by S. J. Adams
I wondered why none of these men were at work. It wasn’t like there could possibly be that many professional bowlers in Des Moines.
Besides the actual bowlers, there were a handful of people who looked like they were just hanging around. A few guys in tattered overcoats sat by the bar. Five or six old black guys were hanging by the pool tables, laughing and joking around.
Everyone there looked sort of grotesque, like they were covered in a thin layer of cigarette smoke or something, as though Megamart was selling bottled cigarette smoke as a gel and everyone had smeared themselves with it because they weren’t allowed to smoke in public anymore. Maybe they’d hung around the bowling alley so much that the weird smell got into their skin and was never going to go away.
It was just a bowling alley, but I’m not sure I’d ever seen anything so scary in my life. This was not the sort of crowd I was used to traveling among without being surrounded by Lisa and her friends.
There was no sign of Norman or the Fellowship
anywhere.
“They must not be here yet,” I said.
“Or they left already,” said Tim.
“No chance,” I said. “FCA bowling usually goes on for a couple of hours. They must have had Bible study first or something.”
“We can wait around, then,” said Emma. “Let’s go have something to drink.”
We walked up toward the bar, at which sat two old men in overcoats (who looked like they might be flashers or something) and a girl about our age. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress and a flapper hat, like the kind they used to wear in the 1920s, and a long string
of pearls.
Emma turned to her. “Hey, Moira!” she said.
The girl in the flapper dress—Moira—looked up. “Emma!” she said. “Have a seat.”
The three of us sat down at the counter, with me next to Moira, and Tim ordered three cups of coffee. I noticed a pack of old-fashioned Clove gum sitting on the bar next to Moira’s coffee cup.
“Debbie,” said Emma, “This is Moira Bernstein. She goes to Roosevelt.”
“Hi,” I said. “Cool outfit.”
Moira smiled. “Thanks!” she said, in a weird, New York sort of accent. “But it’s not Bernstein anymore. I’m changing it to St. Vincent Millay.”
“Moira’s, like, a time traveler,” Emma told me.
“I’m a practical time traveler,” said Moira, grinning. “I’m not from the past or the future or anything, but I prefer to ignore the fact that it’s the twenty-first century as much as I can. People had so much more style in the old days.”
“She comes to this bowling alley because it’s so retro, compared to most of town,” said Emma.
“And not fake retro, like those 1950s diners,” said Moira. “It’s genuinely old-fashioned. It feels like I’m closer to the days when things were black and white when I’m in here. It’s not a 1920s period rush, but it’s a period rush.”
“Huh,” I said.
“It’s a Bluist parable that the whole world was in black and white until the first time the Beatles appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show,” said Emma. “Then it all turned to color.”
“I wish it had just stayed black and white,” sad Moira, wistfully.
“The Wizard of Oz was in color,” I said. “And that was way before the Beatles.”
“Yeah,” said Emma, “but that was just a movie, not real life!”
Moira giggled, and the guy behind the bar brought us out three cups of coffee.
“You aren’t supposed to take parables literally,” said Tim. “They’re just stories to teach you a lesson.”
“So what’s the lesson?” asked Moira.
Emma thought for a second and drummed her fingers on the table. “The lesson,” she said, “is that the world turning to color should have been a gift, but we’ve squandered it. We must use our gifts wisely.”
“Good lesson,” said Moira.
Emma turned to me. “So, you know a bit about us by now,” she said. “We need to hear more about you!”
“Seriously,” said Tim. “Here we are, dragging you all over town on a holy quest, and I’m not sure we even know your last name.”
“Yeah,” said Moira, smiling. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“Well,” I said, “there isn’t much to tell. Ever since sixth grade, all I’ve done was hang out with Lisa Ashby. I joined Active Christian Teens because of her even though I’m sort of an atheist. Or agnostic, at least.”
“The things one does for love,” said Tim.
“Ah,” said Moira. “So you don’t just want her to be a friend.”
I sort of nodded and stared at my coffee.
“I’ve basically skipped being a teenager,” I went on. “I’ve spent every single Friday night for the last five years watching Full House in Lisa’s bedroom.”
“Featuring Kimmy Gibbler, patron saint of crazy schemes, and Uncle Jesse, patron saint of hair products,” said Emma.
“And Uncle Joey,” said Tim. “Patron saint of Popeye impressions.”
“Joey wasn’t anyone’s uncle!” I said. “He was just Danny’s best friend.”
Then I sighed and felt like an idiot. Most people my age get upset about the rain forest or women’s rights or whatever, but my cause was making sure people knew not to call Joey Gladstone “Uncle Joey.”
Sheesh.
“Whatever,” said Tim. “Joey was a total player, whatever he was. He never had a girlfriend last more than one episode.”
“So I realize now that I’ve, like, based all of my concepts of life, and romance, and everything on a cheesy sitcom.”
“That’s not unusual, is it?” asked Emma.
“Probably not,” I said. “But I wouldn’t know what’s usual and what isn’t.”
