How to Disappear

by Sharon Huss Roat

  The girl behind us glances nervously at Lipton before answering. “Um, eight?”

  Lipton slides the grubby pair over to her. “This is all they have in size eight, apparently. You want them?”

  She grimaces. “No, thanks. They’re nasty.”

  Shoe Guy takes a much nicer pair of size eights from the cubbies and hands them to the girl. She receives them guiltily and hurries away. Which is exactly what I want to do.

  I probably deserve the scuffed shoes. I don’t even know how to bowl.

  But Lipton is pissed. Off.

  He lifts himself taller and gets right in Shoe Guy’s face and says, “We’d like to trade these for a different pair, please.”

  “You’ll have to go to the back of the line,” the guy says.

  Lipton’s jaw gets very tight. I have never seen him like this, even when Jeremy was laughing at his Minecraft presentation. Instead of blushing and laughing it off like he usually does, he slides his arms wide so they block the width of the counter.

  “No, actually, we’ll wait right here while you reach two feet behind you, grab that pair of size eights . . . right there.” He motions to the cubby directly behind the guy. “And pass them over here to me. Then we’ll give you back this crummy pair that shouldn’t even be in circulation anymore. Okay?”

  Shoe Guy stares Lipton down for a minute, and I just want to disappear before this whole ridiculous situation draws any more attention. The guy finally takes the worn shoes away, and replaces them with the new pair.

  “Thank you.” Lipton smiles pleasantly, leaning across the counter so he can get even closer to the guy. “I’ll be sure to mention the excellent service we received next time I see Mr. Pasternak.”

  The oh-crap expression on the guy’s face is priceless. Lipton gives him an exaggerated thumbs-up and we turn toward the lane we’ve been assigned.

  Everyone. Is. Staring.

  But these are not the what’s-wrong-with-her? sort of stares I’ve grown accustomed to. They are more of the whoa-did-you-see-that? variety. Still unnerving, but not as bad. When we reach our lane, Lipton sinks into a chair and lets out a slow, whistly breath.

  I drop to the seat next to him. “You okay?”

  He nods, but his hands are shaking. “My therapist says I need to stand up for myself. It scares the crap out of me, though. I’m not naturally assertive. You may have noticed.”

  Lipton has a therapist? This fact stops me, because of the way he mentioned it so casually. Like it’s no big deal, when for me even walking into Mrs. Greene’s office feels like a humongous deal. I desperately want to ask him about this, but instead I just say, “Well, you can tell your therapist you were great. I could never do that.”

  “Yes, you could. If you had to.”

  “But you didn’t have to.”

  He smiles on one side, dimple tweaked. “And let you wear those awful shoes on our first date?”

  I lower my gaze. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

  “Well, I would’ve.”

  “So, you stood up for me, not yourself.”

  Lipton pinches his lower lip between his fingers for a minute, then sits up taller. “Still counts,” he says. “I’m counting it.”

  “Okay.” I smile. “Lipton, one. Judgey Shoe Guy, zero.”

  Lipton raises a fist in victory. “Yes!”

  “Who’s Mr. Pasternak, anyway?”

  “The owner,” he says. “He owns all the bowling alleys around here.”

  “You know him?”

  Lipton grins sheepishly. “Never met the guy.”

  I laugh. Too loud. It’s a guffaw, really. I slap my hand to my mouth. Lipton laughs, too, but at a normal volume.

  He bends down to unlace his street shoes and I realize I’m going to have to take mine off, too, which is one of those weird things that goes on my list. I’m afraid to remove my shoes in public.

  What if my feet are smelly?

  What if there’s a hole in my sock?

  What if I misplace one of my shoes and then have to walk around with only one shoe?

  Lipton is already lacing up the red-white-and-blue ones. He glances over, sees that I’m not doing the same. Sticks out his patriotic feet.

  “Come on, they’re not that bad,” he says.

  I laugh nervously. Still can’t take my shoes off. “Is there a ladies’ room?”

  He points to where it is, next to the arcade.

