FOR THE FIRST time in decades, the lanes at Bigmouth’s Bowl are packed.
The ancient disco lights flash and dance across the pinewood. Our weekly customers are here: the geriatrics, the knitting club, and the bowling league. Everyone has shown up to say goodbye to Bigmouth’s. Even Marty, the guy who bowled Bigmouth’s last perfect game, showed up with his buddies.
Everyone who has touched our lives, or has been touched by Bigmouth’s, showed up to give our strange little bowling alley a proper send-off. My old boss, the owner of Any Beans Necessary. Dad’s buddies from the bar. Pete, our former employee. Strangers who saw the open doors, the flashing lights, and wandered inside. Mila, too. She made it to San Francisco during her summer break in the States; we get along even better in person.
Then there are the vultures. The other Bay Area bowling alley owners we contacted because, to raise money to pay off the back rent to Jesset, we’re selling off anything not nailed to the floor. And if it’s nailed, we’re lenient. Dad owns all the equipment, and it’s expensive. The local bowling alley owners flit around the party and pick our bones clean. Pinball machine junkies crowd in the corner, considering our broken machines for renovation.
Almost every lane has a bowler stationed on the platform, or a group of red-faced partiers into their fourth beer. Yes, my dad smuggled some of his own beer into Bigmouth’s. The air is full of nacho cheese aroma, Febreze, and that fibrous cancer smell from when we ripped up the carpet in Dad’s office. The party was Dad’s idea, but the sale was mine.
The equipment. The decorations. The trophies.
All gone come tomorrow morning.
Castelli High School had their finals this week, and the upcoming week is strictly formalities, the cleaning out of lockers and collecting of library books. Then I’ll be free for the summer. Or as free as I can be. I’m still grounded until September. Dad insists I find another job now that Bigmouth’s will be no more. Beckett and I both put in applications to Any Beans Necessary last weekend—our plan to spend the summer together.
When Beckett and I walked onto the quad together, holding hands, no one looked twice. This was such a big deal to us, but no one at school cared. Dad cared, though, and his pure adoration of Beckett came in handy when he convinced my dad to lift my grounding for prom. We spent the night on a yacht the school rented. Dancing, laughing, and kissing. There was so much kissing.
“There you are.” Beckett dashes out of the way as a few kids run down the hall, holding a hot dog in a crinkled paper napkin above the crowd. He lost me earlier when we went to get food, and I returned to packing. Because some of these items? I don’t want them auctioned off.
Plus, Beckett’s dad is here with Willa and his mom, and I don’t want to intrude on their family time. Beckett spent weeks tracking his dad down. He came home to Berkeley a few days ago.
“Hey.” I ease a photograph off the wall and set it in the cardboard box, place a fold of newspaper down, and move on to the next frame.
“You aren’t going to show off your mad skills?” He juts his chin toward the lanes before digging into his hot dog.
“Nah. Not today.”
I crouch, study a picture of my mother. It’s safe to say the past month gave me the time and space to untangle my emotions surrounding Bigmouth’s, my fear of my father losing his purpose, and my worries over my brain’s stability.
I finally went back to therapy with Sarah, and I let everything out. Every emotion—big or small—that I’ve kept bottled inside. During our first session back, I told Sarah about how scared I was of ending up like my mom. Dead before thirty. But Sarah helped me remember that I’m not my mental health, and there’s no shame in being Caroline Wilson. That’s a message I have to enforce daily. When you fear something so long, it becomes habitual. And bad habits are hard to break.
I even agreed to see a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist diagnosed me after our first session—bipolar not otherwise specified, which means I exhibit some diagnostic symptoms. They might get worse, but maybe not. With my family history, it’s better safe than sorry. But the psychiatrist explained that bipolar disorder is a spectrum, whereas pop culture and news cycles tend to focus on the extremes, driving home that stigma even further.
My case isn’t extreme, but that’s no guarantee for the future. My diagnosis can worsen if I stay careless. I have to be diligent and take care of myself. Between my new medication and weekly therapy sessions, I feel better than I have in a long time. And instead of shunning my mom, I’ve embraced all that we have in common.
