by Amy Sparling
The girl behind the counter loses her smile. “Wait, are you eighteen?”
“Yeah,” I lie. My eyes flicker to the door. A huge, eye level sign states that you must be eighteen to enter. How did Ben not see that sign? And where is he now to vouch for me?
“Prove it,” she says, crossing her arms. I throw up my hands, Captain Obvious style. “I don’t have my purse with me, and I’m waiting on my brother so I’m about to leave anyway.”
She glances at the beaded door then back to me. “You’re with Marla? I didn’t see you come in.”
Before I can answer, a new voice fills the room. Sounding like he had just rolled out of bed, he says, “Bobby. Your intimidating ass is scaring away the customers, and Max isn’t here so…” I can’t see him from behind the rack of hemp jewelry, but I definitely know that voice.
Bobby slams his fist on the counter. “Max hasn’t been here for three fucking days.”
The raspy voice continues. “There are other resources, bro.” In silent steps, the owner of the voice walks in front of us. I stare at his white shoes, too embarrassed to look up.
“Let’s go,” Bobby says to his friend who has spent the last few minutes texting on his iPhone. Bluntz takes a spot behind the counter next to the girl and gives me a little smile of acknowledgement. I smile too, and wonder if that’s the way he smiles at everyone or if maybe he made it a little more sincere for me.
His hair swoops across his forehead and tucks behind his ears. He drums his fingers on the counter. “You’re here.” It isn’t a question.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Is Ben in there?” He motions toward the beaded door. I nod. “Cool,” he says. We stare at each other for one second, or maybe thirty. Maybe even a whole minute. I’m vaguely aware of the girl next to Bluntz and how she’s giving us a weird look, but I don’t really care what a girl with the words Life is pain. Death is victory tattooed on her thinks. All I know is that for these few moments, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.
Bluntz is thinking that he has a crush on me. And I’m thinking that I have a crush on him, too.
Chapter 8
After dinner I start feeling sick. Not from the food, but from the rushing wave of apprehension that hit me after we left the smoke shop. Although I don’t know any details about Ben’s new job, I do know that he went into the shop without a backpack and left with one. All I can think about is how Ben is old enough to be thrown in jail for breaking the law.
Lying on my stomach in bed, I watch reruns of my favorite reality shows and it helps me forget about my own life drama. Until the main character starts smoking a joint. Ugh, how did I ever think this show was entertaining?
I switch to a different channel. Cocaine addict intervention. Different drug, same horrible reminder of Ben. I channel surf until I come to an episode of SpongeBob Squarepants. And it’s a marathon. I can’t go wrong with eight hours of that crazy talking sponge, so I drop the remote and start watching.
My cell phone rings, startling me. I’m not used to this whole cell phone thing. It’s Jill.
“Hello?”
“What? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing?”
“Okay, like I’m gonna believe that,” Jill says.
“I’ve had a boring day, so I’m kind of a zombie right now,” I explain. No need to tell her that her phone call made me forget about the troubles in Bikini Bottom and remember my troubles here in Lawson, Texas. Otherwise known as real life. “What’s up?”
“I’m trying to get a group together to go bowling. You in?”
“That depends, the good bowling alley or the crap one?”
She sighs. “The crap one.”
With a groan, I agree to go. The crap bowling alley is a place made for kids and it has mini golf, arcade games and playgrounds. It’s full of rabid children and always smells like pee. But the good bowling alley is forty-five minutes away so no one ever wants to go there.
“Do you want to spend the night after?” she asks.
“Not really, sorry. I’m just tired and—”
“Save it,” she says. “You’re still loving your awesome life with Ben, huh?”
Uh, no. “Maybe.”
“Look, Lexie. You need to stop hanging out with him and his quote-quote cool friends. They’re all going off to college and you’ll just be left here anyway. Plus you have me, and-”
“And you have Jordan.”
“So what? He makes me happy and you always say you want me to be happy.”
“I do. But not when your happiness interferes with my personal life.”
She laughs. “Shut up. And get dressed. We’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.”
