“Stop,” I said, my voice quaking, my wobbly-kneed steps drawing me into the center of the room. He tried saying my name again, but I shook my head. “Just stop talking!”
Everyone stared, and four kids had their phones out. Probably eager to document our fight. The carpet swam, and my throat tightened until my eyesight turned blotchy. But all my words were caught in my throat, and I didn’t know what to say.
Heidi’s gaze darted between us. “O-oh,” she drawled, mouth forming an O. “Holy shit, it’s Chuck’s mom, isn’t it?”
There was no use denying it. I was one of the few kids with a dead mom, and Beckett and I were best friends. Easy enough to put two and two together. But I wasn’t as concerned with Heidi, because my best friend had just broken my heart.
“What the fuck, Beck?” I demanded, bringing my forearm up to brush away my tears, but they’d already smeared my mascara. A line of watery black inked my skin.
“Wait. It’s not what you think.”
“God, I should’ve never trusted you,” I said, my voice breaking. Vaguely conscious of our audience, I tried to play it off a disbelieving laugh. “You’re an asshole. No, you’re worse than an asshole. You’re a shitty best friend.”
Everything was hot and shivery, as if I were naked, like my bones were on the outside. A few kids tittered with uncomfortable laughter, and I wanted to scream.
One of the cast members muttered, “I wonder if she’s as psycho as her mom.”
There was no thinking, just action, as I hurled the soda can in Beckett’s general direction, turned on my heel, and ran.
Beckett followed me through the house and out onto the driveway, calling after me. When he finally caught up, he grabbed my arm. “Chuck, stop it. You’re acting crazy.”
“Nice word choice.” I wrenched out of his grasp like his touch was serrated. “I expect that from them”—I gestured toward the house—“but never from you.”
“Shit, that’s not what I meant!” He pulled at his curls, mussing them from their gelled pompadour. “It was an accident—” he was saying, but I couldn’t listen to his excuses.
“An accident?” I interrupted. “Did you or did you not just tell Heidi fucking Schilling about my mom?”
“Technically,” he began, holding out his palms, “yes, but she was throwing around the word ‘bipolar’ like it was a bad thing, and I wanted her to realize it’s not an adjective—”
I crossed my arms and hugged myself. “I don’t care. My mom? Everything that happened? That’s not your story to tell, Beck! I just—I trusted you.”
“Chuck, c’mon,” he said, reaching for me, his fingers grasping air.
I closed the gap between us and pushed him in the chest. Hard. “Stay away from me.”
Beckett stumbled, his hands falling limp to his sides, his lips parted like he wanted to say more. His eyes were wet and soft, and he squeezed them shut. But before he could open them, I took off down the street. I didn’t want to be there when he opened his eyes again.
And I wasn’t. I ran ten blocks down the Divisadero, until my heart nearly gave out, and sank to the ground outside a closed coffee shop. Eventually, when I stopped sobbing, I called my dad. When he picked me up, concerned and confused, all I said was that I wasn’t friends with Beckett anymore.
Until Thursday, that was the last conversation I’d had with Beckett Porter.
All this happened soon after I found out how my mom had died. Dad never told me the truth about Mom. I’m not sure if he was ashamed, or trying to protect me, but the truth eventually came out. After I slipped into my first depressive episode and didn’t get out of bed for two weeks, he explained that she’d died by suicide—not a car accident. The next week, they shuttled me downtown, where my new therapist, Sarah, told me bipolar disorder is commonly seen in families. They don’t know why, but it might be genetic, and Sarah said to keep an eye on me since I’d experienced a depressive episode.
Beckett knew, more than anyone, how much finding out about my mom changed things for me. How insecure I was—and still am—about my mental health. Never once did he question me when I asked to be called Chuck instead of Caroline. He was my best friend. He knew every little secret, and he was never supposed to tell.
Except Beckett told everyone. And it changed everything.
To make matters worse, the rumor mill did a number on our fight. A dozen different versions of that night existed. I slapped Beckett. I screamed myself hoarse. I broke one of Heidi Schilling’s parents’ favorite vases. Most people shied away, but a few made fun of me until the end of sophomore year. This asshole from my English class, Donnie Mathers, called me a crazy bitch, and I cried every morning in the shower for a month.