“I base my life on old stuff, too,” said Moira. “Last year I was basing it on Jane Austen. I still go Victorian sometimes, but the popular music back then was lousy parlor songs about kids dying. By the 1920s, the music was better and the dresses weren’t as bulky. And they still had style.”
“And there were movies,” said Tim. “Victorians didn’t have those, unless you count those five-second ones of guys sneezing.”
“Are you sticking with the 1920s from now on, or going someplace else next?” asked Emma.
Moira shrugged.
“Maybe I’ll go for the Mad Men era sometime,” she said. “They still had style back then, even though the world would have gone color midway through the series.”
“I guess I’ve basically been in the Full House era this whole time,” I said. “I never thought of it as time traveling, though.”
“At least they had a toilet on Full House,” said Tim. “On those really old shows, like The Brady Bunch, the bathrooms never had toilets.”
“So, what, they all just went in the corner back then?” asked Emma. “How do practical time travelers handle stuff like that, Moira? Do you have systems in place for doing without toilets?”
Moira smiled, gracefully flicked Emma off, and turned to me.
“New topic,” she said. “What is your last name, Debbie? Tell me what it is and I’ll tell you your fortune.”
“Woodlawn.”
“Very elegant. You’ll have a beautiful future.”
“It’s not pretty,” I said. “It’s trashy.”
“How the hell is that trashy?” asked Tim.
“Think about it,” I said. “A wood lawn is what you get when you’re too lazy to mow anything, so you just put down wood chips instead of grass.”
Emma laughed and sipped at her coffee. Moira
giggled.
“That’s very clever,” said Moira. “I like the way you think.”
“What about Spruce Lawn Drive?” asked Ti
m. “Like Lisa’s street. That’s what your name means. Not wood chips.”
“Oh, wow,” I said. “I never thought of that. Her street is almost exactly the same as my last name!”
This proved it. Lisa and I were meant to be. Maybe when Lisa’s parents had decided to build a house on Spruce Lawn Drive, it was because it subconsciously reminded them of the last name of the person their daughter would love forever.
“It’s a sign from Blue,” said Moira.
I turned to her. “Are you Bluish?”
She shook her head. “Emma and Tim have told me about it, but I’ve never given her the five bucks.”
“We understand,” said Emma. “Back in the 1920s, five dollars was a lot of money.”
I looked down at my coffee and dribbled in a couple of drops of cream. I barely even noticed, until I caught myself, that I was trying to dribble out Lisa’s initials. I was so caught up in talking to Emma and Tim that I was getting reasonably well distracted, but Lisa was still in charge of my brain.
Tim’s phone rang again and he looked down at the caller ID.
“Debt collector again!” he said.
“You should change your number,” said Emma.
“I’m about ready to,” said Tim as he put the phone into his pocket. “I’ll be right back. Gotta pee.” He got up to headed to the bathroom.
The minute he stepped out of earshot, Emma made a noise like a wounded animal and slumped her head down onto the bar, like she’d just suddenly had a heart attack and died right there at the bowling alley.
Ten
Are you okay?” I asked.
“Bob Nebraska,” she said, suddenly sounding miserable. “I’m in huge trouble.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Moira.
Emma looked up at me.
“I have a confession to make,” she said. “The reason Heather’s chasing us isn’t because of the prank, exactly. She has a huge crush on Tim.”
“No kidding?” I asked.
“No one knows but me,” said Emma. “That’s why she made up that rumor that he’s gay—so everyone else would stay away from him. And now I work my ass off to keep HER away from him. I set up his laptop so emails from her go straight to the trash, and her number comes up as ‘debt collector’ on his phone.”
“But isn’t that, like, a Bluish sin?” I asked. “Keeping her from a matter of the heart?”
“Yeah, well, I’m a sinner,” said Emma. “This isn’t one of those religions where the founder is perfect. Blue will judge me on Garbage Day. But I couldn’t live with him being with someone who once called me a manatee. She can’t have my Tim.”
“Wait,” I said. “Do you like Tim? Like, like him?”
Emma smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Only more than anything.”
“Oh my God!” I said. “Does he know?”
She shook her head in an emphatic “no.”
“Do you think he likes you?” I asked.
“He told me he does a couple of times,” said Emma. “But he’s just trying to make me feel better about myself, obviously.”
“Applesauce,” said Moira. I guessed that was flapper for “bullshit.”
“I’ll bet he likes you,” I said.
“What’s it matter?” asked Emma. “Look at Quinn. You don’t think he’d go out with her in a minute? He said himself that she looked good. When she catches up to us, which she will, she’s going ask him out and offer to do all kinds of nasty things to him. And I’ll never see him again.”
Emma looked almost as miserable as I must have looked in the bathroom earlier.
“I think that when he said she looked good, he was saying that just because she put on weight didn’t mean she looked bad,” I said.
“Maybe, but look at me,” said Emma. “She’s a bit chubby, but I’m the size of a small SUV. You could hollow me out and park me back in Oak Meadow Mills. I’d fit right in.”
“No,” I said, “you look fine!”