It’s by some divine miracle that Jordan's threadbare tires and squealing brakes get us to the bowling alley without any casualties. I really need a car. A couple I somewhat know from school wait for us on the steps. Great, the so-called group Jill was getting together consists of two couples and me, the third wheel.
By the time we had paid and laced up our borrowed bowling shoes, my nose had adjusted to the place so I no longer smelled the urine. That’s a plus, I guess. We take turns typing in our names into the computer on lane fourteen. Jordan calls himself Tenacious J, which prompts everyone else to think of a funny name.
“Come on, we don’t have all day,” Kristie says, as I stare at the blinking cursor having no idea what to name myself. “I can’t think of anything,” I say. She turns to her boyfriend and starts sucking his face, so what does she care about how long it’s taking me?
I stare at the monitor. Tenacious J, Jill Pickle, Xtie, and Boss Man. Kristie and Jill leave to get nachos. With Kristie gone, Blake slides next to me on the bench that’s clearly made for only one person.
“You have to have a nickname.” He pokes my ribs. I suppress the urge to gag. Blake is on the football team and basically a man-whore, which normally isn’t a deterrent for some harmless flirting but his girlfriend for the week is with him tonight.
And she has bigger biceps than any girl I know.
“Well, I don’t.” I sigh, still racking my brain for something clever. What rhymes with Lexie?
Blake leans closer to me and his cologne makes my lungs shrivel. “What about sugar lips or sexy booty? Or-”
“Shut the hell up.” I type L-E-X-I-E into the computer, save it, and get the hell off the bench before he can say anything else.
Back in the day, before this place turned into a crap hole, the balls were organized by both color and weight on a long rack that stretched from one end of the bowling alley to the other. Now, the balls are still on that rack but finding the right size can take an hour. I walk from lane to lane, letting my fingers slide over each ball, turning it outward so I can read the size.
Fourteen pounds, extra-large. Six pounds, medium. Eight pounds, extra small—bingo. I lift it out of the rack and peer into the holes, making sure they are clean. I don’t want another finger in brown stuff that may or may not be poop experience.
“Eight pounds?” Someone’s standing behind me. I almost drop the ball when I recognize the voice. “Only nerds use eight pound balls.”
I snort. “That’s what she said.” Cradling the ball in my arms, I head back toward lane fourteen, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. Bluntz follows me. This is so not the right time to randomly run into him. Jill will see his hair and his lazy smile and she’ll know he’s a stoner.
“What are you doing here?” I stop at lane thirteen, which is occupied by five older women in matching bowling shirts. So far no one in my group has noticed me yet. Kristie is feeding Blake nachos. Gross.
“Just here for some rock-a-bowl,” he says. His dark jeans are just tight enough to be sexy and not creepy. They wrinkle up at the bottom of his Chuck Taylors. Why am I always noticing his shoes? Is it because I’m too chicken to look into those gorgeous eyes? He smiles haphazardly. “Why, is there something better to do at a bowling alley?”
I can’
t tell if he’s high or not, all I know is that my knees have turned into some kind of boneless gelatin.
“Who are you here with?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t say girlfriend. Please don’t say girlfriend. His hands slide into his pockets. “Some friends. This guy Max and some others…I can’t stand most of them.” His eyes dart over to a lane on the opposite side of the room.
I follow his gaze and see a few guys bowling in his lane. They look much older than Bluntz. “If you don’t like them, then why are you here?”
“It’s complicated.” He takes one half of a step closer to me and my head gets woozy. “Plus I get to run into people I sort of know and give them a hard time about their bowling ball preferences.” Oh gosh, he smiles again. If scientists could bottle that smile, it would cure every disease known to man.
“Lexie!” Jill yells, loud enough to make everyone in this bowling alley and the good one forty-five minutes away turn and look at us. “It’s your turn!” Jill’s eyes find me in the crowd, and then she sees Bluntz. He gives her a little wave.
And then she invites the stoner to come bowl with us.
