Keep My Heart in San Francisco

by Amelia Diane Coombs

  “Do you hear yourself talk?” His tone has hardened, and he brings a hand to his mouth, exhaling harshly between his fingers. “You are such a hypocrite, Chuck Wilson.”

  I’m the hypocrite? If we weren’t hiding, I’d push him on his ass. Instead, I ignore him and focus solely on my dad. Because that’s why I’m out here: figuring out what’s going on with Dad. Not making hostile small talk with Beckett Porter.

  Dad’s shoulders slump forward and his hand shakes as it brings a cigarette to his lips. Jesset looks at his phone, like he has better places to be. All I want is to give Dad a hug, comfort him, but I stay hidden.

  “Sorry, bud,” Jesset says, and pats my dad on the shoulder. “You’re my favorite tenant, but if you can’t come up with the money, take this as an official notice of your eviction.”

  Dad mumbles something too quiet for me to hear, and Jesset dismissively shakes his hand before ducking into the car and driving off. Dad stands there for a second, sucking on his cigarette, head tilted backward as if he’s praying to the foggy skies or trying not to cry. Maybe both.

  When he turns and walks toward Bigmouth’s back door, Beckett tugs on my arm and snaps me into motion. I smack his hand away, but we hurry inside, and I slump onto the stool, all my energy zapped. My headphones sit on the counter, the music still playing.

  Beckett hovers, his face a mash-up of confusion and pity.

  “Don’t you dare say anything. To anyone.”

  The menace in my voice does the trick, because Beckett’s eyes widen and he holds both hands up in surrender. “I won’t say a word.”

  I nod, even though I don’t trust him, not one bit. Beckett doesn’t have the best record when it comes to keeping my secrets. “I can’t believe this is happening,” I mutter to myself, my mind spiraling to the worst possible scenarios. Lingering on Dad’s comment earlier about change.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, I never thought you liked it here.”

  “If Bigmouth’s closes”—I wave my hands to encompass the bowling alley—“then we leave San Francisco. So pardon me for panicking.”

  Beckett just stares at me, but before he can respond, the back door closes with a creak and a slam. I school my expression before Dad enters the lobby. His despondence is gone. The Wilsons are masters at faking it until we make it.

  “Wow, it’s brisk out there,” Dad says, rubbing his arms. “Makes a man long for warmer climates. Wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace, Caroline?”

  I press my lips together, tethering the haphazard swirl of panic brewing behind my sternum. Like I was explaining to Beckett, if Bigmouth’s finally kicks the bucket, Dad will move us to Arizona. Hell, also known as Arizona, will have to freeze over before I leave San Francisco.

  Then Dad spots Beckett, and a megawatt smile lights up his face. “Beckett Porter! What’re you doing here?”

  “Beckett’s works for Schulman’s now. Isn’t that just great?”

  “It’s wonderful!” Dad replies, not picking up on my sarcasm. “We’ve missed you around here.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Porter,” Beckett says with a super-annoying grin.

  “You’ve missed him,” I clarify, handing the clipboard to Dad, “not me.”

  Beckett’s smile droops, and he clears his throat. “Where do you need these?” He gestures to the boxes of—I tilt my head to read the label—nacho cheese. Yuck.

  Dad signs the clipboard and then claps his hands together. “Storage room should suffice. Not like this stuff needs refrigeration,” he adds with a laugh, and leads Beckett down the hall.

  He’s so smiley that if I hadn’t witnessed him with Jesset, I’d suspect nothing was wrong. Here’s the thing—if we can’t comp a game, there’s no way we can afford eight grand in back rent. Dad knows it. I know it. Hell, even Beckett Porter knows it.

  Bigmouth’s is like an ancient relative you never want to visit because they smell like death and pinch your cheeks until your face bruises, but that doesn’t mean you’d be happy if they died. I practically grew up here, and memories are layered into the dust that’s settled over the ancient trophies and wobbly-legged ball racks. But with every passing birthday, the bowling alley lost its fanciful charm. I finally see Bigmouth’s for what it truly is: our family’s failure. The problem is, Bigmouth’s Bowl is all Dad has left. And without it, we won’t stay in San Francisco.