“Anyway, we have to stay away from her as long as we can. She didn’t find out about the dictionary thing today, like I said. She found out what I did.”
“She found out he doesn’t get her emails?” I asked. “Or calls?”
Emma nodded. “Every now and then Tim answers the phone when she calls, but he just says ‘I don’t owe you anything’ and hangs up before she can say a word. But this morning she overheard me telling someone else to change someone’s phone to make someone’s number come up as ‘debt collector’ and she put two and two together.”
“She must be furious,” I said.
“For the longest time she hasn’t come up to Tim or tried to talk to him because she thought he just ignored the calls and emails that he wasn’t actually seeing. Not to mention that I was always hanging around him. Now that she knows he’s never really blown her off, it’s only a matter of time. But I want at least one more great holy quest. If you end up hooking up with Lisa, at least this will all have been for something. And if I can last the night and we have that one goal left to cross off, maybe I’ll at least get to see him naked one more time.”
“Maybe he only agreed to that to see you naked,”
I said.
“Ha,” said Emma. “We do end up getting naked in quite a few holy quests. But we never, like, touch or kiss or anything.”
“Did you really sleep with a lot of guys before?” I asked. “Or is that all just an excuse to hang out with Tim?”
“It’s about half true,” said Emma. “It was only a handful of guys. Not three a week or anything. I mean, it was a problem, but not, like, an addiction, exactly. More like a bad idea.”
“And the eating disorders?”
“Well, that’s real,” she said. “But I’m doing better now. He helps. I don’t know what I’ll do when it’s just me and Bluddha.” Then she laughed and said, “Poor Tim. He has two complete lunatics coming up with ridiculous schemes to keep other people away from him.”
“Damn,” said Moira. “What a mess.” She made “damn” sound like a real swear. Not like when people go “dayyy-um,” but a slow, smoldering “damn.”
“Shit, he’s coming back,” said Emma. “Everyone act normal.”
Tim walked back up to us. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nah,” I said. “Norman wasn’t in the bathroom,
was he?”
“Had it all to myself.”
I looked around again. “I still don’t see them,” I said. “You think maybe they were already here? They would have had to blow through Bible study in a real hurry to be done by now.”
“Who are you looking for?” asked Moira.
“A bunch of guys from the Fellowship of Christian Athletes.”
“Is he one of those palookas in the ties?”
“Yeah!” I said. “Have you seen them?”
“There were only three of them this week, and they left about twenty minutes ago.”
“Crud!” I said. “I don’t suppose you know where they went?”
“No,” said Moira. “But you can try the snugglepuppies. They probably will.”
“The who?” I asked.
“That’s one of her old slang words,” said Emma. “It’s what she calls the bowling alley skanks.”
“It’s a good word,” said Tim. “It sounds less judgmental than ‘skank.’ ”
“Yeah,” said Emma. “And the bowling alley skanks are good kids.”
“I didn’t know there were such things as bowling alley skanks,” I said.
“On the Great Skank Totem Pole,” said Emma, “the ones in the bowling alleys are a little more skanky than gym skanks, and about even with roller-skating-rink skanks. But they’re not anywhere near as skanky as racetrack skanks.”
“Let’s go talk to them,” s
aid Tim.
We got up and headed along the back end of the bowling alley, past the little bowling supply shop or whatever you call it, leaving Moira at the bar.
“So, are there skanks in every bowling alley?” I asked as we walked along.
“Probably,” said Emma. “The alley is like a bar they don’t have to be twenty-one to get into. They hang out here all the time, trying to get guys to buy them alcohol and cigarettes and stuff. They’ll hang all over anyone and kiss anyone. They’d kiss you in a second, if you want to cross off a holy quest goal right now. They might even pay you.”
“What?”
“Guys at bars pay girls to kiss all the time, but these girls sometimes pay people to kiss them, which is a weird variation on the custom. It may be exclusive to bowling alley skanks.”
I didn’t know whether to think the idea of being paid to kiss someone was terribly offensive or a good way to exploit perverts. Maybe if I’d been concerned about gay rights instead of people referring to Joey Gladstone as “Uncle Joey” all this time, I’d have a clearer opinion.
“At least one of them should know where Norman went,” said Tim. “They know everything about everyone.”
Emma directed us past the lanes themselves and toward the little alcove where they’d set up a bunch of video games. Hanging around the games, sure enough, was a group of skanks—girls in skimpy clothes and enough makeup that you’d think the extra weight on their face would throw off their center of gravity. They couldn’t smoke indoors, but they were all holding unlit cigarettes.
And they weren’t the kind of skanks I was used to seeing around—they were way younger.
I started to say something, but Emma and the Apostle Tim were heading to the alcove and couldn’t hear me over the music, which had gone from the disco song to some heavy metal song. I stayed behind for a second, wondering what the hell I’d just gotten myself into. I wasn’t used to dealing with skanks or snugglepuppies or whatever.
But they couldn’t have been more than fifteen. They couldn’t hurt me. I caught up with Tim and Emma just as they were getting to the arcade.