I hear you city folk have these twenty-lane bowl-a-ramas with glow-in-the-dark paint and loud music and such. The Lanes isn’t anything like that. In fact, one lane fewer, and they’d have had to call it The Lane. There’s one pair of bowling shoes for each size, except the men’s elevens and the women’s sevens, of which there are two pair. The grill offers swivel-stool seating for four, as well as a selection of burgers (with cheese, without, with pickle, without) and the world’s best, greasiest, make-you-mildly-ill-after-you-eat-’em french fries. Let me tell you, one day at lunch, stop in. They’re worth the bellyache.
I pulled up a stool and looked at the clock. Five minutes to two. Five minutes to get myself together. Or to worry, which is what I actually I did.
Why did Gram have to mention that kissing thing? I mean, really, wasn’t that something that was best left unplanned and natural-like? Now I’d be thinking about it the whole time. Would Sonny try to kiss me? And if he did, what should I do? Kiss him back? Slap him? Run? I supposed I could always bite him, as Gram had suggested. I couldn’t help laughing a little at that thought.
“Hello, Genuine. It’s a genuine pleasure to see you today.”
My vision of me kissing—or biting—Sonny popped like a balloon. Beside me stood Travis Tromp, dressed all in black except that—oh, no!—his shirt had mother-of-pearl buttons and silver collar tips.
“May I join you?” His words came out strangely, like he’d memorized and practiced them.
“Suit yourself,” I said, looking out the window to see if Sonny was coming.
“My ma sends her regards,” Travis said.
This did catch my interest a mite. “How’s she doing? Is she seeing anyone?” I figured probably not yet, as my vegetables hadn’t started arriving.
“Not so far, but don’t you doubt it, Genuine, she’s a believer.” His face brightened, and he looked a little less dreary. “I am, too. Ma told me about your wish fetching. I always suspected you was a little magical.”
“That makes one of us,” I said. “But life does surprise sometimes.”
He nodded. “Sure does. I didn’t think you were gonna come today.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, glancing at the door.
“I was pretty sure you hated me.”
“Not hate,” I replied.
“But my ma said, ‘What can it hurt, just to ask her?’ The chocolate was her idea. Did you like it? I don’t eat much candy myself.”
I froze. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Candy. Chocolate and butterscotch and such. This one Easter, though—”
“Are you telling me that chocolate was from you?” My voice shook.
“Shore.”
“You invited me bowling today?”
“Who’d you think?” He smiled a little sideways.
I moaned. “Sonny Wentz!”
His smile vanished.
“I should have known.” He took a deep, sort-of ragged breath and spoke through gritted teeth. “Will you excuse me for a minute, Genuine?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before he disappeared into the men’s room.
Travis Tromp! I was on a date with Mister Blackpants Blackshirt Blackington! My gut wrenched. My cheeks burned. How could I have been such a fool as to think Sonny Wentz would ask out bucktoothed, freckle-faced Genuine Sweet? The daughter of Dangerous Dale! I was so embarrassed, I considered very seriously crawling down into a pin sweep at the end of the lanes and letting it brush me into whatever dusty cubby lay beyond.
“Surely no one would find me there,” I muttered.
Nearby, Travis cleared his throat. “Genuine.”
“What?” I said it rudely, I admit.
“I think it’s fair to say we’re both disappointed,” he said, still measuring his words. “But why don’t we make the best of it? Let’s at least play a game or two. As friends.”
I looked at the floppy hair hanging into his eyes, his oversized ears, the weird boot chain around the ankle of his Converse shoe—and I couldn’t help thinking of Jura saying how she was like him.
I sighed. “Yeah. All right.”
He gave a sharp, almost dignified nod. “All right, then. What size shoe you wear? It’s on me.”
It was curious that a game of tenpins would inspire Travis so, but jokes started rolling off that boy’s tongue like comedy was his calling. He laughed. He capered. Once he even spun me in a two-step! Plus, he said “Thank you”—and smiled—when Miz B., the alley owner, came to clear out our yapped-up ball return. Outside of school, the boy was, well, downright likable.
By the end of the first round, I was losing badly but enjoying myself all the same. “You may have won the battle, but I”—I thumped my chest—“I shall win the war!”
Travis laughed. “Best two out of three?”
“Think you’re man enough?” I teased.
“Think you’re woman enough?” he retorted, raising an eyebrow.
“Just watch me.” I sashayed up to the lane and rolled my ball—right into the gutter. Twice.
Travis hefted his bowling ball. “What did you say right then? Something about winning the war?”
“You’ll see! I’m lying in wait. Crouched in the underbrush, fixin’ to spring,” I assured him.
And then I lost so soundly—not once, but three whole times—that Miz B. came and took the ball right out of my hand.
“This ain’t your game, Genuine,” she said gently.
“It ain’t that bad,” Travis defended me.
“It wounds me just to watch her!” said Miz B. “Y’all come have some fries on the house, then get out of here. Leagues are coming in at four.”
It was hard to argue with free fries, so we sat ourselves down and ate until we ailed slightly.
“These are awful,” Travis whispered.
“Awfully wonderful,” I replied.
He nodded his queasy agreement.
Drawing a floppy fry through his ketchup-mustard swirl, Travis said, “Want to hang out again sometime? As friends?”
“Um. All right. Sure.” Truth to tell, I’d had a really good time. “As friends.”