  I pick up the yellow silk dress and needle and try losing myself in the mindless work of fixing the hem. With each stitch, I can’t help but think: We’re screwed.

  FRIDAY, APRIL 20 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 10

  Two

  THE QUAD BUZZES in anticipation of spring break, but after yesterday’s accidental discovery and the glum realization I’m working all week, I can’t muster the smallest bit of excitement.

  Castelli High is one of the largest schools in San Francisco, and getting lost in the crowd is easy. The campus is made up of hulking white-and-tan buildings with burnt-clay tile roofs and fancy arches, spanning several city blocks. My classmates spread out on blankets during our lunch period, despite the gray fog. I’m not hungry, but I take my food to the quietest part of campus.

  A picnic table shades itself in the observatory’s shadow, and I park myself on the bench. Castelli lacks your stereotypical social groups—we don’t even have cheerleaders—but this picnic bench is prime loner real estate. At the start of the school year, it draws a few freshmen, but after a month they peel off to sit with their new friends. I took over the bench late last year and have been eating here ever since.

  Aunt Fiona packed me a sandwich, but I can’t touch it. My stomach is too twisty for food, so I push the bag aside and put on my headphones. I’m grateful to be alone, because I’m anxious and all out of sorts. We have ten measly days to come up with an extra eight grand, money we definitely don’t have. Money we need to find. Fast.

  Yesterday I tried tricking Dad into telling me what happened with Jesset, but his facade never wavered. He smiled, he joked, but when he thought I wasn’t looking, worry formed in the crease between his brows.

  No surprise there. Us Wilsons? We’re not the talking type.

  Without Bigmouth’s there will be no reason to stay in San Francisco, no money to pay the mortgage on our house. Dad’s parents live in a retirement community in Arizona, and that’s where we’d end up. No more Pacific Ocean mornings doused in fog or dreams of vintage and FIDM. Every remaining vestige of what makes me who I am gone.

  Bigmouth’s circling the drain is bad enough, but the fact that Beckett Porter is privy to our financial woes makes a crappy situation crappier. Our falling out happened last year, but I have perfectly valid reasons to avoid him and pretend like our friendship never happened.

  Beckett and I originally became best friends when he sat with me during lunch in the third grade. He liked my Princess Bride lunch box. We clicked instantly; I thought it would be forever. We shared the same brand of weird and understood each other. The more time passed, the closer we became. We took advantage of the whole “friends and family bowl for free” rule at Bigmouth’s, we got lost riding BART together, we went swing dancing every Sunday at Lindy in the Park. And Beckett never found out, but I liked him. As more than a friend. He was everything to me.

  Then Beckett betrayed our friendship. Not only did he tell a secret that wasn’t his to tell, but he robbed me of the thing I cherished most—my trust in my best friend. Since then I’ve done everything in my power to rid my life of Beckett Porter. I’ve sworn him off.

  Until yesterday, that was going pretty damn well.

  Beckett’s reappearance really threw me, and I barely slept last night. But I’m not as tired as I should be. Instead, I’m hyped up on nerves and coffee, researching tips on my phone about how to sell vintage clothes on eBay and Etsy. Because I have to do something to help Dad. Most of my finds are cheap for a reason—stained, torn, missing buttons, shrunk in the dryer—but maybe I can flip a small profit if I sell my nicer items. Something to
help supplement whatever Dad’s saved.

  Lunch is almost over by the time I’ve filled a page with various tips on how to drive online auctions higher, ideas on displaying items attractively, and proper listing etiquette. I doodle dress designs in the margins of my notebook, turning up my music until Frightened Rabbit sears my eardrums. My fingers tap along with “I Wish I Was Sober” as it soars, plucky and sorrowful, through my headphones.

  As if I didn’t already have enough going on, tomorrow is the FIDM tour, and I haven’t canceled—yet. I scheduled the tour during spring break because I was supposed to have the week off. I could slip away without informing my dad what I was up to, but now? If I decide to go, I have to ask my dad, and considering I haven’t even told him about FIDM, I’m thinking of skipping.