  “I’ll be right back.” I hurry away with bowling shoes in hand before I have to explain my shoe problem.

  The bathroom is gross. I balance on one foot while changing the shoe on my other, so I don’t have to touch my socks to the floor. I should change into a fresh T-shirt, too, except I’m afraid I might drop my sweater on the floor or into the toilet. Also, Lipton is waiting and if I don’t get out there soon, the awkwardness of having spent too long in the bathroom will ensue.

  I quickly finish and wash my hands and now it’s been almost ten minutes since I came in here and he’s going to think something’s wrong with me.

  This is pretty much why I should never leave the house.

  I waste another two minutes coming up with eight different excuses to explain my lengthy absence. When I return to our lane, I don’t have to use any of them because Lipton is not there.

  Add “Being abandoned in a bowling alley” to my list.

  I sit and wait, walking myself through various scenarios of what I will do if he never returns. Most of them end with me never leaving my house again.

  A minute later, Lipton comes out of the men’s bathroom. He gestures to my feet and shouts, “WHAT ARE THOSE?”

  I want to die.

  I mean, I know the meme. I’ve seen the videos on YouTube and witnessed kids at school shouting it at each other a thousand times. There’s a reason I don’t wear interesting shoes.

  “Sorry,” he says quickly. “You actually look really good in those.”

  I’m pretty sure my face now matches the red in the shoes, and I can’t think of anything funny or clever to say.

  A waitress appears, carrying a full tray of drinks and food. She rests it on the table behind us. “I’ve got two milkshakes and a large order of fries for lane thirty-eight,” she says.

  “That’s us.” Lipton stands again. “But I didn’t order—”

  “On the house.” She nods toward the shoe counter.

  Shoe Guy waves. All friendly-like.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” says Lipton under his breath. He doesn’t wave, though. Just stares at the guy for a second and then gives the slightest of nods.

  “He must really need that job,” I say.

  Lipton pops a fry into his mouth. “You think?”

  I sit across from him at the table and we take turns dipping fries into the little paper cup of ketchup. Our hands brush every now and then, and it is ridiculous how much of an effect it has on me. Like I’ve been existing in some kind of suspended animation, my nerve endings grown numb from lack of use. Lipton is jolting them all back to life.

  A trio of girls walks by on their way to another lane. One of them wiggles her fingers at Lipton. His eyes widen and he looks over his shoulder to see who she’s waving at. But the only thing behind him is the empty bowling lane.

  He blushes, and they giggle.

  “Do I have ketchup on my face?” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “No.” I smile and shake my head.

  “What?” He runs a hand through his hair—his super-thick, flopping-adorably-over-his-eyes hair—and brushes some nonexistent dandruff from his shoulders. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” I can’t tell him they think he’s cute because that would be almost the same as telling him I think he’s cute, which I do, but I can’t say that. “They’re just being friendly?”

  “Oh.” He glances at them and checks his shoes once more, then straightens his shirt. “We should get some balls now,” he says, then quickly adds, “bowling balls.”

 
He takes me to the rack behind our lane, where an assortment of colorful balls is available, and helps me choose one. Eleven pounds. Bright pink. I have no idea how to hold it, and I put the wrong fingers into the holes.

  “No. Like this.” He shows me how to position my hand. For a minute, I forget how open the bowling alley is. How on-display we are. It’s like a little cone of privacy has fallen around us, just Lipton and me and my bright pink bowling ball.

  “Then you lift it like this,” he says, twisting my wrist around so the ball rests in my palm. His face is very close to mine, his voice low. “And use your other hand to steady it until you’re ready to swing it back. Got it?”

  “I think so.” But that doesn’t mean I want him to step out of our protective cone.

  He lets his hands linger on mine for a few seconds longer than necessary. “We really don’t have to do this if you’re not into it,” he says. “We could play arcade games, or just sit here and talk and watch the other bowlers.”

  “No,” I say. “Let’s bowl. I want to bowl.”

  I mean, how hard can it be?

