Chapter 19 #2
But this isn’t about petition prose quality; it’s about the collective nature of this action—of the union itself. There are
so many things I can’t do. I’m not the right person to conduct one-on-ones. I’m never going to inspire others to action. But this? Using words to
state our grievance and make our case? This I can do, and I want to do what I can.
That want is fragile, a tender spot I’m afraid to poke. I still don’t know what this means. I just know—
“I want to do it. For real.”
I’d get the petition done sooner if my fellow workers weren’t forcing me to go bowling.
But Punch Bowl has a late-night discount, and I’m overruled. Besides, Lola is my ride.
Well, I could’ve asked Stanley to drop me off on his way back to Kenwood, but something about leaving without my carpool buddies
felt wrong.
Yes, Punch Bowl smells like feet and fake cheese. Yes, the blaring retro music and blinding strobe lights inevitably bring
me to the brink of overwhelm. And yes, rental bowling shoes are a biohazard.
But there’s still something in my gut telling me to stay, to forget about the petition for a couple of hours and just be.
So, here I am picking up the sixteen-pound marbled indigo ball that I selected solely for its galactic swirls.
Even though we could’ve played individually, Lola insisted we all pair up because “teamwork makes the dream work.” I wasn’t
even surprised when Lola informed Efraín and me that we have to play together because we’re too competitive to be on opposing
teams.
I don’t know why Lola expected Efraín would be any less competitive with a teammate who has the hand-eye coordination of a bat.
Efraín broke two hundred without breaking a sweat.
I gave up all hope of breaking one hundred after my third frame.
Meanwhile, Naomi’s cleared every pin with more strikes than spares, and Lola’s scoring in the respectable solid amateur range, according to Naomi.
All of which to say, Efraín’s directing his competitive energy within his team.
I’m going into my final frame, tacitly ignoring the scoreboard.
“There’s no shame in trying a granny shot!” Lola calls out.
“I’m trying.” Truly, I am. In my mind, I’m stepping into the swing, releasing the ball, following through—
“For fuck’s sake,” Efraín stage-mutters, pure melodrama. “Hand me the ball.”
Suddenly he’s beside me, holding out his hand, and I don’t understand. “Are you taking my turn? I’m pretty sure there’s no
pinch hitting in bowling.”
“No, just—” Taking the ball right out of my hands, apparently. He frowns at it like it’s done something to offend him—the
way he usually frowns at me. “Lola, do you mind?” Efraín doesn’t wait before swapping out my ball for hers.
Lola offers a genial two-finger salute.
“Pay attention,” Efraín chides, and that’s rich coming from him.
“I’m paying attention,” I grouse. “I’ve been watching all of you do this frame after frame, but I clearly don’t learn by observation,
so—”
“Here.” Efraín thrusts the ball into my hands. “Give it a feel.”
I don’t know what he wants from me, but I hold the ball, slick and cool to the touch. It’s significantly lighter. Twelve pounds, according to the number on the side.
“Better?” Efraín asks, smug. “Good. Now show me your stance.”
I move before I give myself conscious permission.
“Lower your elbow,” Efraín directs. “Not like that. Like—okay, wait. Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“Do you mind if I move your arm?”
Is he fucking serious right now?
“I’m not going to touch you without your consent, Elisha.”
Yeah, he’s fucking serious right now. “Fine. Go ahead,” I add because I don’t want to go ten rounds about what constitutes
enthusiastic consent for platonic touch right now.
Efraín’s fingertips alight on my forearm, and I almost flinch. Not because it’s rough or painful; it’s not. His touch is delicate
but firm, burning my goose-fleshed skin, but it’s not him. I just spend so much time avoiding anyone’s touch that I’ve forgotten—
Surprisingly gently for someone who moves through the world with the finesse of a bull in a china shop, Efraín carefully manhandles
me into position. His hands rest on my shoulders.