I’m back to living carefully and consciously but not cautiously.
I’ve even adopted a new mantra, a new set of calming words for when I’m overwhelmed.
I am my mother’s daughter—and proud of it.
As for bowling, I haven’t picked up a ball since the disaster at Billy Goat Bowl. Instead, I traded hustling for a more practical future—I’m working on my FIDM application. I’m also applying to FIDM’s National Scholarship Competition to secure tuition for my first year and using my mom’s designs as inspiration for my project. I’m even wearing one of her finished designs tonight. I spent the last two weeks sewing it. A sleeveless off-white sundress with a hand-beaded belt, the gauzy white material light and summery.
Beckett crumples up his hot dog wrapper and hoists me to my feet. “You tried,” he whispers into my ear, nuzzling my neck. I revel in his spicy scent, insta-comfort. “That’s way more than anyone else would do.”
I turn into Beck and wrap my arms around him. His thin T-shirt sticks to his chest with a light sheen of sweat and my fingers make fists with the fabric. Now that he has someone to stitch those broken seams, Beckett’s shirts no longer have holes and all the buttons match. He’s still the Patron Saint of Cute Messes, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. He’s real. Anyone can appear put-together and normal, but there’s something damn nice about a person who’s comfortable displaying their stains rather than hiding them.
Beckett kisses my forehead. “I get this is hard, but we knew this day would come.”
I loosen a sigh. “Yeah, but it’s weird. And tomorrow—”
“I’ll be here tomorrow, too.”
As if one change isn’t enough, tomorrow the movers are carting away the rest of our lives. We can’t stay in our yellow Victorian house on the hill. It was silly to ever humor the idea we’d have the house without Bigmouth’s, but I’d harbored a secret hope. The bank wants to foreclose on the house, so Dad found us a tiny apartment near Golden Gate Park. No Hayes Valley, lush hills, and colorful houses, but we’re still in San Francisco.
We’re staying in the city of my heart, and I’m grateful. I really am.
But something else is missing. There’s an Aunt Fiona–shaped hole. My aunt’s moving up north after Dad and I settle at our new apartment. She snagged a job writing articles of substance for the Seattle Times and leaves California for Washington tomorrow night. The Bug is packed, the rest of her belongings already on their way to the Pacific Northwest. Also in Seattle? The girlfriend she met online and started dating last month.
Now she’ll have her own relationship to obsess over. Not mine and Beckett’s.
Beckett and I lean against the wall, our shoes slipping on the red-and-white-checkered linoleum floor. It’s peeling up around the corners, one of the next things to go. The new tenant is renovating the building, and they’ll take or trash whatever we leave behind. Which is why we’re trying to make the most out of this final night.
Dust tickles my nose, and my fingertips are smudged with newspaper ink. We watch the owner of Billy Goat Bowl, of all places, eye our ball returns. It’s not like we’re selling everything. We’re keeping the jukebox, the photographs I’m packing, my vinyl stool, and the broken neon sign, the last of which will go into garage storage at our apartment.
I pick up the latest addition to our wall of photographs, the frame cheap, encasing a newspaper article from the San Francisco Chronicle last month. The headline reads OWNER OF SOON-
TO-CLOSE VINTAGE BOWLING ALLEY GETS ONE FINAL STRIKE and includes a very dorky photograph of Dad in front of Bigmouth’s.
When Dad found out his sucker punch to Ray Wilkes’s face led to his arrest and several videos surfaced online of the fight, Dad spoke with the police. He wasn’t fined or given jail time. The police looked the other way, since Wilkes manhandled me and hailed Dad as a local hero for helping them catch the criminal.
The trial’s set for late summer, but things aren’t looking good for Wilkes. We later found out Nic called the cops. I don’t know if he’d been worried for Wilkes’s safety, or if he was trying to get him arrested; he’s disappeared. Good for Nic.
Beckett pulls the framed newspaper article from my hands and sets it in the box with the others. After helping me pack the rest of the photographs, he says, “You realize you don’t work here anymore, right? Relax and have some fun.”
I laugh shortly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ll miss this place.”
