“I figured as much.” Beckett drags his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, I couldn’t deal. You were mad at me and my family was imploding and I didn’t deal well. I let us fall apart too.”
All the scrambled puzzle pieces slot into place. And as upsetting as this is, it makes sense. Why I saw him less and less at school. Why he got into a fight at the end of sophomore year. By junior year, he became a truant. I never let myself care—or show that I cared—why Beckett acted the way he did. Until now.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, wishing my heart would slow down or my mind would speed up and help me decide what to say. “I’m sorry about your dad,” I eventually tell him. The other half of the sentence—I should’ve been there—stays unsaid.
“Me too.” Beckett’s smile is rueful. A lull of silence fills the air, and then he adds, “We moved toward the end of sophomore year, once it was clear my dad wasn’t coming back.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again because the silence is too much.
“No worries. Enough sad shit.” He clears the thickness from his throat and pulls his notebook from his backpack. “Let’s get back on topic. The game tomorrow starts at ten at the Road.”
“Ten? That’s kind of late.”
Beckett cocks a brow. “How old are you? It’s spring break. Live a little.”
“Excuse me for having a curfew.” Technically, my weekend and holiday-break curfew is midnight. But I make it a habit to be folded between my comforter and sheets by ten p.m. every night.
“We’ll figure it out.” When he hops to his feet, it’s like he leaves his sadness behind. “The Road’s a bowling alley and pool hall in Oakland. Low-key, low stakes, and hopefully low stress. This is a good starter game because the players stick to this specific alley, and we won’t run into them later in the week.”
I flip through the notebook, my heart rate settling now we’re talking business. Something straightforward without the taint of emotions. “What other games are we playing?”
“I’m still hitting up contacts about any games going on between now and next Sunday. Not all are announced in advance. With enough seed money, we should be able to flip a profit.”
“I have two hundred to contribute.” Doing so will drain my savings, but if we’re doing this, we’re doing this right.
Beckett bobs his head. “Excellent. I have three hundred to throw in. Five hundred is a decent starter. We can play a game tomorrow for cheap, like sixty a head. I was thinking this once we’d bowl as a team, so you can get a feel without too much pressure. The stakes are low, so if my sucky skills pull our score down, we won’t lose much.”
“Sure. That works.” I study his notebook, then tap the page listing different players. “How do you know these guys? And about hustling?”
“I don’t know them, not personally. Back at the start of the school year, I was betting on games—I actually know a lot about bowling, thanks to you—and that’s when I first saw people hustling. The good ones are subtle. Everything else I learned online.”
“Why were you betting in the first place?”
Beckett checks out our selection of bowling balls, lifting them and testing their weight. “My mom was laid off last summer, and a little extra pocket change never killed anyone. Medicine, gas, and groceries don’t pay for themselves.”
My heart swoops—first with sympathy and then with curiosity. What the hell happened? Mrs. Porter used to be a pediatric nurse at St. Mary’s Medical. Then again, Beckett’s dad was still in the picture.
To busy myself from falling too deep into a well of guilt, I flip through the pages, full of countless bowling alley names and notes on their players. Never once do I read Bigmouth’s name in the notebook, but I have to ask, “Does Bigmouth’s ever do this?”
Beckett laughs and rubs his chin. “Nah. Your dad is too straitlaced to allow hustling.”
True. My dad is old-fashioned and believes people should bowl because they love the sport, not because they prefer to get drunk and throw a ten-pound ball at pins for fun. But our lack of a liquor license wasn’t Dad’s idea—it was Grandpa Ben’s. He was a recovering alcoholic and preferred not to be near booze twenty-four seven.
“First lesson,” Beckett says, gently tugging the notebook from my hands. “Subtlety is key. An easy trick is appearing drunk. Drinking at bowling alleys is a given these days. If you appear tipsy and loose-handed with your cash, the players will view you as nonthreatening. I mean, you have the advantage of being a girl. I’ve never seen a female hustler.”