For a single moment, he’s as quiet as I am, eerily still for two boys with ADHD. Then he coughs. “I’m going to walk you through the five-step approach, but don’t worry about the ball. Footwork first. Got it?”
I nod.
“Good,” he murmurs.
He choreographs every step for me. When I teeter, his hands settle on my hips, and I quite literally forget how to breathe.
He’s saying something about keeping the body straight forward, but I don’t follow because his hands are on my hips.
Dysphoria taunts my so-called child-bearing hips. But there’s something else, sharp in my mouth and warm in my gut, that I
don’t know how to name. It feels different from my hips brushing against the sidewall of Lola’s car or inching along the middle
row at Blue Plate. It’s animal and human and Efraín, and—
“Still paying attention?” he asks, low and perilously close.
I swallow hard. “Last month, you said you didn’t remember the last time you did this. I didn’t expect you to know the lingo.”
“Lingo?”
“ ‘Five-step approach’? Lingo.”
“I have a good memory,” he says, uncharacteristically self-deprecating. “Next, keep your right foot straight—”
“Maybe I’m just too bi for all these straight steps.”
“I manage just fine.” Maybe it’s my imagination, but his grip feels a little tighter. “If it’ll assuage your linguistic concerns,
take one step gaily forward.”
“Still not bi, though.” If my voice sounds breathier than usual, that’s my imagination, too.
“Elisha, for the love of God, will you please just proceed bisexually forward?”
I take a small step bisexually forward.
“No, no, that’s all wrong. You need to lean into it—”
“But you didn’t tell me that.” I whirl around, no thought to my footwork—or the ball in my hand, let alone his hands.
His hands have slid up to my waist, and if it weren’t for the ball, I’d be practically pressed against him. I blink at his
clavicle. After work, he changed into a thin V-neck shirt. The collar dips low, revealing a tuft of dark chest hair, and I
can’t stop staring.
He’s bracketing my body, radiating heat, and when I peek up through my wayward curls, he bites his chapped lip. I know he
cares deeply about orangutan habitats, but surely there must be a lip balm that doesn’t use palm oil.
“Five minutes!” Naomi calls, loud and brusque.
“Not that we’re not enjoying the show,” Lola chimes in, “but Mr. Xie’s circling.”
I haven’t done anything wrong, so why do I feel like I’ve been caught committing another fireable offense?
Efraín doesn’t let me pull back completely, though he loosens his grip. “Try the fourth step again,” he instructs. “Build
power.” He taps my hip twice before he finally steps back.
I follow his instructions when he talks me through the final step, the slide.
We walk through the approach in slow motion to add the swing.
Each frame, he shifts my arm into position.
I am walking into the swing, only in stop-motion animation, or those little flip-books where you flick your thumb to simulate motion.
Efraín says, “Good, just like that,” and I feel strangely relaxed. Efraín’s approval is such a rare, flighty thing, like a
bird on the verge of extinction.
“You’re ready,” Efraín declares.
I want to protest. I may be able to follow the choreography with him adjusting my elbow, but I am not remotely confident in
my own abilities.
I do it anyway. I don’t walk myself through the steps in my head. I just hit play and let the pictures move.
The ball releases from my fingers like it came from someone else’s hand. It has more speed than any other shot I’ve lobbed,
and it only veers a little to the left as it careens down the lane, and—
Nine pins.
Lola screams, and Naomi slaps a hand over Lola’s mouth.
Efraín’s leaning against the ball return with another insufferable smirk, looking so pleased you’d think it was his shot.
“Told you so.”
“You didn’t tell me anything.”
“I said you were ready, didn’t I?”
I don’t think that counts as the great measure of faith he thinks it does.
“Go get your spare,” he murmurs. Our fingers brush when I take the ball. His smirk softens out around the edges into a real
smile—small, fragile, ornery as a hothouse orchid—but a smile all the same.
I don’t get the spare, but I don’t care. Because this—the warmth, the affirmation, and their smiles—feels better than winning
ever could.