We bowl two games. My best score is an eighty-three, but Bluntz is really good. He even has one of those dorky bowling forms when he walks up and releases the ball, letting one foot cross behind the other. Everyone smack talks and laughs and has a great time, and I realize that when Bluntz isn’t smoking a joint, he looks and acts just like a normal guy.
Things really heat up in the ninth round, with Bluntz and Jordan tied at 275. Bluntz gets up to bowl his turn.
“What was your name again?” Jill asks him. He stops just short of dropping the ball, which appears to be the type of distraction Jill wanted because she gives Jordan a wink as Bluntz turns to look at her. My body goes cold. So far I had managed not to say Bluntz’ name because it would have totally given him away. Jill isn’t an idiot. And now he will ruin the entire night by confessing to being one of the potheads that she despises.
He brings the ball back to his chest. I bite the corner of my lip. “I’m Cody.”
“Nice to meet you, Cody,” Jill says in this high-pitched, way too excited voice. As soon as he turns back to bowl, she grabs my arm and mouths the words, “He’s so HOT!”
Bluntz—er—Cody, bowls a strike. Jordan collapses in fake agony and Jill bounces between being excited for Bluntz and sad that her boyfriend lost. Bluntz and Jordan shake hands and then before I realize what’s happening, Bluntz’ arm is around me. “Great game,” I say, trying to diffuse the fireworks exploding in my stomach. He squeezes my shoulder. “Best game of my life. I’m normally not that good.”
Jill barrels into me, holding her cell phone two inches away from her face. “Shit, Lex. I’m supposed to be home in five minutes. I totally lost track of time.” She lowers her phone and grabs my arm. “Mom’s gonna kill me. Jordan better take me home first.”
“Leaving me alone with the suck faces?” I say, my face twisting in revulsion as I glance back at Blake and Kristie who are making out like the world is ending and this is their last chance. “Jill,” I whine.
Bluntz says my name, reminding me that he’s here and that I’m standing next to him and that, shit—I totally don’t want to go home now. I ignore him and look pleadingly at Jill. “Call your mom. Ask if you can stay out later. Say I got sick or something.” I raise my eyebrows and let them flutter over my wide eyes, hoping she gets my mental message of, “I want to spend more time with him!”
Her eyes flicker from Bluntz to me, and she does get it, I know. But she shakes her head and just keeps saying that her mom will kill her if she’s late. Bluntz says my name again, this time placing a hand on my elbow to get my attention.
“I guess I have to go,” I tell him, making no effort to hide my disappointment.
“If you want to stay longer, I’ll drive you home.” Bluntz shrugs and looks as if he’d been trying to tell me this all along.
There’s a thick silence in the air as Jill and I give each other a one-second look that says about a million things. Luckily Bluntz doesn’t know our best friend language, or he might have picked up on the embarrassing things Jill said to me with her eyes. Things like: OMG I’m so happy for you! And Make sure you wear a condom, you tramp! And, of course, the wiggle in her eyebrow that so clearly said, You deserve to be happy after Daniel broke your heart.
Bluntz excuses himself, saying he’s going to go ditch his friends for the night. Jill gives me a kiss on the cheek, something she never does unless there’s someone to see it, and then scurries Jordan out the door with threats of coming back to haunt him after her mom kills her for getting home late.
“Shall we bowl?” Bluntz asks, returning with a plate of nachos in his hand. He sets the plate on our table, and as I get a closer look I realize it’s not exactly nachos.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Bean and cheese nachos and curly fries with sour cream and avocado.” He takes the red squirt bottle in the condiment tray and drizzles ketchup all over the top. “And ketchup.”
“I didn’t know that was on the menu.”
He grabs a chip loaded with some of everything and shoves it in his mouth. “It’s not,” he mumbles. “I used to work here and they still let me screw around in the kitchen.” He scoops up a curly fry between two chips this time and takes a bite of his curly fry sandwich. I watch in equal parts curiosity and horror. “If you ask me though, it should be on the menu. It’s a stoner’s feast. They could call it the Bluntz.”