Ah, sexism at its finest. “But won’t that make me more noticeable? If I’m the only girl? What if people take pictures or something?” I slip off my platform heels and trade them for the bowling shoes.
Beckett pauses and squints at me. “Huh, okay, I hadn’t thought of that. I know some more hard-core places require you to leave your cell phone at the door, but you raise a valid point.”
I approach the nearest ball rack and hunt out my favorite, a twelve-pound Hammer Absolut Hook. The colors are funky, a rich purple marbled with black. I hoist the ball against my hip as I punch the override code into the console for a free game.
“What about wigs?” I set my ball in the return. Until now, Beckett’s been running the show, and it’s nice to contribute. “For me, obviously.”
He laughs, tilting his head back. “Those creepy-as-fuck wigs in your bedroom? Those would be perfect!”
“Hey, they’re not creepy—just the mannequin heads are. They’re really nice wigs.” I drag my fingers through what was once a pixie cut. My hair hangs in an unruly bob, short enough to disguise easily beneath a wig cap. “But what about you?”
“I doubt anyone will pay attention to me,” Beckett says, “but maybe just a beanie to hide my hair?”
“Okay,” I reply, satisfied. “What else can you tell me about hustling?” I’m surprised to realize I wouldn’t rather be sleeping or chatting with Mila right now—and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that.
“Hold up. Why don’t you throw a few practice shots?”
I’m relieved, yet nervous at his suggestion. What if I suck? Last year I would’ve had no problem telling Beckett my fears. Now the admission that I’m anything but fearless feels too personal, too real. Too uncomfortably close to the truth.
“What?” I ask, shaking off my nerves and putting up my walls. “Afraid I’m not as good as you remembered?”
He grins, holding out his palms in innocence. “You said it, not me.”
I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him, instead picking up the ball and walking onto the platform. Every move I make feels like it’s under some kind of Beckett microscope as he watches me from the sidelines. Not like his attention matters. Not like I care or anything.
With squared shoulders, I take my shot. The ball hammers down the lane, crashing into the headpin, and I swell with satisfaction. The other nine pins fall, rocketing and spiraling away. When my ball returns, I bowl another strike. And another, clearing the frames after the pinsetter resets them.
I can’t bowl a perfect game, but it’s undeniable—I’m pretty damn good.
Beckett lets out a low whistle. “Is it me, or have you gotten better?”
“I am impressive, aren’t I?” My humor masks my insurmountable insecurity.
Rusty or not, I bowled well tonight, which wasn’t a guarantee.
Beckett grabs his ball and shoots a sloppy frame. “What’s really going to push you ahead is downplaying your skills. Showing an ineptitude for the game.”
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” I joke, flicking my wrist to the nine remaining pins.
“I forgot how funny you are,” he says dryly, abandoning the lane to grab something from his backpack. He holds up a money clip, then tosses it over. “So, strategy. There are little things, too, like dropping your money. We’ll use this, fold a larger bill over the others, so when you drop it, it’ll look like you have more than you’re betting.”
I twirl t
he money clip between my fingers. Plain brass with the initials ACP embossed onto one side. Adam-something-Porter. “This your dad’s?”
“Yeah. I found it when we were moving.” Beckett palms his neck. “Anyway. Keep it simple. You either act quiet and unassuming, or drunk and gregarious. Or distracting your opponents and getting them drunk also works.”
I toss the money clip back. “People are sloppy when they’re drunk. Got it.”
Beckett catches and pockets the clip. “You’ll have to be careful. You won’t be bowling strikes, not unless you need to punch out to win.”
“Punch out?”
“Bowl two strikes in the final frame,” he clarifies, leaning against the ball return and kickstanding one leg behind him. “Most of your shots will be orchestrated. You want to be good but not too good. Try bowling a frame, but don’t go for the strike pocket. Try for the pocket between pins two and four.”
At the foul line, I take a calculated shot and aim between pins four and two. And I miss, my left hook winging out, so I only clip the fourth pin.
