Chapter 11 #2
“Wait. Exactly how old are you?” Grace poses, still absorbing all the details of their conversation. She takes a fast look at the girl’s neck—no nameplate yet—then recalls her earlier comment. “You must be in middle school, right?” She calculates some fast mental math. “Which would make you about—”
“Thirteen,” she announces, a sense of pride lifting her words. She straightens her posture, like she’s trying to look a touch older. “Or, at least, I will be this week.”
Thirteen. A teenager. The first real chapter in no longer being a mere kid.
104
“That’s basically why I’m here.” She sets her smoothie cup on the floor, then resumes searching in her bag.
A moment later, she holds up a woven coin purse like a prize.
“I knew I had it!” She pulls a candy wrapper from its side, unfazed.
“Now it’s only a matter of how many coins I have.
” She unzips it, invites a pile of loose change to cascade into her palm.
“Cool.” She takes a quick tally. “That should be plenty.”
She bends down and begins to feed quarters into a metal slot. The Skee-Ball machine blares to life—bells, lights, contained electronic anarchy—then spits out a dozen brown balls. Cece tugs away her crossbody, dropping it in a heap on the dirty carpet, then lifts a ball.
“I used to love this game,” Grace says, remembering the sounds of it in a partial daze.
“Well, good.” Cece squares off her shoulders. “Then prepare to watch the absolute best!”
Cece bounces on her heels and positions herself in an athletic stance.
While she does, Grace watches her, sifting through her memories and trying to remember if this exact scene ever happened.
Skee-Ball. A middle-aged stranger. Nothing specific comes to mind.
On this island, everything feels like a moment you might have lived once—some other year, some other version of you, some other time.
“Ugh!” Cece exclaims as her first ball misses the hundred-point target by a mile.
“That was a terrible shot!” She shifts her weight, tosses another one down the smooth lane.
A ten-pointer. Total waste. “It’s fine,” she states, mostly to herself, as if she’s forgotten Grace is standing nearby.
“You’ve done this before. Just concentrate.
” She stretches an arm over her torso, like a runner preparing for a long and important race. “You can totally do this again.”
“You seem really determined,” Grace states, trying to recall the feeling of being so young and of wanting something so arbitrary so very badly.
“Yeah, well, you would be, too, if you were me.” Cece looks away from her game, points up at an electronic board, and pinches the air. “I was this close to beating the high score yesterday.”
105
“Maybe you will today?” Grace gently offers.
“I’d better.” Cece feeds more coins into the machine. “I’m running out of time to do it.”
“Because you’re leaving?” Grace tries, not clear on her urgency.
“No,” she says, like it’s the most obvious answer on the planet. She tosses another ball—gutter shot. “Because after this week, I’m done with kid games for good.”
Grace’s chest pulls tight at the certitude in her voice. Slowly, the memory begins to coalesce. Not the exact scene, but the feeling of it.
“Why are you done with kid games?” Grace asks her anyway, even though she knows the answer. She watches Cece wind back up, her whole body so focused and serious. “Especially this one. You love it.” Cece gives her a look. Grace stops, backpedals. “At least, it seems like you do.”
Cece takes another shot. This time, the ball swoops and drops right into the fifty-point slot.
“Because I’m not a kid anymore.” Her tone is firm and a touch rehearsed. “What I am is a person—an almost-teenager—who’s in love.”
The declaration pulls Grace back—hard—into a place in her mind she’s not sure she’s ready to face. She watches Cece with a strange pang of recognition. She wants proof, Grace realizes. That she hasn’t outgrown who she used to be. That she’s still good at something she loves before she lets it go.
“At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is,” Cece continues, her tone softening.
She doesn’t look away from the game. “Love, I mean.” She grabs another brown ball, tosses it down the smooth lane.
“Ray,” she adds, nearly under her breath.
“He’s a friend. From down here.” Her lips break into a grin.
“This trip, though, it feels . . . different.”
Grace’s heart flutters and drops as recollections of that summer week rise in her mind.
The first time he reached for her hand. The first almost-kiss, his cheeks pink when he missed his mark.
The way she felt like she was finding someone—something—important outside of her, while also discovering a new part of herself at the same time.
106
Come on, Porter, he teased her that year, playfully employing her last name every time she rolled a dud.
You missed that last one by a mile! The arcade was garish, even back then.
