VINTAGE_ALLEY415: Yes. Thank you. He’s probably messing with me, anyway. He can’t be serious.
MAVENMODY95: What if he’s serious? Maybe he’s offering a solution? Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious?
VINTAGE_ALLEY415: I’m nowhere near a good enough bowler to con people. Dude’s lost his mind. New topic?
We chat about fashion until Mila has to sign off. I’m left alone with dangerous thoughts. Such as, is it possible to earn eight thousand dollars in ten days? Not legally, but could I pull off such a stunt? The thought is oddly enticing—the ability to earn more than enough money to stay in San Francisco. But I check myself, forcing it from the forefront of my mind. It’s not an option.
Aunt Fee’s too lazy to walk up two flights of stairs, so she texts me that dinner is ready. My insides roil with guilt and frustration as I head to the first floor. I hate not being able to solve a problem, but Bigmouth’s closure may be beyond my grasp. Because discounting Beckett’s offer, I’m out of ideas.
Jean Paul Gaultier stalks me downstairs like a shadow. When we reach the kitchen, he nudges my ankles before disappearing into the darkened hallway. Off to raise hell with the other neighborhood cats, no doubt.
“Buffalo chicken chili,” Aunt Fiona announces the second I enter the kitchen.
I wrinkle my nose. “What?”
She taps a spoon on the glass top to our slow cooker. “Bon appétit. Amazing, right?”
Suspiciously, I sniff the air and settle at the table. “Let’s hope so.”
“What’d you say?” Aunt Fee grins and pulls a bowl from the cupboard.
“Nothing.” She slides the floral-patterned bowl in front of me, and the oily yellow broth makes me gag. “Thanks.” I dip my spoon into the cluster of—vegetables?—in the center, figuring they’re safe to eat.
Aunt Fiona is a punk rock Rosie the Riveter, especially when she has a bandanna in her waist-length black hair. Then there are the tattoos and piercings and her infamous sailor mouth. She’s my dad’s only sibling, younger by fifteen years; she acts like my older sister. With expectant green eyes, she watches me take a tentative sip of chili. “Delicious?”
Nope. God. Awful. Lips puckering, I give her a thumbs-up.
I love Aunt Fiona, even if she’s the world’s worst cook and shittiest mom figure. When I first got my period, Fee left a box of supermax tampons in my bathroom. Didn’t tell me how to use them or bring me less-frightening options.
Embarrassed, I wadded toilet paper in my underwear for six months. Aunt Fee means well, but again, zero maternal instincts. When I finally figured out how to use those tampons, I flushed them down the toilet because I didn’t know any better. Needless to say, our ancient house and its aged pipes suffered.
“How was school?” she asks, sipping her kombucha.
I manage a mouthful and chase it with water to clear my throat. No way I’m telling her about my run-in with Beckett, so I shrug. “Fine. Hey, has my dad said anything about Bigmouth’s being in trouble?”
“Nope, but business has been on a pretty steady decline since your grandfather retired. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s suffering with all the tech bros moving into the city,” my aunt says with an eye roll. “Why? What’s up?”
I stir my gruel. How would the grandfather I never knew handle our situation? Not like he had to deal with the Silicon Valley tech boom and watch as it warped the San Franciscan landscape.
Is it worth telling Aunt Fiona what I saw at the alley yesterday? If something were wrong, Dad would confide in her. I think. After all, Bigmouth’s Bowl is the tacky glue holding our family together.
“I thought there’d be more customers with the start of spring break, that’s all,” I say, frowning at my soup.
Aunt Fee shrugs, switching topics and telling me about her latest article, featuring an heiress who died and left her fortune to her cat. A woman after my own heart. My aunt studied journalism, and her true passion lies in reporting, but she’s had trouble finding work as a local reporter. Until then, she writes fluffy human-interest pieces and beauty-product reviews for BuzzFeed and Refinery29. The only upside? Fee gets tons of free makeup and skin-care products to review, most of which she gives to me after she’s submitted her write-ups.