  Telling Dad means admitting I’m serious about fashion design. I’m better off canceling the tour and using that time to save Bigmouth’s. Because frankly, I’d rather sell cans at the recycling center than have that conversation.

  A prickle of unease runs down my spine, and I glance up from the notebook. Someone is walking straight toward me; there’s nothing else in this corner of the quad. Probably a lost-soul freshman. Unusual this late into the year, but not unheard of. But as the figure draws closer, my stomach dips lower. Those messy soft brown curls, the hunched, poor posture, a wrinkled band T-shirt.

  Beckett Porter.

  I cannot escape the guy.

  Beckett lifts his hand in a wave, and I’m trapped with an achy, confused sensation tightening my throat as he draws nearer. People talk about fight or flight, but few talk about freeze. Stuck and unable to react. Yeah, I’m in freeze mode. I’m frozen long enough for him to drop on the bench opposite me.

  “Chuck?”

  I pretend not to hear him when he says my name and force my attention to my journal, the lines blurring beneath my intense gaze.

  Beckett repeats himself and taps me on the shoulder—a quick poke.

  Since the sophomore-year betrayal, I’ve implemented a strict no-touching rule with Beckett. And it didn’t stop with him; he single-handedly increased my general personal bubble by three feet with everyone.

  I take off my headphones, fighting for the proper response to this huge violation of privacy, and say, “Fancy seeing you here.” Sarcasm is a safe choice because it’s a language he understands. “I thought being a truant meant never stepping foot on campus.”

  True to his nature, Beckett is unflappable. “Nah, being a truant means I’m occasionally on campus.” The way the smug smile lifts at the corners shows me he’s pleased I’ve been paying attention.

  Ugh. Rookie mistake. I shouldn’t have said anything.

  Embarrassment flushes my neck, and I look away, biting into my apple for something to do. If I can’t talk him away, I’ll ignore him out of existence. He might not be on campus frequently, but he hangs out with theater kids. So that begs the question: What is he doing at my loner table?

  Beckett swipes my bag of potato chips and pops them open.

  “Dude. Leave. This is my bench”—I lean forward to grab the chips—“and that’s my lunch.”

  He forfeits the bag and then tilts his head. “Are you okay?”

  “In general, or in an existential sense?” I ask, expecting sass in response.

  “I’m worried about you,” he says with strange sincerity. “After the thing with your dad? I thought you’d want to talk.”

  Dropping my gaze to the table, I say, “I’m fine.” Actually, I’m the opposite, but Beckett’s the last person I want to talk to. A year ago, he would’ve never taken “fine” as an acceptable answer. For a fleeting moment, I wish he’d press further, to be relentless and pry open my feelings. In that brief, heartbeat-length moment, I miss my best friend.

  Thankfully, that yearning loneliness disappears, replaced by suspicion and a heaping dose of annoyance.

  “And if I wanted to talk about it with anyone, it wouldn’t be you.” The words cause a flicker of pain to cross his face. I crumple up the chips and shove them into the brown lunch bag. “What’s your deal? Trying to make amends before I’m gone for good?”

  “C’mon, don’t say that. You’re not leaving.”

  I sigh so hard the hair sticking to my cheeks fluffs out in front of me. “I might be.”

  “If that’s the case, I want to help,” he says plainly, factually. He folds his arms on the table, leaning forward. As if the table between us is an obstacle, not a shield.

  “How would you help me?” I ask. The bigger question remains unsaid—why? Beckett should be relieved, or at the very least, indifferent about my departure from San Francisco.

  “You need eight grand by next week, right?”

  “You were never supposed to hear that conversation.”

  “Neither were you,” he points out.

  “Whatever it is, I’m not interested. And you shouldn’t be poking your nose into other people’s business. Bigmouth’s is all my dad has left.”

  “Which is why I’d like to help,” Beckett says, brandishing a notebook from his backpack. “I have an idea.”

  Is this guy for real? We don’t speak for a year and because of one seriously misguided eavesdropping experience he thinks, what, we’re friends again? Not happening.

  “Chuck?” He slides the notebook into view.

  I forgot that ignoring Beckett only makes his powers of annoyance stronger. I switch tactics, hoping he’ll leave me alone if I humor him. “What’s this? Your diary?”

