Chapter 11
LOREN
Dad
Are you sure you don’t want to come home for Christmas?
Why don’t you guys come here?
You know we can’t leave.
What if someone dies?
Meg bursts into the break room, her purple lunch box swinging from her arm as she hurries over to the table we’ve commandeered as our own between twelve thirty and one every single day. “You’ll never guess what I found.”
I slide my PB that came out way more incredulous than it should’ve.
“I’m just shocked.” To me it feels like going bowling is a right of passage. Surely someone in her life must’ve had a birthday party at the local bowling alley at some point.
“When was the last time you went bowling?” she shoots back.
That’s a good question.
Not college—none of us had the money for extracurricular activities back then. In high school I was too busy falling in love with stupid boys, and in middle school I was too busy being edgy to partake in sports of any kind. “Probably elementary school.”
Katie Sincell’s fifth grade birthday party. Hawaiian themed with the leis and all. There was pizza, ice cream, and, of course, bowling.
Meg knocks her knee against mine. “And you’re giving me shit.”
“Who? Me? I wouldn’t dare.”
A woman in a faded denim shirt and jeans balancing two beer cans on a little black tray strolls over to where we’re sitting. “Two beers for lane ten.” She sets them on the table next to a computer screen that looks older than I am.
“We haven’t ordered any drinks,” Meg and I say in unison.
“These are from the gentlemen in eight.”
A bunch of grandpas in matching turquoise bowling shirts wave from their lane. We snag the beers and raise them in a silent toast, which earns us a few gruff cackles.
The beer is…
Well, it’s shit, but I’ve had worse.
At least it’s cold.
Fueled by terrible beer, Meg stands and straightens her jeans. “What do we do first?”
Apparently, Katie’s birthday party makes me the expert on the matter. “We need to find balls.” There are plenty of them sitting in racks behind and in between the lanes.
Meg heads toward the one at the back, and I follow. “Oh! This one’s pink. It even matches my nails.”
“I don’t know. That number stamped on the front means it’s only six pounds.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I have no clue.”
She picks it up as if testing the weight, then tries to hold it properly. “Yeah, it’s not going to work. I can’t even get my fingers into the holes.”
“That’s what he said.”
She snorts. “This might be my new favorite night.”
Mine too.
While I enjoy going to the odd bar, they all start to feel the same after a while. At least here, we have something to entertain us besides alcohol. Always a good thing.
Eventually, we find balls that work and then settle down to put our information in the ancient computer. Meg insists we’re not supposed to use our real names, citing lane eight’s listings as a reference. According to their screen, Big Billy is up next, followed by Thunderman.
Big Billy makes sense—the man has to be at least six foot five.
But how does one earn the name “Thunderman?” If I wasn’t so anxious to get started, I’d stroll over there and ask myself.
“What’s your nickname going to be?” Meg asks, her fingers skimming the keyboard.
“I’m not sure nicknames are the sort of thing you come up with yourself.”
“Hmmm… you’re probably right. How about you come up with mine and I’ll come up with yours?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Let’s see… A nickname for Meg. Oh! I know. I nudge her out of the way and type her name for the night into the computer.
“Megalodon? Really?”
“What? It’s fierce, includes your actual name, and you’re a bit of a man eater.” The perfect name, really.
“All true. Damn. Now I have to think of something just as epic for you.” She taps her lips as she considers.
I end up bowling as “Great Pipes” because, my rendition of “Don’t Stop Believing” on the drive over here gave her goosebumps and we should definitely do karaoke sometime.
Have I mentioned lately how much I love her?
Turns out we are awful, but I don’t think we’ve ever laughed as much. At some point, the bumpers emerge from the gutters and we’re marginally better. Then the woman who’s been serving us all night brings a silver contraption for rolling the balls straight.
This helps Meg get her first and only spare.
I, on the other hand, knock down all ten pins. Not at once. Oh, no. It takes the entire ten frames for me to get that many.
The other players point at our scoreboard and shake their heads. Dave comes over to take a picture, saying he’s never seen anyone so terrible at bowling.
We don’t care though. It’s the perfect escape from responsibilities and relationships and work. Not once did I think about how awful my one and only sleepover with Josh went.
Our laughter echoes through the space when we bowl our final frame and stumble over to return our shoes. Dave chuckles along with us, saying we should come back next week.
We leave with a decent buzz and a promise to return.
Outside in the crisp winter air, Meg frowns down at her fingers as we wait for our ride share. “My thumb is throbbing.”
“I told you that you needed bigger holes.”
Snorting, she huddles closer to me. “No one’s ever complained about the size of my holes, thank you very much.”
We both snigger.
Linking my arm through hers, I rest my head on her shoulder. “Tonight was so much fun.” The most fun I’ve had since moving down here.
I try not to think too hard about the fact that it wasn’t with Josh.
“Right? I was thrilled about finding such cheap drinks, but the bowling really stole the show.”
I draw back, my breath a puff of white between us. “Are we bowlers now?”
“I think you have to knock down more than ten pins to call yourself that.”
“Says old twenty-pins herself.”
She bumps her hip against mine. “Hey! I’m proud of those twenty pins.”
“Watch out. I’ll be gunning for you next week, Megalodon.”
“Bring it on, Great Pipes. Bring. It. On.”