Later, once Aunt Fiona sets up camp on the couch with her laptop, I return to my room. Jean Paul Gaultier is off with our neighborhood’s alley cats, so it’s particularly lonely up here. JP’s adoption was somewhat spite fueled, but it was surprising how much comfort a cat brought into my life.
Cats don’t love as easily as dogs, but once you win their affection, you have it for life. Wouldn’t it be nice if people were the same? No judgment, no ability to let you down? Just love. Stubborn and unconditional love.
I curl up on my comforter with my laptop. My cursor hovers over my iMessage app, and I click it. I type Beckett’s name into the search bar, not expecting his phone number to pop up. I swear I deleted and blocked him into obscurity, but there it is. His number. I open a new message and type.
ME: Were you serious today? What you said in the quad?
Beckett has no chill because his reply dings in my in-box not a full minute later.
BECKETT PORTER: As a heart attack. Did you change your mind?
Not willing to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m considering it, I lie.
ME: Nope.
BECKETT PORTER: Put your misaligned hatred of me aside for one second and consider my idea.
ME: I’m unable to put my perfectly aligned hatred of you aside. So sorry.
BECKETT PORTER: Why can’t you let this go?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Is this a conversation to have over text? Or at all?
ME: Seriously?
BECKETT PORTER: Yes, seriously! We both hurt each other, but you don’t see me holding a grudge a year later, do you?
When I don’t reply, another message pings.
BECKETT PORTER: Unlike you, I apologized. Are you gonna turn down an opportunity to save your family’s business because of a grudge?
Dad’s tense shoulders hunched over the books flicker to mind. When he thinks I’m not watching, he wears his pain. All I want is to make him happy—make us happy—and failing feels as if I’m being torn in two.
If we paid the back rent in full, Dad could manage the monthly payments, especially if he renovated. But working with Beckett? Breaking the law with him? I can’t be considering this.
Can I?
I am.
God help me, I am.
ME: 75–25.
BECKETT PORTER: ???
ME: We split the money 75 (me) and 25 (you).
I swallow, my throat parched and itchy. This is a test. If he says yes, I’ll do it. But I expect a rebuttal. Negotiations. A reason for me to call him irrational and back out.
BECKETT PORTER: Fair enough. You free tomorrow?
I frown at the words. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but what’s my alternative? Oh right. There isn’t one. At least if I fail, Dad will be none the wiser. If I have to put up with Beckett for a week in exchange for saving Bigmouth’s, then I’ll deal.
ME: I’m at work until 6.
BECKETT PORTER: Cool. See you tomorrow.
No explanation about what we’re doing or when he’ll show up.
Standing, I go in circles—physically and mentally. I do the math. We’ll need to bring in more than ten thousand dollars to split it seventy-five twenty-five. I have two hundred dollars in savings, and we’ll need cash to start with if we’re betting. Or hustling. Breaking the law.
If Aunt Fee or Dad finds out, well, it won’t be pretty.
Ever since I hit puberty and fell heart-first into a nasty depressive episode, my family’s been on alert. That initial episode in the winter of sophomore year earned me twice-monthly therapy appointments until the end of last summer. After six months of therapy with Sarah, Dad agreed when I asked if I could stop going. The sessions were expensive and they made me uncomfortable. All t
hat opening up and talking about my feelings? Hard pass.
During our initial session, Sarah reviewed my family history and instilled a devastating fear: the disorder responsible for ruining my mom might be lurking in my brain.
Sarah told me it’s not my fault.
Faulty wiring. Misfiring neurotransmitters. Losing the genetic lottery.
Whatever you want to call it, it’s shitty. And unfair.
During one of our sessions, Sarah mentioned wanting to send me to a psychiatrist, to nail down a solid diagnosis and dose me with antidepressants or mood stabilizers, but I’ve been doing a lot better. Somehow I’ve avoided ever having to make that appointment. I get out of bed. I eat and sleep a reasonable amount. I’m doing well at school. I’m introverted, but I have my hobbies.
I might not be happy, not in the traditional sense, but that’s okay.
