Keep My Heart in San Francisco

by Amelia Diane Coombs

  Groaning, I curl onto my side and take huge gulps of air. My ears are ringing.

  My shoes. They must’ve gotten oil on them.

  Beckett slides to a stop beside me, and he peers down at me. “Are you okay?”

  Eyes pricking with tears, I say, “I’m fine,” and push up. I earned the five pins from my first shot, but there’s an F marring the second box. I lost the game to Earl.

  I limp off the pain, heading toward the shadowed corner. Beckett follows, yelling at the guys to wait. “Hey, are you hurt?”

  We’re near a bank of vending machines that sell everything from condoms to socks.

  My lower back throbs, and my pride is shredded into insurmountable pieces. “No.” But my eyes leak. Traitors.

  Beckett steps forward to hug me, and I shove him away. I can’t stand his pity. “No one’s watching us. Just. Stop.” I rub my back, wincing. “Damn it, I made a complete fool out of myself. Did I really cross the foul line?”

  “Yeah, barely.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Nothing about this game is legal. It’s bullshit they pulled the foul card.”

  I lean against a vending machine full of Magnum condoms. “Shit. I can’t believe I lost over a technicality.”

  Beckett hesitates before asking, “Did you really think you could convert the Greek Church?”

  I roll my eyes because the question is so ridiculous. “I thought you believed in me.”

  He offers a smile, but my death glare kills it on contact. “I believe in you, but you had less than a point-three percent chance of getting the spare.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  Beckett rubs his chin. “I read up on different spares online, their probabilities and statistics. It’s a tough shot.”

  With the heels of my palms, I smear away my embarrassed tears. “Whatever. Can we go home?”

  “What? You wanna quit?” His shoulders slump forward. “What happened to saving Bigmouth’s? Staying in San Francisco?”

  “I don’t know!” I’m shaking, the voice in my head reminding me that I’m on the edge, that maybe I’ve lost not only money, but control over myself. Because the logical part of me wants to stop, but it’s so quiet, I can barely hear it. “Maybe we should cut our losses? Give up?”

  “If we leave,” Beckett says, “if we cut our losses, then you’ll probably move to Arizona. I don’t think that’s a loss I can deal with, okay?”

  “You’d be fine without me. Better off, even.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” he insists with this air of finality, and leans one forearm against the display case, boxing me against the vending machine Then: “Double or nothing. What do you say?”

  I shift, flushed over the lack of space between our bodies, at the heat of his voice. “What do you mean? With Earl?” My brain is still stuck on his earlier words. Will he really be that upset if I leave? Or is he just trying to motivate me? And why do I care so much if it’s real?

  Beckett pointedly looks over to the men, to the action. “You’re good. That was a fluke.”

  “And what if I lose?”

  “You won’t. I believe in you.” He steps back, closer to the lanes. “How’s that for a pep talk?”

  “You’ve made progress, but I don’t know.…” My palms are slick with sweat, and the appeal of winning eats my fear of losing. I need this money. Staying in San Francisco, saving Bigmouth’s—it’s more important than my wounded pride and bruised back.

  Beckett holds out his hand. “C’mon, it’s now or never. Let’s do this thing.”

  I place my hand in his, and he pulls me toward the hustle.

  Twelve

  BECKETT’S PEP TALK did the trick, resetting my confidence on-switch. My nerves haven’t quieted, instead fueling a desire to walk away with all the money in the cup holder. To take that money and, over the next week, turn it into eight grand to guarantee I stay in San Francisco.

  Earl’s eager to make even more money off me, and he alone agrees to play me for double or nothing. Sandy and Ace sit the game out. Earl and I both toss an additional hundred into the pot. Earl saw me cry after the slip, storm off, and fight with Beckett. If he was ever worried about my proficiency as a bowler, he sure as hell isn’t now. That very real mini breakdown made me a weak girl in his eyes. I’m using that to my advantage.

  By the tenth and final frame, we’re tied. When it’s my turn, I can win. To play it safe, I—surprise, surprise—need to bag two strikes. This can’t be easy on my nerves.