“Me too.”
Beckett holds out his hand, and I grasp it. We stash the box of photographs behind the counter and zigzag our way to the crowd of people. Friends. Strangers. Former employees. It’s a different atmosphere than I’m used to at Bigmouth’s.
Dad’s tipsy, laughing at Aunt Fee as she tries to bowl. Their happiness is warm and swelling. Even with the little red stickers on half the sellable items. It’s a new beginning, right?
We left my favorite ball at the league tournament, so Beckett brings me a close second, an Ebonite, from the racks. The couple that owns Double Decker already claimed our impressive stock of bowling balls, but they’re not picking them up until tomorrow morning.
“You know you want to.” Beckett holds the marbled orange-and-blue ball out like a tantalizing piece of candy, but I hesitate.
I went to illegal lengths to save Bigmouth’s and failed epically. But we’re all going to be okay. Dad’s already got a job lined up working for BART, and Yoga Leigh is becoming a permanent feature. Tonight she’s with Dad, wearing stretchy pants and a flowery top, drinking a beer.
Yoga Leigh’s not as flawless and Zen as I typecast her to be. I watch as she attempts to bowl one-handed, her cup of beer in the other. The ball wings into the gutter, beer splattering on her top. She tosses her head back and laughs. No. Not perfect. Leigh’s smart, owns her own yoga studio, and bought us a new coffee maker. It’s taken some getting used to, but I don’t hate her.
I eventually fessed up to reading Leigh’s blog, and she’s been supportive. In a strange way, she’s helped me work through these complicated feelings about my mom. Not everyone falls prey to the darkness inside their minds. And even if they do, it’s not their fault. I think, more than anything, I needed someone to show me that. To be an example. No stereotypes of mental illness on TV, no sensationalized stories in the news, just people taking care of themselves and thriving in the process.
Turning away from my family, I slide my fingers into the holes and grip the orange-and-blue Ebonite. The ball is heavier than I normally play with, but my muscles appreciate the strain. Lane fifteen is empty, and Beckett follows me, carrying a ball of his own. He still sucks, but he loves it, and that’s what matters. Loving something even when you make a fool out of yourself.
Kind of like my relationship with Beckett.
“One strike,” he teases as he sets up at lane fifteen, “then I’ll stop harassing you.”
I scoff, pretending to be offended. “A strike is easy. Let’s see you throw a strike.”
Beck laughs and makes a wily attempt at knocking down all ten pins. He misses, of course. “Your turn.”
I cast him a rueful glance, then approach the foul line. How odd. Bowling when there aren’t piles of money on the table, men with switchblades, or shady deals with strangers. It’s almost anticlimactic. Because I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy my stint breaking the law. There’s a certain rush to it. But I hated how it felt to be drunk. I hated the disappointment reflected in my father’s eyes. I hated Wilkes’s anger and being indebted to him. Just because a bad situation turns out okay doesn’t mean you want to repeat history.
My hustling days are definitely over.
I hold my shoulders back, take three quick steps, and toss the ball. My muscles sigh as I release, and the ball rolls down the lane. I smile when it crashes with the headpin.
My strike pops up on the leaderboard. A beautiful X to signify my score. I flex my toes in my flats and hold my hand out to Beckett. “Hey, let’s go outside.”
Even though we have a week of school left, summer looms, and with it comes the rest of my grounding. Who knows how often I’ll see Beckett. Unless we both land jobs as baristas, we’ll spend most of our summer apart. The thought ruins me.
Dad’s busy with Aunt Fee and Yoga Leigh, so I link my hand with Beckett’s and we weave through the crowd. Mila waves from the snack bar and I hold up one finger, telling her I’ll circle back in a minute so we can hang out. The crowd presses against us, and I’m eager to slip out the emergency exit, where the back alley is dark and cool. We step outside and shut the door behind us. June is right around the corner, not yet summer. No longer spring. Something in between.
I push Beckett up against the brick wall of Bigmouth’s and kiss him.
Because there’s nothing quite like kissing Beckett Porter.
It’s a rush, not dissimilar to the rush of winning thousands of dollars, knowing we have each other.