Emotions have always scared me—I can’t control them. But somehow that dark lack of emotion while I was depressed was even scarier. Now I just want to find a steady balance between the affectless and the uncontrollable. Against my best efforts, I feel everything too strongly when I’m not depressed, and it’s overwhelming.
But more than anything, I never want to feel the way I did that winter. Back then everything was great. Beckett and I were best friends. High school hadn’t lost its novelty yet. My life was fantastic, but the joy never reached me, which made me feel even shittier. I woke up only looking forward to crawling back beneath the covers. My eyes would glaze as I tried to read or watch TV, the sinking in my chest threatening to collapse me. I emotionally flatlined.
Wondering if I’d ever feel better.
Worried I wouldn’t.
Scared I’d stop trying.
Eating well, therapy, sleeping enough, and exercising—yoga and hiking the Presidio—balance the scales pretty well. I’ve experienced only a few blips of depression since last year, but I’m constantly on guard. There’s nothing worse than waiting for something you can’t control to derail your life. Despite my ups and downs, I’ve managed okay, but my recent decision to break the law might prove otherwise.
Beckett’s plan makes me sick to my stomach, because until now my fear of spinning out of control has kept me from taking part in normal teenage experiences. Not like this plan is anywhere near normal, but I fear if anyone looked at what I’m doing, they’d worry.
Isn’t this the definition of engaging in “uncharacteristic impulsive behavior”?
In my small adjoining bathroom, I splash water on my face. Hoping to silence the little niggling voice in the back of my head warning me to reel myself in. To behave.
While my mother and I share a name—why I refuse to go by Caroline—our similarities end there. I brace myself against the sink, repeating my comforting phrase, those six little words, until my heartbeat steadies and slows.
You are not your mother’s child.
SATURDAY, APRIL 21 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 9
Five
I SPEND THE first Saturday of spring break at Bigmouth’s, greatly regretting my recent life choices. What was I thinking last night? Beckett’s plan is so many layers of wrong, I don’t know where to start. And yet, even though this idea is the most reckless thing I have ever agreed to, my blood is warmer. My heart faster. My hopes lifted.
I’ve thought this through. Something can’t be impulsive if I’ve thought it through, right? And besides, Beckett has a plan. I’ll be safe, I’ll earn the money, and everything will return to normal.
Despite telling myself this, over and over, my nerves jangle.
When I arrived this morning, Dad was busy working on the accounting books, and he waved me away from his office when I said hello. I’ve been manning the register since ten. Unsurprisingly, the alley is dead, and for once I wish we had more customers.
Maybe it’s in my best interest we don’t, because I’m bombing today. I mess up giving our only two groups their change. I rip the stitching on my sewing project, a Biba head scarf. My body’s so energized I smack my kneecap into the counter—twice.
After lunch, the tinted glass doors open and Beckett Porter strolls into Bigmouth’s, hands tucked into his front pockets. I lower my headphones. He’s earlier than I expected. Surely Beckett’s not loitering around here for my entire shift. We can’t exactly talk Hustling 101 or whatever with Dad hovering.
“Hey.” He motions to the pale pink fabric twined between my fingers. “That looks cool. What is it?”
“A scarf.” I stab the head scarf with my needle and pull the thread taut, unnerved by his interest. Why does he care? “You know I’m not off for another five hours, right?” Sure, I could ignore him for those five hours, but I’ve decided Beckett’s presence is the social equivalent of black mold—unassuming, and it might kill you if you don’t get rid of it.
Beckett places a twenty-dollar bill beside the register. “I’m here to bowl.” He peers over the counter and cocks his head. “Nice overalls.”
The comment oozes sarcasm, but I flash him a smile. “Thank you.”
They’re no ordinary overalls. I tailored and customized them. I believe—after many Friends reruns—the nineties ruined overalls for future generations. Which is a shame. I’m trying to rectify that, although I get an awful lot of weird looks for wearing overalls. Even in San Francisco, capital of the Weird.
“Just one game?” I ask, sliding the twenty off the countertop.
“Yep.”
I ring Beckett up, careful not to touch his hand as I drop the coins into his palm.