  The first strike stuns the men into slack-jawed silence.

  The second sends them into an uproar.

  “You fucking bitch,” Earl snarls, and the slur cuts through the music.

  “Watch it!” Beckett hops to his feet.

  I back away from the lane, heartbeat kicking up a storm.

  My gaze darts to the exit—the door narrows, farther and farther, as my vision tunnels.

  Dozens of eyes turn their attention to us, freezing a moment of time, and that’s all we need. Beckett moves fast, grabbing the money out of the cup holder and shoving the thick wad of bills into his pocket.

  As I reach for the bowling bag, Earl hops over the seats and traps both my forearms in a viselike grip. “You hustled us.” He flips me, my spine pressed against his stomach, one arm tight across my shoulders and chest.

  “Let her go,” Beckett says lowly, calmly, but his eyes are large and worrisome.

  Something sharp digs into my side, and I know it’s a knife before I look down. A shiny switchblade that Earl presses into the flimsy material of my top. Not enough to really hurt, but hard enough to scare me. The metal pierces my ribs, somehow cold and hot, and I bite back my fear.

  “I’ll let her go when you give us our money.” Earl spits on the ground; his breath yeasty from the beer. “I should’ve known something was up when she bowled that strike.”

  Beckett swears, his attention flitting from Earl and his knife to me. I force myself to stay calm, my frazzled mind fumbling to make sense of what to do. Sandy stays back, but when Ace sees the knife, he grabs his shit and runs. Smart guy.

  My purse with the Mace is behind Beckett, but that’s no use. Think. Earl’s short, and my head should line up with his chin. I jerk a silent no when Beckett reaches for the money in his pocket. We’re drawing quite the crowd and have only seconds until security or the sleepy bouncer breaks this up. Then all of us get caught. For hustling. For gambling. For underage drinking.

  Before I think twice, I use Earl’s tight grip to my favor. I brace against him and toss my head into what’s hopefully his nose, or at least his mouth. Whatever I hit, it hurts, and I cry out. But he lets go, the blade clattering to the floor. Skull pounding, I kick the knife toward the lane. I grab Beckett’s hand, and we run. People shout at us as we dash the length of the Dust Bowl, and Sandy dodges bystanders as he tries to catch up.

  “Hurry!” My legs are shorter than Beckett’s, but he’s lagging, stunned. I tug hard on his hand, and we push outside. The icy night air slaps me in the face, cold against my sweat, and I keep running. Beckett comes to his senses, pace picking up as he digs his keys from his pocket.

  Sandy isn’t trailing us anymore. No one is, but we run the two blocks until we arrive at Beckett’s Accord. We toss ourselves inside and lock the doors. Beckett hands me the wad of cash, slides the key into the ignition, and screeches from the street leading to the Dust Bowl.

  We’re silent except for the hush of our labored breathing in the car, which smells of whiskey and beer and sweat. I crank down the window and hang my head, taking huge gulps of fresh briny air.

  “Fuck,” Beckett says after a few minutes, the car speeding toward Hayes Valley. Lifting a shaky hand from the wheel, he drags his fingers through the matted curls clinging to his neck and face. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  My limbs are softer than overcooked spaghetti, but I twist sideways to inspect my ribs. The caftan has a small slice in it, and it’s spotted red. The knife barely got me, but eno
ugh to raise and pucker the skin along my ribs, drawing blood to the surface. My head aches, a dull thud at the base of my skull. The wig provided some protection, and the pain isn’t too bad.

  “I’m fine.” But am I? My heart sings, hammering in my chest, and my hands shake harder than Beckett’s. Fear. Adrenaline. Excitement. I feel it all at once, and it’s overwhelming. I glance down at my feet and the cheap rental shoes. “Damn it, we left my shoes! They were my favorite pair.”

  Beckett laughs and offers me a wobbly smile. “We netted five hundred dollars tonight, Chuck. Five hundred fucking dollars. You can buy new shoes.”

  “Actually, I can’t. They were vintage Finsk ballet flats. Irreplaceable.”

  “Do you want to go back for them?” he asks. “I bet Earl would love to have another chat about the ethics of bowling.”