  Lipton smiles. He wants to bowl, too. And from the way he expertly selects his own ball and carries it, I’m guessing he’s pretty good.

  “Just don’t laugh,” I say.

  “I promise.” He sits at the controls for our lane. “You want to be Vicky, or . . .”

  My eyes widen.

  “. . . Do you want to use a different name?” He starts typing, and the name “Gregor” appears on the scoreboard above. I wait for him to add the “y” but he doesn’t.

  “Call me Vic, then,” I say.

  Lipton types it in. Gregor and Vic. And we bowl. Or, rather, Lipton bowls and I attempt to roll the ball in the general direction of the pins, though it invariably ends up in the gutter. Luckily nobody is playing in the two lanes on either side of us, so I can almost pretend nobody sees me. Almost.

  After five turns, my score is a whopping thirteen. Lipton’s is fifty-eight, and I’m pretty sure he’s purposely trying to miss. He keeps giving me tips. “Follow through,” he says, showing how my hand should end up pointing in the direction I’m aiming.

  “Okay. I got this,” I say, with a confidence I usually reserve for Vicurious.

  I approach, lift the ball, swing my arm, slide . . . and forget to let go. The ball arcs high and comes down with a loud thunk. In the next lane. It doesn’t roll all the way to the pins. It just . . . it stops.

  Lipton buries his head behind the scoring console. He’s trying not to laugh. Or maybe pretending he doesn’t know me. His shoulders are shaking. And people in other lanes, all the way down the alley, are looking. And pointing.

  I scurry to the seat behind him and hug my knees to my face. “You said you wouldn’t laugh,” I mumble.

  He comes back to sit next to me. “I’m not laughing at you—”

  I snap my head up. “Don’t even say it.”

  “Just kidding. It’s okay.” He bites his lip. “People do that all the time.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Uh-huh.” He nods, then shakes his head. “Actually, no. I have never seen that in my life. Do you know how much oil they put on those lanes? They’re super slippery. I didn’t think you could stop a ball like that even if you tried.”

  I bury my face again. “Not helping, Lipton.”

  “Sorry.” He lays his hand on my back, just below my neck, and rubs small circles. He has now touched me in four different places.

  “You want me to get you a new ball?” he says.

  “How about I just watch you?”

  “That sounds like the worst date ever. I bowl, you watch? No.”

  I sit up straight. “I’m serious. I want to watch you bowl. I bet you’re really good at this. Show me your best stuff.”

  He scrunches his face up. “Really?”

  I nod. “Really.”

  He sighs. “This is weird.”

  “And when has that ever stopped you before?”

  “Ouch.”

  I laugh. “I mean that in the best possible way.”

  “Okay, but you have to sit up here at the console and talk to me.”

  I move to the console and try to look official. Lipton picks up his ball and rolls a strike. Then another strike. Some spares and another three strikes. He’s playing my turns, too, so my score is looking much better.

  “Wow,” I say. “I might catch up to you.”

  Then he purposely gutter balls on his own turns so that I do.

  “Not fair,” I say.

  He beams at me. Only two more rows or frames or whatever they’re called left to play. It’s his turn again, or time to play his turn, not mine.

  “You’re not going to let me win, are you?” I tease.

  Lipton narrows his eyes at me and stands there longer than usual, then slowly begins his approach and sends a curveball down the lane. I’m not really paying attention to the ball, though, or how many pins he knocks down, because those new jeans he’s wearing are a little distracting.

  “Steee-rike,” he says, grinning. “Your turn.”

  I blink up at him. “You mean, your my turn?”

  “No, your your turn.”

  I shake my head.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll even put the bumpers up.”

  “Bumpers?”

  He points to the lane where three girls are playing. I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s a padded rail on each side. One girl stands at the foul line, holds the ball in both hands, swings it low between her knees, and lets it roll. It ricochets off the bumpers all the way down and ultimately takes out two pins. She squeals.

  “See?” he says.