  Beckett laughs, and I make the mistake of looking up. His face is earnest and hopeful. It’s all kinds of wrong. “Sorry to disappoint, but nope. This,” he says, and Vanna Whites the journal, “is your ticket to staying in San Francisco.”

  “How is your diary going to keep me in San Francisco?”

  “It’s not a diary! Just—look.” He folds back the front cover and turns the journal so I can read it. “Last year I started betting to make some extra cash, just a few hundred bucks. There are these underground bowling games in the Bay Area and some allowed betting. This is where I kept track of those games, different players, and my winnings.”

  “What about your losses?” I ask, digesting this new piece of information. I’m not surprised—Beckett was all about hijinks when we were friends, constantly getting me into trouble—but discomforted. Not like I made a habit of thinking about Beckett the past year, but I imagined his life as business as usual. It’s unsettling to think of him experiencing new things without me.

  He grins. “Oh, I rarely lost.”

  “Your modesty overwhelms me.” I don’t want to care—and I definitely don’t—but I can’t fight my curiosity. My eyes scan the notebook, columns of names and stats. “Get to the point. The bell rings in three minutes, and unlike you, I care about getting to class on time.”

  “Okay, just hear me out. When I was betting on these underground games, I saw players hustle their opponents out of thousands of dollars. Hustling was popular in the sixties. It still happens, but it’s seedy shit.”

  “You want to hustle these guys? Con them?”

  Beckett nods. “You’re still good? At bowling?”

  Just because I don’t love bowling doesn’t mean I’m not any good. Growing up in a bowling alley meant I had access to the lanes whenever I wanted. But never with bumpers because “Wilsons don’t use bumpers.”

  Beckett and I used to bowl together. I’ve always had an uncanny talent, but I rarely play anymore. I’m good—not as good as our regulars like Marty, but I have a mean left hook.

  “Sure, I guess.” The heft of his gaze is making me uneasy. “Hold up, you want me to hustle?” Beckett always joked that my comfort zone would kill me, but this isn’t just outside my comfort zone. It’s in another state—a different freaking country.

  He drags his fingers through his curls before tucking them behind his ears. “I’d coach you, and we could work as a team.”

  “What do you get out of this?” I ask, wishing I wasn’
t secretly dying for his answer. Wishing my heartstrings would stop aching with the sincerity of his words. Because everything about this conversation is making me more confused and conflicted than ever.

  “We split the winnings fifty-fifty. I could use extra cash, and I know the ins and outs of the illegal side. We could win big.” He bites his bottom lip and looks at me. “What do you think?”

  “That you’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

  Unfazed, he presses forward. “Your talent plus the element of surprise? Priceless. Half of any successful hustle is lowering expectations. No one will expect you to be good.”

  “What? You can’t hustle people with your shitty bowling skills?” I ask, retreating to my safe space: sarcasm.

  “I know I suck, okay? And you’re right—you can’t hustle someone when you’re not a decent player. But you’re good. Deceivingly so.”

  I stare at him. I’ve never broken the law. As far as teenage acts of rebellion go, hustling underground bowlers is ludicrous. Beckett must be messing with me because we can’t win that much money in a week. It’s impossible.

  “Not interested,” I reply. I shovel the rest of my forgotten food into my backpack, close my notebook, and get up. Showing Beckett how unnerving I find his presence does me zero favors, but I can’t sit near him anymore.

  “Chuck, wait.” Beckett trails me across the quad, stopping me outside the library.

  I pivot on my heel. “I said no.”

  “Why not?” Beckett’s face twists in what I can only guess is confusion, and he shakes his head. “C’mon, I… I promised Willa I’d help pay for her summer camp, and being a part-time delivery boy doesn’t pay well. We both need the cash.”

  Willa’s his little sister, and if he’s trying to play the sympathy card, it’s not working. “Life is full of disappointments. Willa should learn that now.”

  “What about Bigmouth’s?”

  I tuck my jacket tight against my ribs, glaring at him. “What about it?”

  “Is it worth losing over being so fucking stubborn?” Beckett’s cold gray gaze is hot and itchy, but I can’t look away.