  “Oh, shut up.” I tuck my fingers beneath the wig and pull it off. “Of course I don’t want to go back. I’m just mourning the loss, okay?”

  Our actual net is four hundred and eighty-five dollars, but added to what we’ve already won, we have just over a grand. A thousand dollars. I’ve had my doubts about this plan, but we’re actually doing it. We’re earning the money, slowly but surely, and my future in San Francisco no longer feels as precarious. Silly considering we barely have a fraction of what we need, but that’s what hope does. It lifts you up when everything else is dragging you down, down, down.

  I fold the bills into the money clip until I can add them to the stash at home. I haven’t heard from Aunt Fiona all night and check my phone. A single text, sent thirty minutes ago.

  AUNT FEE: Where the hell are you???

  Shit. It’s half past one.

  I text Aunt Fee, telling her I’m almost home.

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to play fair?” I ask, putting my phone away. My body aware of every movement, sore from the fall. Outside the car, the city slides by in a blur of lights and fog.

  “Sure, but what would be the fun of that?” Beckett jokes. Then he adds, “No, but really, since we’re doing this short term, there’s no harm in hustling. We’ll net more money and guarantee our wins. But if we’re gonna keep this up, you have to stick to the plan.”

  I wince, hoping he’d forget about my rebellious strike. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I was just…”

  “Just what?”

  I don’t know how to explain myself. I was annoyed and frustrated and made an impulsive decision. Pretty much my MO at this point. Changing topics, I say, “Don’t do this because you feel obligated to save Bigmouth’s or something. I’m giving you an out. After tonight, I won’t blame you if you want to take it.”

  “As much as I love Bigmouth’s, I only care because it means keeping you in San Francisco. I’m as invested as you are.”

  My skin erupts in goose bumps at his words. “You want me to stay? Back at the alley, that wasn’t just some pep-talk ploy?”

  We slow to a stop as the traffic light changes to yellow, then red, and Beckett turns in my direction. The seat belt strains against his chest. “Of course I do. Believe it or not, I actually like having you around. I’ve missed this.” He gestures to the space between us.

  “Yeah?” The question slips out between my smiling lips before I can stop it. Before I can think. The look on his face intense and sincere. For the first time, I believe that he missed me.

  “Yeah,” he says, but really, he kind of breathes the word.

  Against my will, my face turns hot and itchy.

  Someone behind us honks, and Beckett swears, turning his attention back to the road.

  “Um—” He flips his turn signal; we’re close to my house. “You’re really okay? I feel bad for underestimating them. What happened back there, that’s on me.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I wave my hand dismissively, pretending like I’m not unnerved. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Beckett bobs his head. “Good. What matters is you won, we got out unscathed, and you broke Earl’s nose.”

  A strangled, surprised noise escapes my lips. “Seriously? I didn’t look.”

  “His nose?” Beckett lifts his hands from the wheel to explode them away from his face, complete with sound effects. “A bloody fountain.”

  “Oh my God.” I press my fingers to my mouth in disbelief. “Good to know those self-defense classes my dad made me take paid off.”

  Beckett idles near the stop sign at the base of the hill on my street. “Should I drop you here?”

  The hill’s grade is daunting, and every bone has ached since we began this hustling scheme, but I don’t dare risk him driving closer. Tonight has been full of one mistake after another, and I don’t need any more trouble.

  “Yeah, here’s good.”

  Beckett leans across the seat and hugs me tight. His body is warm through his T-shirt, smelling slightly of sweat and deodorant. Bad idea, my brain warns, but I loop my arms around his neck. The last time I hugged him was before he went onstage as Danny in Grease.

  This hug is different, but we fit together all the same.

  Clearing his throat, he pulls away. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He shifts to his side of the car. “Tonight was, um—”

  “Intense?”

  Beckett nods. “Talk to you later? I’ll text you the details for Wednesday’s game if I can’t make it to Bigmouth’s tomorrow. I’m working, but I might swing by.”

  When I pop open the door, the late-night air—wet and dark—fills the car. It causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. “Sounds good.”