Bigmouth’s Bowl won’t be here tomorrow morning, but it will never be truly gone. Beck’s right. I tried saving a cause that was beyond saving. Not for noble reasons. I wanted this. I wanted to stay in my hilly city, kiss a boy with amazing hair, and hold on tight to our fragile memories.
San Francisco is brimming with forgotten hearts, but mine will forever be pressed within its gray skies, rust with the paint on the Golden Gate Bridge, and soar like the Powell-Hyde cable cars. Tomorrow morning Bigmouth’s Bowl will be closed. That’s okay, because we’ll still be here—the girl with a San Franciscan heart and the boy with morning-fog eyes.
Author’s Note
Chuck’s story, while it shares many parallels with my own mental-health journey, is fictional. But like Chuck, I come from a family where mental health was never discussed—until it was almost too late. In middle school, I fell into a serious depression that included suicidal ideation. By high school, I received a diagnosis on the bipolar disorder spectrum.
When my peers learned of my diagnosis, I wasn’t treated with empathy. Like Chuck, I was called a “crazy bitch” on more than one occasion during high school. My mental health became gossip fodder, and as a result, I became deeply ashamed. The narrative—my narrative—changed. No longer did I have a medical diagnosis. No, I had a label. One that came jam-packed with enough stigmas to last me a lifetime.
Stigmas and stereotypes cause serious damage when it comes to mental health. As Chuck mentions in the last chapter, bipolar is a spectrum. But you’d never know that from media coverage to characters in books and movies. Bipolar is often romanticized, dramatized, and characterized—all highs, all the time. But what’s important to remember is everyone’s journey is different, and no one’s experience is a monolith.
At times Chuck uses incorrect language, with terms like “crazy” and “normal” in reference to herself and others. Through her fear and misinformation, she experiences disordered thinking. But in the end she manages to self-correct and learn. Not only about herself, but about her mother. While Chuck’s guilt over her mother’s death is very realistic, it shows her misinformation. When someone dies by suicide, it’s never anyone’s fault.
Symptoms of bipolar disorder, like all health conditions, can vary greatly by individual. If you’re experiencing symptoms of bipolar, it’s imperative to seek help from a medical professional. On the next page, I’ve included resources and information for mental health and suicide prevention.
According to NAMI, one in five children ages thirteen to eighteen
will be diagnosed with a serious mental disorder. So, if you’re that one in five—just like I was—you’re not alone. I see you, and trust me when I say that life gets so much better. And if you’re not that one in five? Be kind and empathetic to your peers. You never know how your support and understanding will impact their lives in the long run.
Resources
SAMHSA: Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration
https://www.samhsa.gov
Suicide Prevention Hotline—1-800-662-HELP (4357)
NAMI: National Alliance of Mental Illness
https://www.nami.org
AFSP: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
https://afsp.org/
DBSA: Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance
https://www.dbsalliance.org/
Psychology Today Therapist Database
https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/therapists
BPHope: Hope and Harmony for People with Bipolar
https://www.bphope.com/
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, thank you to my agent, Jennie Kendrick. Jennie, we’ve been through literary hell together and back! Between our mutual love of Seth Cohen and our adoration for all things San Francisco, I knew we’d make an unstoppable team. (I hereby promise to include all the Jennie Bait in my projects to come.) I can’t imagine taking this wild publishing ride with anyone but you. You saw the potential in this book and fought like hell to find it a home. Thank you for being such an amazing agent—and friend.
The biggest thanks I can muster go to my editor, Jessi Smith. This book only exists today because of you and your boundless enthusiasm. Your keen insight, understanding, and compassion for Chuck brought this quirky little book to the next level; you gave my book the heart it sorely lacked. I don’t think I can ever thank you enough. But, since I have to start somewhere: thank you, thank you, thank you.
Additional thanks to my entire team at Simon & Schuster/Pulse and my publisher, Mara Anastas. I feel incredibly lucky to be published with the very imprint I read as a teenager. Special thanks to Tiara Iandiorio for a cover so gorgeous that I turned it into my next tattoo.
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