“My bad,” I say, wincing as two pins clatter.
Beckett’s laughter dissolves my threatening nerves. “That’s why we’re practicing. Bowling with the intention of not getting a strike isn’t natural.”
I follow Beckett’s instructions and choreograph my throws. It takes practice, but after the fifth or sixth throw, I get the hang of it. Accounting for my left hook is essential, but as long as I keep that in mind and line up my shots, it’s easy. With something external to focus on, Beckett and I work fine together. We’re almost professional. Much more preferable to digging into our past.
After an hour I’m confident I can replicate these shots tomorrow night. And the night after.
I return my ball to the rack and stretch overhead, my arms aching from the repetition. “Anything else?”
Beckett tosses his ball at a newly set frame of pins. “Nah, I mean, we’ll have to read the room. There’s only so much planning we can do, but this is an excellent start. You feel ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Flopping onto the couch, I kick off the bowling shoes. Pressed against the dull pinewood, my socked feet are wet from sweat and the rain. Curling my toes, I tuck my feet behind the legs of the seat, just in case they smell. I don’t linger on why I’m concerned about Beckett smelling my feet; it’s not like he hasn’t before. I watch him bowl another terrible shot and add, “You’re awful.”
Beckett spins on his heel as his ball careens into the gutter. He flashes me a smile. “Thanks, but you don’t have to be good to enjoy it. Maybe you forgot, but we had a blast bowling here every weekend. And I loved bowling with my dad before he split.”
“Pun intended?” The inappropriate joke slips out.
His laugh surprises me.
Encouraged, I say, “Unfortunately, most of life can be summed up in poor bowling puns.”
Beckett puts the ball away and joins me on the couch. He unlaces his shoes and slides them off, stretching out his legs. His socks are mismatched, his left big toe poking out of a hole. He sneezes loudly into the crook of his elbow.
“I think I’m allergic to something in here.”
“Maybe you just lost your immunity to me,” I tease, and he laughs. Except it’s kind of the truth, since my cat sheds all over my clothes like it’s his job. “Spending time and money on something you’re bad at seems like a waste.”
“Everyone’s gotta have a passion.” Beckett pauses to blow his nose with a tissue from his backpack, and I almost feel bad for inflicting him with cat dander. “Passion does not equal competence.”
“Maybe not, but it makes things easier.”
“You’re clearly not passionate about bowling. But what about sewing? Or fashion?” He nods at my sequined platform shoes. “You have a unique sense of style.”
“I sew because… it’s therapeutic. I don’t know.” My skin flushes, like opening up is akin to tossing off a piece of clothing. “As for fashion, it isn’t a proper passion or a life skill.”
The real answer is that vintage clothes are proof that no matter how broken a piece is, how used up or out of style, someone will find the beauty. There’s something so comforting about that.
“Says who?” Beckett scoffs, rubbing the tendons along his neck. “If you’re right—which you’re not—there wouldn’t be design schools and fashion degrees.”
Even if I love fashion—and I do—following in my mom’s footsteps and attending fashion school carves at my heart. I’m not sure I’ll be able to apply knowing I’m taking steps to fulfilling the dream she never got the chance to live.
The argument is a moot point, anyway. College is the hundred-dollar question with the even higher price tag. If I’m accepted. If I earn a scholarship. I hate situations that depend entirely on ifs. Which all hinges on a bigger if—if Bigmouth’s pulls through.
“It’s complicated.” I scratch my nose, focusing on the tinny sound of rainfall striking the roof. Time to switch topics. Beckett isn’t my friend—he’s my business partner. That’s all. “So, we’re really doing this?”
Beckett shifts to face me, leaning his elbow onto his thigh. “Yeah. Unless you’re having second thoughts?”
I shake my head. “Nope,” I say, even though I’m nervous.
“Good.” Relief flickers in his eyes.