  He taps the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “Night.”

  I lift my hand in a half wave and step onto the sidewalk. “Later,” I say, my hand hovering in the air as he pulls a U-turn and putters down the street.

  My toes hang over the edge of the curb, and I stand there for a breath, watching his taillights fade. Hayes Valley is infamously windy, and it whips my hair, my clothes, into a frenzy. When I can’t see the Accord anymore, I turn and dig through my bag for my house key.

  I sneak back into the house, texting Aunt Fiona that I’m home, and tiptoe upstairs. As I dump my belongings on my bed, my phone buzzes. But it’s just Mila checking in, wondering what’s going on with Bigmouth’s and Beckett. I haven’t had time to catch her up. So I fill her in on the past seventy-two hours.

  What surprises me the most is when I tell Mila how it’s nice having Beckett back in my life. I didn’t anticipate this shift, but now that we’ve both said our piece and cleared the air, my resentment has faded. Sure, I’m still hurt and he still broke my trust, but the pain is less. Softer. Like it’s a memory rather than a fresh wound.

  After we log off, I check my e-mail—my eBay listings expired, and no one’s bothered with the Etsy items. No surprise there. I plug my phone into its charger and get ready for bed. My bones scream with fatigue as I pull off the caftan. The inch-long jagged hole, courtesy of Earl’s knife, is fixable, but I study myself in the full-length mirror, arching my arm over my head. The cut is puckered and red, a seam of fury across my ribs. Gingerly, I run my finger over the small wound, the reminder of what happened tonight. Of what was an act of bravery, or an act of thoughtlessness.

  Is there even a difference?

  Beckett might think I’m nothing like my mom, but lately I’m not so sure. I don’t know what she was like before her illness took over, and that nestles fear into my core. What was the beginning of the end? Was it simple, like late nights, less sleep, less food?

  What I’m doing—lying and gambling and sneaking around—makes me nervous. Because I’m happier tonight than I have been in a while. But isn’t this impulsivity? Or am I simply happy because I’ve found a solution? I have no idea, and the unknown scares the shit out of me. All I do know is that the little pile of money is growing, and I’m eager to see what else I’m capable of. I’ve never really felt capable before, and I’m already addicted to this feeling.

  Yet in the silent loneliness of my bedroom, worry sparks. Part of me
loves this, the weirdness, the rush. But what will life be like once it’s over? Beckett and I are friends again. Will that stay the same when we return to school next Monday?

  What if I move to Arizona?

  Tonight’s thoughts brought to you by What If™.

  I curl up on my bed, sleepless, staring at the fairy lights gleaming on the walls.

  My mind drifts, shuffling through years and years of memories.

  The time Beckett broke his ankle in the sixth grade on a school field trip. Folding pages in library books. Crying during Pixar movies. Our fingers linked every Sunday at Lindy at the Park as we danced. Singing “Summer Nights” on our school’s auditorium stage. Studying the BART map on his phone, worry creased between his brows…

  My phone buzzes across my comforter.

  BECKETT PORTER: Look what I found! Maybe they’re not as irreplaceable as you feared?

  I click the accompanying link, pulling open a vintage online retailer selling a pair of Finsk ballet flats. Not the exact same style as the ones I left behind in the Dust Bowl, but I smile all the same. Maybe if we have leftover money, I can buy a replacement pair.

  ME: Thank you

  After locking my phone, I roll onto my stomach and press my face into a pillow.

  More than seven hundred and fifty miles separate San Francisco, California, and Arizona. Just the idea of that much space between me and Beckett makes my eyes grow hot with tears. I have no idea how I feel about Beckett. But I’d like a chance to trust my emotions instead of running screaming in the opposite direction. A chance to make things right—really right—between us.

  TUESDAY, APRIL 24 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 6

  Thirteen

  A BLISTER ACHES on the inner base of my right thumb, and I keep poking at it with my red-polished fingernail. This much back-to-back bowling has physical side effects. Not only the blister—I’ve barely slept. Unfortunately, my lack of sleep is reflected on my face. I’m paler than usual, with bags under my eyes. It’s not a cute look.