. “Uncomfortable.”
“What did Dex say about her?” Charlie asked. “Has he given you a reason to think there’s something to be concerned about?”
“No, not really. But . . .”
“But what?” Charlie was starting to look impatient. She crossed her arms and pinned me with a sharp stare.
“It’s probably nothing. But I keep having the feeling that there’s something he’s not telling me,” I said.
“What about?”
“That’s just it. I have no idea,” I said. My stomach clenched nervously. Maybe Dex wanted to break up with me and wasn’t sure how to tell me. But no, that didn’t sound like him. After Charlie, he was the most honest person I knew. And when he called me last night, his voice had been warmly affectionate, and he’d been really supportive when I told him how well things had gone with Amelia at the pottery studio. But I couldn’t shake the lingering worry that there was something he wasn’t telling me. I just hoped that the something wasn’t five-foot-nine with golden blond hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a crazy-good body.
“What’s she doing back here again?” Charlie muttered, eyes narrowing. I followed her gaze and saw Phoebe McLeod walking through th
e front door of the bowling alley. Today, she was wearing her strawberry blond hair loose around her shoulders, and she looked bright-eyed and expectant.
“She’s meeting Finn,” I said.
“What?” Charlie asked, with such ferocity, I almost took a step back.
“They have a date. Although I told him it was totally lame of him to take her bowling on a first date. He has this delusional idea that he’s going to impress her with his bowling prowess,” I said.
“But Finn can’t bowl. He does that weird thing where he shakes his hips right before he throws the ball,” Charlie said.
“That’s exactly what I told him.”
We watched Phoebe’s progress as she passed by the shoe rental and walked toward the lanes. She paused, glancing around until she saw Finn, who was still chatting with Amelia. Finn looked up, saw Phoebe, and stood to wave at her. Phoebe grinned back, tossed her hair over her shoulders, and waited for Finn to walk over to meet her.
“Hey, you,” I heard Finn say when he reached her. “Are you ready to get beaten by the God of Bowling?”
“You wish,” Phoebe replied, giggling. She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m going to crush you.”
“Hey, you’re right about that neck thing,” I said to Charlie as we watched Phoebe tip her head back, exposing a creamy expanse of neck.
“What does he see in her?” Charlie hissed.
I didn’t think Charlie really wanted to hear the answer—that Phoebe was pretty, and flirty, and obviously liked Finn. I looked over at Amelia, who now stood alone at our lane, one arm wrapped around her body. I felt a surge of pity for her, as well as a flash of anger at Finn for deserting her. He might not think there was any harm in chatting Amelia up, but I knew only too well how painful it was to have an unrequited crush. It was especially hard at Amelia’s age, when you wanted so badly for everyone to stop seeing you as a little kid.
“I have to go,” I said.
Charlie didn’t answer, and I wasn’t even sure if she heard me. She was too busy staring at Finn and Phoebe, who were now walking toward the shoe rental counter.
“I wonder what size shoe she wears,” Charlie muttered. “I’m going to give her the ugliest pair of bowling shoes we have.”