A tiny bit of tiredness seeps into my bloodstream. A relief. Hopefully I’ll sleep tonight. “We should head out.”
Beckett stuffs his feet into his loafers and pushes up from the couch. “Need a ride?” he offers, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
We’ve been far too friendly tonight, but I also don’t want to take BART or Muni. So I agree. Beckett helps me close up—tidying our lane, turning off the remaining lights—and after setting the alarm code, I follow him to his car.
Wordlessly, Beckett plugs his phone into the tape-deck auxiliary converter and holds it across the center console. The screen is unlocked, Spotify pulled up. The gesture is so small, and yet it says so much. Beckett and I used to trade music almost as often as we traded words.
The phone’s heavy in my palm as I choose one of my more recent favorite bands. Manchester Orchestra plucks and reverberates against the Accord’s speakers as Beckett takes me home.
SUNDAY, APRIL 22 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 8
Seven
ALL I WANT to do is nervous-puke in my bathroom, but I pack my purse, along with a wig for tonight, and jog downstairs. Beckett’s picking me up early to maintain our school project cover story; no idea how we’ll kill time until the game at ten. Hopefully it’ll be something that can keep my mind busy, because I’m dangerously close to freaking out.
I was banking on the house being empty, saving me from having to lie in person to my dad or Aunt Fiona, but no such luck. Dad’s making a bologna sandwich in the kitchen. In his San Francisco Giants cap, poly-stained jersey paired with cargo shorts, he’s so unassuming, but my chest clenches with nerves.
“You sure you don’t need me at Bigmouth’s?” I ask, swiping a banana from the fruit bowl, secretly hoping he does. Just so I have a logical reason to back out of tonight.
Dad squirts mustard onto rye bread, not even looking up. The brim of his battered cap shields his face. “I’m sure. Fiona’s covering while I have lunch, but Sundays are slow. Go have fun.”
“We’re working on a project, not hanging out.”
Dad smooshes the two pieces of bread together. “It’s okay, honey, if you forgive him.”
“I don’t—”
“I get it,” he says, cutting me off. “The longer you hold on to something, the harder it is to let it go. Especially if it means admitting you might’ve been wrong.”
I shake my head, flustered at his ability to voice the thoughts I refuse to acknowledge. “Jeez, Dad, whose side are you on?” When Beckett and I had our falling-out, I was surprised my dad didn’t make TEAM BECKETT T-shirts.
“I’m on the side of your
happiness, my darling daughter.”
I roll my eyes.
“Speaking of”— Dad pauses, wiping his hands on his jeans—“I got the mail today.” He slides a few envelopes across the counter.
One’s from my bank; the other is a glossy trifold for FIDM. When I signed up for their tour at the start of the month, I entered my information as a prospective student. I didn’t think they’d send me something in the mail. Who uses the postal service anymore?
“Thanks,” I say, sliding the mail into my purse. Maybe Dad didn’t see the envelope.
“Fashion school, huh?” Dad asks, dashing my hopes.
My stomach curls itself into one big cramp.
“I mean, maybe.” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, the metallic of panic tainting my taste buds. Dad knows my heart lies with fashion, but I’ve never told him I was considering studying it at school. The implications, the fear, have kept me from taking my passion seriously. “Would that be okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Setting his sandwich aside, Dad leans his elbows onto the kitchen island. “I think it’s wonderful you share your mother’s talents. That’s a real special gift.”
If I share Mom’s talents, what else do we have in common? The thought leaves me heady with dread. I try brushing it off, but the unease lingers. “FIDM is super selective. I doubt I’ll get in.”
Dad picks up his plate and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Whatever you decide, I’m proud of you, Caroline.”
I don’t reply as he disappears into the den with his sandwich.
My body sags against the island counter. Of all days, why did we have to talk about FIDM before my first official hustle with Beckett? I’m left with nerves and sweat. Even though I already knew my mom studied design at CCA, I don’t like thinking about it. Don’t like looking too closely at how we overlap.
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 6