Beckett sets up in lane seven, and yeah, he still sucks. Why is he spending money on something he clearly lacks the skills for? But I might have high standards. It’s a miracle I wasn’t born in this damn alley, that’s how ingrained bowling is in our family.
Grandpa Ben opened Bigmouth’s in the late sixties, christening it after the nickname my grandmother gave him for being a huge gossip. Benjamin “Bigmouth” O’Neill died when I was six months old, my grandma a year after him. Death came in threes for my family, because my mom died two years later.
The business was already going downhill when my dad took it on full-time. Through the years, we’ve cycled through landlords, iffy clauses, increased rent thanks to the tech boom, and now we’re stuck with Jesset’s eviction threats.
I fiddle with the Biba scarf, but spying on Beckett while I’m sewing is kind of hard, so I set the project aside. Inside my carpetbag purse is my latest library find, and I crack the spine, flipping idly through the pages. Much more suited for spying.
From the corner of my eye, Beckett flounders to knock over pins. He’s consistently crappy and doesn’t manage a single strike. Which makes me wonder how he got into hustling. I make a mental note to ask about his bowling history later when we—I refuse to call it hang out—have our business meeting.
If you can call hustling a business.
Dad comes out from his office to watch Beckett bowl. Dad clearly still adores Beckett, and seeing them together acting chummy, talking, laughing? It sets off alarms, raises red flags, and broadcasts warning signals. S-O-freaking-S.
Beckett is giving my dad the wrong impression, instilling false hope that we’re friends again. Dad was pretty devastated when we had our falling-out. He pushed me to forgive Beckett and mend our friendship, but it’s not my fault he’s unworthy of redemption.
I hide behind the library book when they both approach the register.
“Caroline, honey, why didn’t you tell me you were doing a project with Beckett?”
I shoot Beckett a look. There’s no way he told him.
Beckett says to Dad, “Our teacher asked us to spend break doing a research project on something unique to San Francisco.”
Mr. Haust, my history teacher, assigned no such project. We’re not even in the same class. Beckett’s lying to my dad to give us a reason to spend time together. To get me out of work. I hate lying, and Beckett’s lied me into a corner.
“What’s your project on?
”
“We’re thinking of focusing on the city’s criminal roots,” Beckett adds.
“Fascinating,” Dad says, then to me, “What’re you still doing sitting back there?”
I glance around. “Back where? The counter? Because you told me to.”
“School comes first.”
Uneasily, I smile. “I didn’t want to inconvenience you, Dad.”
“Nonsense. Beckett’s headed to the library. You should join him.”
“What about—” I gesture to my work space helplessly. And here I thought I had a few more hours to compose myself before meeting with Beckett. “Who will do my job?”
“I’ll need your help if things pick up, but an afternoon away might do you good.”
When I don’t move, they both stare, waiting. Sighing, I pack up the scarf and my book and sling my purse over my shoulder. “I have my phone, okay?”
Dad grins so wide, the gold in his molar fillings glints. Not only is he excited I’m interacting with someone in real life, but the fact that said person happens to be Beckett Porter is apparently too much joy for him to handle.
“I’ll be fine. You two have fun.”
I hug Dad and burrow my face against his chest, rolling my eyes. Yeah. Fun with Beckett. Not in this lifetime, or the next. That chapter in our shared history ended a year ago.
Beckett returns his bowling shoes and walks out with me. He carries a beat-up bowling bag held together with electrical tape.
“Pretty smooth, huh?” he asks, pumping his eyebrows at me. Like he’s challenging me not to laugh at his ridiculousness.
“You’re way too pleased with yourself.” A smile threatens my lips, so I look away and study the sidewalk. We’re here to talk business, not joke around. “School project is the most basic lie in the book. Be happy my dad is super gullible and feels guilty for saddling me with work during spring break.” I gamble a sideways look at him. “What’re we even doing right now?”
“We need to talk over the plan,” he says, patting down his pockets. After a moment, he pulls out a set of keys. “There’s a lot you don’t understand yet. You’ve got the talent, but hustling is an entirely different game.”
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 4