Swarms of kids. Blinking lights. But there, beside Ray, something in her always stilled.
The world grew quiet. Like she could hear her own voice clearly, despite the noise.
Some days, though she never told him, she missed on purpose.
Not to lose. But just to stay there with him—with that feeling—for a few extra minutes.
“Darn it!” Cece blurts out now. She looks down at the machine, ready to grab another ball, but realizes the game is done. She begins to dig in her change purse again, then huffs.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m out of quarters.” Cece frowns, all frustrated little kid. “Just nickels and dimes.”
“Here.” Grace reaches for her own purse strap, not wanting this moment to end. “I’m sure I have spare change in my . . .” She stops, looks around.
“What?”
“My purse.” Grace sighs. “I must have left it outside the diner after you ran into me.”
“Oh. Was that you? Sorry. I was racing to be one of the first people here when they opened so I could score my favorite machine.” As if on cue, the game coughs out a belt of tickets.
Cece gives them a quick yank and tugs them free.
“Want these?” Without waiting for an answer, she hands them to Grace.
“I think I’ve won everything this arcade has to offer the last few summers. ”
“Isn’t that the point, though?” Grace asks, genuinely meaning it. “If you get the high score, then you get to take home a big prize?”
“Sure.” Cece’s tone drips with sarcasm. “Because what I really need at my age is to lug a giant six-foot stuffed panda up the boulevard.” She grabs her bag and her cup, preparing to get on with her day.
“What happens if you win?” Grace asks, not remembering. “Do they display your name somewhere or something?”
107
“No.” Cece looks around the arcade in case she’s missed something. “I don’t think so.”
“Then why are you so invested in winning?”
“I don’t know. I just really want to do it.” Cece shrugs, slurps up the last sip of her fruity drink. “I think it’d be kind of fun. Isn’t that enough?”
Maybe that’s part of what I’ve been missing, Grace thinks. Not deadlines. Not discipline. Not goals crossed off, stories perfected, or expectations met. Just the thrill and the joy that come from liking to play, not because the advances you forward several steps.
“Probably.” Grace thinks back to the feel of the ball coming free from her hand, the innocent pleasure of seeing it arc its way into the right hole.
The way her writing used to make her feel this way, too.
And other things. “To be honest, I don’t really remember the last time I did something like that just for the fun of it. ”
“Oh.” Cece winces so hard it’s practically audible. “That’s . . . sad.”
“Yeah.” Grace sighs, letting what Cece said sink in—the layers of scaffolded meaning beneath her statement. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, I need to get out of here. Cool talking to you,” Cece adds, walking the tightrope between pity and amusement, and makes her way toward the door. “I guess.”
“Cece, hang on!” Grace calls out, not meaning to project so loudly. “Where are you—”
“Wait.” She turns, squinting against the fluorescent lights. “How’d you know my nickname?”
A brief moment of panic.
“It’s stitched into your friendship bracelet,” Grace says, quickly recovering. The one you bought at that souvenir shop last summer. The one you’ll keep wearing every day until it breaks.
“Huh,” Cece notes. “Good vision for someone your age.”
“Will I see you again?” Grace asks. Cece looks at her, like she’s suddenly second-guessing this interaction once more. “You know, so I can find out if you get the high score,” Grace clarifies.
108
“Oh.” Cece’s expression relaxes. “Right. Um, maybe.” She pushes open the door, letting a stream of natural light filter inside. “I mean, I haven’t hit it yet. So yeah, at some point this week, I’ll probably be back.”
The tickets dangle from Grace’s fingers, a tangible souvenir of this bizarre meeting. As they do, she watches Cece—a different version of the girl she saw earlier—step outside, a tangle of bracelets and certitude fueled by the hopeful belief that not every missed shot is a loss.
“Hey.” Cece pops her head back inside. “Were you any good when you were my age?”
“More than good,” Grace says without thinking. “I was the best. A long time ago anyway.”
“Cool.” Cece nods, considering something.
“In that case, if I see you in here again . . . want to play against me?” She pauses, finally revealing an ounce of her adolescent insecurities.
“I haven’t hit the high score yet, but I can probably give you some good tips.
” She shrugs. A smile spreads across her face, as big and bright as the arcade’s many illuminated bulbs.
“You know, if you’re up for trying to get your game back. ”