Keep My Heart in San Francisco

by Amelia Diane Coombs

  “I can save Bigmouth’s on my own, thank you very much.”

  “Yeah? How?” He nods to the notebook tucked beneath my arm, full of my scribbled online-auction notes. “By selling some clothes online? Do you really think that’s going to make a difference?”

  I open and close my mouth, fists clenching in frustration. “You are such an ass.”

  “If you change your mind, text or e-mail me, or send me a carrier pigeon.”

  With an exasperated huff, I walk away, lifting my hand high to flip Beckett a different species of bird.

  Three

  AFTER SCHOOL, I declare my spring break DOA and head to Bigmouth’s.

  I’m not sad; rather, my brain has kicked into high-gear panic problem-solving mode. Because there has to be a way out of this mess, a logical one. One that doesn’t include accepting help from Beckett and/or breaking the law. I’m hopeful I can make a few hundred dollars selling my nicer vintage items online. It won’t be much—and it’ll suck to part with the finer items I’ve saved the past few years—but I hope it’ll be worth it. I mean, it has to be worth something. I don’t have any other moneymaking schemes hidden up my sleeves.

  If we can’t come up with the money? I shudder at the only other outcome. In my head, the next few months play out like dominoes falling. Bigmouth’s closes. Dad lets me finish junior year at Castelli’s. We move to Arizona over the summer, probably before the Fourth of July. Full stop. Because I can’t picture myself existing outside of San Francisco.

  When the clock strikes eight, my shift is over, and we’ve only had one group of customers in the past four hours. The register is more accustomed to cobwebs than dollar bills. This does not bode well. Tonight’s the first night of vacation for several local high schools, and Dad hoped for more action.

  Dad’s holed up in his office, has been for most of my shift. I wish he’d talk to me. Confide in me what I already know. Asking Dad outright is a waste because, knowing him, he’d lie. That’s what he does when he’s trying to protect me. Good-natured? Questionable. But the truth always surfaces.

  Call me a coward, but I don’t want to hear that we’re leaving. I don’t want to hear that this crappy little bowling alley is closing, taking with it my life in San Francisco. The last time we talked about moving was in January, when Dad went over the quarterly losses. Back then, the prospect of change, of leaving our foggy city, excited him. But I didn’t really think we’d come this close to letting it all go.

  The bowling alley isn’t anything extraordinary. Tall ceilings, airy, with a decent twenty-four lanes. Any opulence is long gone. Two or three decades ago, the pinewood might’ve been glossy, but now it reflects a dull shine. The lanes are oiled, slick, and the walls are gray brick. Above our heads, a maze of rafters with exposed beams and wiring stretches from wall to wall. Outside, in front of the entry, Bigmouth’s Bowl glows half-heartedly in blue neon script. The second B always flickers.

  Each lane has a small cracked vinyl couch with the stuffing peeking out and an old-school projector with transparencies to fill in scores with dry-erase pens. The area above each pit is painted like a colorful gap-toothed mouth, the ten pins representing teeth. Get it? This bowling alley is filled with big mouths. It’s downright creepy with a vintage flair.

  The nicest thing in this joint is the jukebox in the corner. Kitschy, vaguely sexist signs like you’d find in a fifties throwback diner decorate the otherwise plain walls. I’m not Bigmouth’s biggest fan, but the space is kind of cool. In a funky, well-loved way. But no one wants funky anymore.

  The thriving local bowling alleys are trendy, renovated, and you have to reserve a lane days in advance. They serve gourmet food and fancy cocktails in mason jars. Ever since Billy Goat Bowl opened last year, Bigmouth’s has struggled to stay afloat. That ten-lane bowling alley is only a mile away, stealing our business with its hipster charm. But if Dad tried, if he got a liquor license and fixed this place up, we could turn a profit.

  Fat chance. Liquor licenses and renovations cost money.

  I abandon my post behind the counter and drag my fingers along a couch. Next month all of this could be gone. The little café/snack stand where we serve French fries and nachos and soda. The three perpetually broken pinball machines, dust layered over the glass tables—Monster Bash, Hercules, and Creature from the Black Lagoon. The sock vending machines and the bowling ball cleaner that hasn’t worked in my lifetime. Gone.