  I do. I see a girl who possesses the kind of joyful abandon I’ve been seeking, but am too scared to embrace—even attempt—in my own skin. I need a disguise and an alias to enjoy that kind of freedom. She goes again, this time standing backward. She bends over and pushes it through her legs, then watches it go like that with her butt sticking up in the air. She doesn’t care how she looks or who may be watching her. The ball hits the bumper once and then slowly moves to the center, knocking down the remaining pins. Her friends hoot as she celebrates with a little touchdown dance.

  When I turn back to Lipton, I realize I’m standing. My body is braver than my brain, apparently. He hands me a ball. Not my ball, which is still sitting in the middle of the empty lane next to us, but an identical pink ball. I didn’t even see him get it.

  He walks right up to the foul line and kicks a lever on each side of our lane, and the bumpers pop up.

  I hold the ball in both arms and shuffle to where he stands.

  “Just let ’er roll,” he says. “Any way you can.”

  I swallow and nod. Glance around. Nobody is watching, but I still can’t bring myself to stick my butt up in the air and roll it between my legs. I slip my two middle fingers into the holes and grip the ball the way Lipton taught me.

  “You got it,” he says, backing away. Which is probably a good idea, considering my last attempt.

  I wait until he is well out of range, step my left foot forward, swing my ball arm, and release.

  It rolls mostly straight. Grazes the left bumper. Veers back to the center and ohmygod . . .

  I knock them all down.

  Lipton hoots. I turn around, hands pressed to my mouth, which is opened wide in a silent shriek, my shoulders pulled up to my ears.

  “You did it!” He rushes toward me, wraps his arms around my waist, and spins me around.

  I cling to his neck until we come to a stop and I feel the floor beneath my feet again. But he doesn’t let go. It’s full-body contact, arms around each other, chests and hips and thighs pressed together. Too many points of contact to count.

  I’m pretty sure Lipton is as surprised as I am to find himself holding me like this, our noses mere inches apart. His whole face is open—eyes and mouth wide and smiling. Still laughing.

  “You did it,” he says softly now.


  I might keel over if he lets me go, but not from embarrassment or humiliation or fear. No, this is something else entirely.

  “I did it,” I whisper, all breathy.

  And before I can even consider the possibility, Lipton kisses me. His warm lips are on mine at first with a loud smack. A celebratory kiss that stuns me, and him, too, I think. Like he didn’t really plan to do that. But still he doesn’t let go.

  “That was . . . I . . .” His gaze drifts down to my mouth, then back up to my eyes.

  His grip around me softens, his hands sliding to my hips. I rest my fingers on his shoulders.

  And we kiss.

  In front of the whole bowling alley and I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m scared of everyone who could be watching, but I really don’t want to stop.

  I could’ve died happy with the hand-holding alone. But the kissing? This is something worth living for.

  Lipton’s lips release mine and break into a shy smile, which I return. Then he’s grinning. His lips are truly exceptional. Kissing. Smiling. Grinning. Smirking. You name it. Lipton’s lips excel at everything. They should have their own Instagram.

  “Should we, uh”—he looks around us—“finish our game?”

  I couldn’t care less about finishing the game, but people are watching, and now that the kissing has stopped, I feel like I might start hyperventilating a little. We walk back to the console, and he points up to my score. “Look. You’re winning.”

  I steady my eyes on the display, not really caring what it says but needing something other than Lipton’s lips to focus on. I am breathless, and happy.

  If I am winning, it is not against Lipton. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I am winning against the fear of being—of taking up space and getting in the way . . . of being wrong or stupid or pathetic or not good enough. Of being laughed at.

  Finally, I am winning against myself.

  26

  WE DON’T FINISH THE GAME, because we realize the concert’s supposed to be over in ten minutes and Lipton’s mom will be picking us up in front of the Clubhouse. We return our rented footwear to Now-Humble Shoe Guy, and run into the cold. Compared with the din of the bowling alley, the night air is quiet and peaceful. We can hear and see our breath as we hurry down the hill toward the Clubhouse.