People were already used to dismissing me, because the only friend I’d ever needed was Beckett. But I lost him, too.
After wiping the snot from my nose with some toilet paper, I wash my hands. Splash lukewarm water on my face. It drips down my cheeks, pools in the curve of my lips, and trails down my neck. I challenge my reflection, the colorless girl.
You are not your mother’s child.
When I’m positive the tears have dried up, I unlock the bathroom. The door across the hall hangs open, Beckett and Willa inside. Willa’s bedroom from the looks of it. Tiny, with a twin bed in one corner, a closet showcasing a spill of clothing, and a chest underneath the window with a large terrarium on it. The box of mice sits on a desk on the far wall. Beckett catches my eye, and his expression is closed-off. For once, he’s upset.
I used to think Beckett Porter was unflappable, but I might’ve discovered the one thing that pisses him off: me.
Eight
I’M A NERVOUS ball of tangled energy as we head to our first hustle. I flip through songs on my phone, disgusted by the sweaty smears my fingers leave on the screen. Beckett’s been quiet since we left his house. Even though I have no desire to talk about tonight, his silence is unnerving. I can’t tell if he’s upset with me or annoyed or what. My imagination runs wild with the possibilities.
When we exit into Oakland off the freeway, Beckett clears his throat. “Hey, about what happened at the house,” he starts, glancing at his GPS.
I groan and press my fingertips to my temples. “It’s fine. Can we not talk about it? I don’t want your apologies.” I’m embarrassed. For all the walls I put up, it’s way too easy to knock me down. But if Beckett wants to apologize, great. I just want to forget what happened outside the bathroom and get this night over with.
He turns on his blinker as we idle on Broadway. “I was going to ask if you’re sure you wanna do this. Tonight might not be the best night to try out hustling if you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I say quickly. Too quickly, because I’m defensive as hell. “I’m fine, Beckett.” Fan-fucking-tastic.
“And what makes you think I was apologizing? There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“Yeah, well, there must be if I’m hanging out with you again.”
The light’s green and we turn onto Twenty-Seventh Street. He just sighs and drags his fingers through his curls. His wounded expression gives me way too much satisfaction.
Once Beckett gets over himself, we park and hash out our plan. Brisk and businesslike, we each do our best to check our emotions. We’re experimenting with the techniques we went over last night. The biggest one is seeing how much the other players underestimate me as a girl, and a drunk girl at that.
I flip open the mirror in the car and use my thumb to smear my eyeliner, muss my hair. Then I tuck my hair into a wig cap and adjust the light-colored locks around my face. The curls hang past my shoulders, the side bang stiff against my forehead.
My mom was gorgeous and had these strawberry-blond curls you could never replicate, but she loved wigs. Wearing them. Dressing up. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Losing herself, as Aunt Fee explained once.
“Whoa,” he says with raised brows, taking me in. “You look weird as a blonde.”
/> “Thanks.” I bite back the sarcasm and adjust an errant curl. “But does it look natural? Or at least convincing?”
Beckett shuffles through his bowling bag, head bent and face obscured. “Yeah, definitely.”
The only part of the plan I’m steadfastly against is Beckett’s proposed cover story. He wants us to go in there as boyfriend and girlfriend.
“Trust me,” he says for the third time as he recounts our buy-in money. “You’ll seem less suspicious if you’re my girlfriend. No one will question it.”
“Trust me, it’s not happening. Can’t people platonically bowl together?” The malice in my eyes must scare Beckett, because he surrenders.
The Road is more dive bar than bowling alley. Even though we’re on the outskirts of the nicer Lake Merritt neighborhood, it takes only a block or two for Oakland to go from beautiful to sketchy. The Road muddles somewhere in between.
The roof’s flat and low, and the small parking lot is full of rusty cars and gleaming motorcycles. As we get out of the Accord, the wind nips, and there’s an external buzz to the air. That or my nerves have officially seeped out of my skin and mixed with the elements.