  Bigmouth’s might not be my favorite place, but it’s the last thing anchoring us to San Francisco, the city of my heart. If we leave…

  Maybe if we earn enough money for the back rent and escape eviction, Dad will try harder to keep Bigmouth’s afloat.

  My arms fall limp to my sides, the possibility far-fetched.

  “You heading out?” Dad calls, emerging from his office.

  Heart pounding—from him scaring me, from contemplating my darkest timeline—I grab my belongings from behind the register. “That’s the plan, unless you need me?”

  “Nah, you’re good to go. But first…” Dad digs into his pockets, pulling out his wallet. “Here,” he offers, holding out two twenties, creased but fresh from the ATM.

  Guilt twinges, a muscle spasm in my gut, as I take the money. Even if he’s paying me back.

  We don’t speak. The exchange is awkward enough without words. I fold the bills and slip them into my purse. “Thanks.” Before I lose my courage, I ask once more, “Is everything okay?”

  My father is a sweet man—too sweet—and he lets life and people like Art Jesset waltz over him. Dad’s combed-over black hair, a shade richer than my own, is particularly pathetic today, and he has a mustard stain on his shirt. He grabs a rag and runs it over the framed pictures of Bigmouth’s more prominent history.

  Photographs of Grandpa O’Neill, my mother’s father, who opened Bigmouth’s, and Grandma O’Neill. Pictures of my mother, which simultaneously hurt and confuse. I understand why Dad doesn’t keep any in the house.

  “Ah, Caroline, the money thing yesterday was just a mishap, a mistake. Won’t happen again, I promise,” he says. “And why wouldn’t everything be okay? It’s a beautiful day.”

  Every day is beautiful to Dad, a quality I simultaneously admire and hate. On one hand that much optimism must be nice. On the other? I’d rather acknowledge that danger’s coming and act than get bowled over.

  No pun intended.

  I sigh as I readjust my backpack. This is why we’re getting evicted. Dad can’t admit when the going gets rough.

  “I don’t know; it’s just really quiet for a Friday night.” I study his face for any flicker of emotion.

  Dad’s smile wobbles, imperceptibly, and he glances at his shoes, twisting the rag between his hands. When he looks back up, his smile is steady. “Sure, it’s a little slow, but that’s none of your concern. You’re seventeen, Caroline! Act like it.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” I say dryly, and lean into Dad’s embrace, hugging him against my shoulder. It’s hard to be mad when he has mustard on his shirt. “Wanna watch Antiques Roadshow after you close up?”

  Dad perks up at this. I have more in common with strangers on the Internet than I do with my own dad, but watching people turn junk into treasure is a mutual pastime we both enjoy. Shame he has no desire to turn our junky bowling alley into something worth treasuring.

  “I’ll try. Will you let Fiona know I had dinner at work? She always tries to save me leftovers.” He grimaces comically because his sister is the world’s worst, yet most ambitious, cook.

  Aunt Fee moved in once it became clear Dad couldn’t raise me alone. She is my maternal stand-in figure, laughable considering the woman doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body.

  I smile as my mind spirals with an anxious brand of panic. “See you at home.”

  Halfway to the door, I hesitate. Tomorrow is the FIDM tour, and I still haven’t canceled my spot. If Bigmouth’s goes belly-up, is there a point in going? Bigmouth’s closes, and we�
��ll be out of San Francisco before I can even apply to be a student at FIDM. Besides, my mom attended fashion school. The parallels are too strong for me to ignore.

  A shake of my head clears my mind, and I leave the bowling alley. If, for some miraculous reason, Bigmouth’s pulls through, there will be other opportunities.

  Relief fills me now that I’ve resolved to skip the tour. But it doesn’t take long—actually, it takes just until the Glen Park BART sign looms—before it disappears.

  Because I’m no closer to conjuring up eight grand than I was this morning.

  The stairway into the Bay Area Rapid Transit resembles a descent into hell. The underground station is busy, being early on a Friday night. I shuffle with the mass of pedestrians to the turnstiles, where I swipe my electric-blue Clipper card.