“Or the Cody,” I say with wry sarcasm. He nods. “That works too.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know your real name,” I say. Inwardly, I cringe at the realization that I’ve been crushing hardcore on someone whose name I only knew as Bluntz. A freaking drug term.
“You don’t know me that well.”
“I know you sort of well.” He looks like he’s about to argue, but then changes his mind and goes back to eating. Fine, let him think what he wants. Maybe I don’t know him well.
Individually, I like every ingredient on his nachos. But as it is, the plate looks like a mosaic piece of art gone terribly wrong. I reach out and grab a curly fry, dip it in the sour cream for good measure and eat it. Bluntz smiles in approval.
“Don’t sweat it. No one calls me Cody.”
“Not even your parents?”
He swallows and looks me in the eye, a smile tugging at his lips. “My parents named me Bluntz.”
“No way?”
He nods. “Well, Bob and Maxine did. But they’re my parents as far as I care.”
I raise an eyebrow, inclining that he should tell me more details, but only if he wants to. I’m not sure if talking about his parents, or lack of parents, is a sensitive topic for him.
Bluntz shoves a soggy nacho chip in his mouth, chews it and swallows. He takes a breath and begins speaking as if he’s rehearsed his story a million times. “I’m adopted. My mom was a pathetic druggie who hung out at the shop a lot. One night she asked my parents to babysit me and they did. She never came back, and when I was five years old Bob and Maxine legally adopted me.”
“Wow.” My stomach tightens like it does when you almost get in a car wreck. I picture my mom, as much as I hate her sometimes, and think about how worthless I’d feel if she left me with a babysitter and never came back. “That’s—um—that’s a shitty thing to do,” I say finally, giving up on trying to say something consoling. “I’m sorry.”
“It is what it is. Honestly, I’d rather be raised by my hippie parents than some drug-addict loser who doesn’t want me.”
“So where’d the nickname Bluntz come from?” I venture another bite, this time of a nacho. It’s actually pretty good when you’re starving from several games of bowling.
He smiles. “I’m Samoan.” His arm with all the bracelets on it presses against mine as he points out the contrast in our skin tones. “I’m all dark compared to the pale citizens of Lawson, Texas. Dad says when my real mom left me with them,
I was a brown baby wrapped in a brown blanket. Said I looked like a fat joint—otherwise known as a Blunt.”
A snort of laughter escapes me. “And here I thought it was because of your love of blunts.”
He gives me a crooked smile and a tiny wink. My toes wiggle as a rush of nervous excitement shoots through them. I gnaw on my bottom lip as if chewing up the courage to ask him what’s on my mind. “Can I ask you something that’s kind of personal?”
He stretches out his arms. “I am an open book.”
“Why did you call your mom a pathetic druggie when, well…you do drugs too?”
He pulls the black hair tie off his wrist and ties his hair back. I almost lose myself admiring his rigid jaw structure and then he talks, bringing me back to reality. “She did hard core drugs. Not soft stuff like pot. No one’s ever died from pot. People die from hard stuff every day. Hell, she could be dead for all I know.”
“So you’re saying there’s a difference?”
He nods and I can tell he’s trying to be nice about explaining something that’s so obvious to him. “I get my job done. I get school work done. I don’t loaf around all day being a waste of human life. I’m productive and I’m a good person. I don’t think God would strike me down for smoking a plant that HE put in the ground.”
I’m about to comment on how that actually makes a little sense when a roar of laughter explodes around us as Kristie laughs at something Blake said. “I think I’m going to get a drink,” I say. I’m not really thirsty. I just need to clear my head.
My thoughts assault me as I walk toward the concession stand. Am I really allowing myself to do this again? To open up my heart to the idea of wanting a new boyfriend? Ugh. This can’t possibly end well.
I look up just in time to stop myself from crashing into the person in front of me in the line. And then my heart stops cold. My body stiffens and something deep inside me screams to turn around and run but my feet are rooted to the floor. He turns around instead, cell phone in hand. When he sees me, he doesn’t freak out. He smiles.