When we reach the green-slated door blending in with the bland windowless building, Beckett pauses.
“You ready?” he asks.
My stomach pitches, growls. My heart beats so fiercely, the edges of my vision pulse. What happens if we lose? Or if we get caught? I wipe my palms on my thighs. “Yup. Let’s do this.”
Is my complete lack of confidence showing? I hope not, because Beckett opens the door.
The scent hits me first—sticky and nutty, beer and peanuts—and the worn carpet is ragged from decades of wear. Cigarette smoke clings to the wood paneling, and the felt on the billiard tables is ripped. A bar runs along an entire wall, and in the corner closest to us is a claw machine filled with—yeah, that’s porn. A claw machine filled with porn DVDs.
It’s easy to act intimidated or out of place, because I am all of those things, tenfold. I’m a seventeen-year-old girl in a seedy dive bar. It’ll never be a struggle to look the part. I am the part.
Beckett presses his palm into the small of my back, a sensation that kick-starts me into consciousness.
“IDs?” the barkeeper demands.
Beckett smiles congenially. “We’re here to bowl.”
The barkeeper eyes us, mouth twisted in disbelief. Like anyone, let alone two teens, would come to this dump just to bowl. He walks over, brandishing a thick Sharpie, and slashes an X across Beckett’s hand, then mine. “Uh-huh. Talk to Marky.” With the pen, he points to a separate counter at the far end.
We thank him, walking past the barstools of inebriated patrons who are loud and choleric, or fast asleep on their stools. By the look of it, these people have been here since morning.
The alley itself has thirty lanes, but fewer than half are occupied. Everything’s grimy as hell and has seen better days. Small groups of bowlers dot the lanes. A few nurse beer bottles while others focus on their game. We pay Marky, the cashier, for two games plus shoes.
Between us, we have around five hundred dollars. Not minus the twenty-five to play. If all goes as planned, we’ll earn that back. Tonight, the betting is minor. Beckett told me you never play against the best, because if you beat them, you’re done. No one else will play you. Between now and next Sunday, we’re starting small and working our way up the ranks.
We settle at our lane, where I play my best fake drunk. Hard when I’ve never been drunk, but I’ve watched enough trashy reality television to put on a show. The mussed hair and makeup help. My nerves make me clumsy too.
The guys on the lanes to either side of us watch, so I flash the group of younger guys a smile, leaning forward to pull off my flats. I don’t dare set my bare feet on the ground, though—the floor is damp, multicolored, and makes me want to vomit.
Which, hey, would do wonders for the drunk-girl act, wouldn’t it?
“How’re you doing?” Beckett asks, the drone of the local classic rock station pounding out of the mounted wall speakers.
“Nervous. Do I seem drunk?”
“Passable.” He swaps his loafers for bowling shoes.
Beckett nods toward the lanes. “Okay, game time. You know what to do?”
I push away from the seats and wander over to inspect the ball rack. He programs the console as I pick out my ball from the rack of options. I test out the weight and shift my body; the ball’s balanced in my grip. Bonus points for being bubblegum pink with glitter.
Beckett bowls, and it’s comforting how truly horrible he is.
The setup is easy. After Beckett’s second throw, I bowl sloppily. The pink ball hits a few pins. As we trade turns, I keep my play consistent with loose, random shots, but my ball spends quality time in the gutter. Beckett doesn’t have to struggle to suck, but it’s painful to throw bad shots; I’m glad we practiced choreographing.
The entire game, I’m loud and drunk and the absolute worst.
Toward the end of the game, I bowl a split. Then I convert it into a spare and clear the frame. It’s no strike, but I act like I won the goddamn lottery. I may not have been a good enough actress to play Sandy in sophomore year, but I put on a convincing show tonight.
“Oh my God, did you see that? That’s a strike, right?” I ask Beckett, who watches with thinly veiled amusement. I replay what he told me last night: What’s really going to push you ahead is downplaying your skills. Showing an ineptitude for the game.
“A strike is when you knock down all ten at once. Real close, though,” he says.