  With my headphones on, I avoid eye contact and elbow my way to a seat. I’ve used BART for years and it still skeeves me out. You always, and I mean always, get the creepy leering guys who stare at you for a second too long. Muni is better because you’re usually aboveground, but it’s all public transportation. Which is why I carry Mace.

  The doors slide shut, and the train takes off, bumpy at first, then slick and fast. The smudged windows expose the cement underground tunnel flying past. My reflection is a dark and pale blur, marred by red lipstick that lasted the entire day.

  Dad’s in denial about the thousands of dollars in back rent, or he plans on letting Jesset terminate Bigmouth’s lease. Evict us. Fortunately, I’m made of tougher stuff than Dad. Or that’s what I tell myself as the train lurches to a stop and I move on autopilot, taking the stairs up to ground level.

  San Francisco is a contradiction of hills and valleys, but I’ve lived here my whole life. According to the story, I was conceived in the bathroom on a ferry to an Alcatraz Island tour. Amusing, but super gross. Point being, San Francisco is my blood, it’s my oxygen, and when I die, I’ll have an urn at the Columbarium or my ashes scattered illegally across the city.

  I start up a hill and pass pastel-colored houses, narrow and campy, on either side of the one-way street. With each pounding step, I try reassuring myself Bigmouth’s can survive Art Jesset. While I want to help my father—he’s the only parent I have left—I want to save Bigmouth’s more. Not for Bigmouth’s sake, but the bowling alley and San Francisco are linked. If we lose one, we lose the other. We can’t afford to live here, and our house belongs to the bank.

  When I spot our yellow Victorian on the hill, the thought of moving from San Francisco to the barren desert wasteland of Arizona makes me want to scream. My grandfather bought the property in the sixties, the only reason our struggling middle-class family snagged such fine real estate in one of the most expensive cities in the United States. Even if it sold, and it’d go for over a million, we’d never be able to afford another house in the city until the bubble bursts. Thanks, housing crisis.

  Nestled in the colorful Hayes Valley, our home belongs on a postcard, or at the least, in the opening credits of Full House. There’s no lawn, only a strip of sidewalk with flowering weeds, a single-car garage, and a small staircase leading to two stories of old-timey Victorian charm painted daffodil yellow. The front door is cherry red, the shutters white.

  My mom died fourteen years ago, when I was three. I don’t remember how bad it was before Aunt Fee stepped in two years later. But I do remember my aunt’s face when she arrived at the yellow house, soaking in the wreckage, the disorganized chaos, and wondering if an earthquake had rolled through San Francisco and hit only our house.

  We were a mess, inside and out. Yet we scraped by. We persevered. And there has to be a way to keep my family in San Francisco. Where we belong.

  Four

  AUNT FIONA CAN’T cook. The woman tries, and I’m thankful. But my stomach always does this inverted hunger growl whenever she gets innovative in the kitchen. My aunt loves Pinterest, and when she’s not writing articles for local magazines and various online platforms, she’s pinning ideas for meals. Recipes for experienced cooks with refined palates. Aunt Fee is not a chef; nor does she have a palate, let alone a refined one.

  The smell of her dish mutating—I mean, cooking—downstairs is pungent in my attic bedroom. Like most ancient Victorian homes in San Francisco, the yellow house is narrow and tall, and my bedroom is a converted attic space. The ceiling slopes with the roof—peaked in some areas and feet from the floor in others—and the walls are unpainted. A twin-size bed rests in the center, and an ancient knotted rug covers most of the hardwood in nubby fabric and exotic designs. Aunt Fiona helped me decorate the plain walls with fairy lights, the delicate strands looped around nails in patterned swirls.

  Along the dusty top of my bookshelf is the collection of wigs on mannequin heads I inherited from my mother. There are five in total—medium-length honey curls with a side bang, messy center-parted blond locks, French-chic black bob, super-long brown waves, and a peroxide-blond cut with blunt bangs. The mannequin’s faces are ancient, some pink and painted with eyes and makeup, others blank. All creepy, which is half of why I love them so much.

  My cat, Jean Paul Gaultier, is curled into a bun on the edge of my mattress. For years I resisted the urge to adopt, because Beckett was highly allergic. Losing Beckett’s friendship allowed me to take in JP, and he became my new feline partner in crime. I kiss him on the head, and he opens his eyes only to glare at me.

  I hang my coat on the rack and settle on the floor with my clunky old MacBook. First things first—I cancel my spot on the FIDM tour. Then I piece through one of my bags of vintage clothes, tossing the nicer items beside me. In the end, I find several high-quality pieces worth selling.

  My heart aches as I style them on my dress form with jewelry, using an unpainted wall as a background, and snap stylized photographs with my phone. I had plans for these items—sewing them into something new, deconstructing them and harvesting the materials—and I hate parting with them like this. But it’s not like I’m swimming in options, so I suck it up. I list the less-fancy ones on my new eBay account with the auction closing in seventy-two hours. The nicer items go on Etsy.

  There’s no way I’ll make eight grand, but it’s better than nothing. If I earn some money and turn it over to Dad, it’ll show him how much I care. How badly I want to stay in this city.

  Dinner’s not ready yet, so I play a record on my secondhand Pioneer and slouch onto my bed with my phone, pulling open Instagram. After my friendship breakup with Beckett, I told myself I’d have four years of college to form real friendships. You know, with people who won’t betray my trust. But I’m not immune to loneliness.

  Thank God for the Internet.

  My fashion-centric Instagram account has amassed a small following. There, and on several vintage fashion forums, I’ve forged a few friendships. But the only person I’ve truly connected with is Mila—or MavenMody95. We met on an international vintage clothing forum last summer, and we co-run the Instagram account M&C Vintage. Our account has 10K followers, which is small compared to others, but it’s enough to keep my heart happy on my lonelier days.

  While I post pictures of San Francisco and the truly unique items I find or sew, Mila—who lives in Poland—models clothes and makeup. Mila’s supposed to visit the States this summer, and we might meet in real life. Hopefully she’s online, because I need to vent about the bowling alley and Beckett Porter.

  I switch from checking on our Instagram to WhatsApp, where Mila and I trade messages. But she’s not online. Not surprising; it’s early in Warsaw. With a sigh, I close the app and rest my phone on my chest. Sometimes it sucks when your only friend lives time zones away.

  As hard as I try, my mind keeps circling back to Beckett. Usually, the Internet is a decent distraction, but not today. It’s impossible to forget what happened during lunch. Beckett’s outrageously weird offer has me on edge, but the sudden appearance of him is even more disconcerting. Why now? Because he feels bad for my dad?

  When we were friends, Beck
ett was the son Dad never had. And yeah, he apologized. But he still hurt me, and trying to help save Bigmouth’s won’t repair the rift in our friendship. I press the heels of my palms to my eyes, forcing myself to forget about Beckett Porter and his super-illegal plan to earn eight grand.

  Except I can’t.

  My brain is running a treacherous marathon right now, and I sit up, searching bowling hustlers on my phone. A handful of articles from the New York Times explain the dangerous form of betting popular decades ago. There have been several movies, including one from the sixties with Paul Newman—who was apparently a serious babe—on hustling, but they focus on pool or poker.

  Even my worst options are outdated. Great. That’s just great.

  I adjust my search, adding San Francisco to the query, but nothing concrete surfaces.

  A banner notification flashes at the top of the screen, alerting me that MavenMody95 is online, and I hop onto WhatsApp.

  VINTAGE_ALLEY415: Did you know Paul Newman was seriously attractive?

  MAVENMODY95: I did actually. My mom’s obsessed with him! What’s up, other than ogling hot old movie stars?

  VINTAGE_ALLEY415: I’ve had the weirdest few days.

  MAVENMODY95: What’s going on?

  I sink deeper into my pile of pillows and tell Mila all about Bigmouth’s financial troubles, Beckett Porter’s unsettling reappearance, and how I’m missing out on my spring break of fashion to man the register at a failing bowling alley.

  MAVENMODY95: Do you miss Beckett? Sounds like he’s trying to mend your relationship.

  The question catches me off guard. I haven’t really allowed myself to miss Beckett. The hurt is too painful. Blinking, my dry eyes stinging, I type out a response.

  VINTAGE_ALLEY415: I don’t know. No. UGH. Stop asking the important questions, Mila.

  MAVENMODY95: Sorry, sorry. Fuck him (is that better?)