I stumble off the platform and lean against the plastic seats. “Nope, that was good. I’m good. You guys saw that, didn’t you?” I ask, turning to the four men next to us.
The tallest man, with white-blond hair, cocks his head. “I saw it,” he says.
“I can take anybody in this joint.” The guy laughs, and I cut him off. “No, I’m dead serious. Anybody. I’ve got money! You’re playing for money, right?”
His attention flickers between Beckett and me. “Yeah. I can show you some action.”
Beckett’s cue. “Caroline, I’m not so sure about that. These guys are serious players.”
I try to not cringe at my full name. We figured it would fly better here.
“And I’m not?” I reply, turning fast and pretending to lose my balance; Beckett grabs my arm to steady me. Feigning drunken embarrassment, I reach for my purse and the money clip.
I peel off three twenties. “Sixty dollars,” I say, shoving the cash at the guy.
“You’re really not going to listen to me, huh?” Beckett mutters with a sigh, reaching for his own wallet. “Here, I’m in. Don’t want her playing alone.”
The guy squints in assessment. “Yeah, sure,” he says, taking our money. “I’m Count.”
I make a face at the grimy floor. Count? As in numbers, or does he moonlight as Dracula?
“Doubles then?” Count asks. “Me and Phil, against you and your girl?”
“I am not his girl,” I point out, which garners laughter.
After that the men barely acknowledge me. Actually, that’s a lie. One of the players’ friends stares at my nonexistent cleavage. Between my boldly patterned dress and honey-blond wig, I look like I tripped out of a seventies film.
The cash is tossed in plain sight, on the table we share between our coupled seats. As Beckett predicted, the owners of the Road don’t show any concern for betting or illegal activities.
Beckett’s first. He ties his hair back at the base of his neck, drying his hands over the blower, before approaching the foul line. He throws a creeper, a slow ball that takes a lifetime to reach the pocket. It knocks into the headpin and three pins clatter. His second shot is even worse.
Count bowls next and clears the frame with a strike that sends pins spinning.
My turn.
Beckett leans close and his hand lingers on my hip. “Knock over a max of three pins. Good luck
.”
“Will do.” As I turn, his hand slides from my hip, sending confusing shivers down my spine.
On the platform, I gingerly slide my fingers into the ball’s holes, my shellacked nails flashing. I tweak my left hook to sweep and fell three pins—the headpin, the third, and the sixth. A few others wobble, but my ball shoots into the gutter and the pinsetter resets my lane.
For my next shot, it’s hard not to earn myself a spare and knock down the rest of the remaining pins. I receive four more points, leaving an open frame, which is decent enough. I can’t let my score fall too low—or inch too high—in the beginning.
The night goes on like this. The men are drinking, getting sloppier and sloppier as each frame passes. Still feeling awkward from what happened at dinner, Beckett and I don’t even bother with small talk. Preferable because being around him is stirring up feelings I’d rather bury.
When we’ve each bowled five frames, I pick my game up, imperceptibly. I upgrade my shots to include splits I convert into spares. Beckett tries hard, but he sucks. Admittedly, he puts on a good show.
My score has crept close to Phil’s, but I’m behind Count. Only our joint score will matter. Beckett can bowl his sucky frames if I bag two strikes in the final frame. The friends are making side bets on who’ll have the highest score between Count and Phil. They’re not concerned about their friends losing to us.
Emboldened, I lean over the set of seats. “I’ll bet you another forty dollars I can bowl a strike in the last frame.”
“Caroline,” Beckett says, jaw sharp.
Count overhears and lifts a pale eyebrow. “No offense, but you haven’t bowled one all night.”
I roll my eyes and grab my money. “This is for fun, right?” I slip out two twenties and dangle them above the pile of winnings. “You in?”
Count looks to Phil, who agrees. They each toss down two twenty-dollar bills. “Why the hell not?” To Beckett he adds, “I hope that’s her money she’s throwing away.”
Annoyed by his sexist comment, I return to my lane and prepare for the final frame.
Keep My Heart in San Francisco Page 8