At least the cold isn’t a problem anymore.
The line, which has completely stopped moving now, doesn’t bother me, either. It’s just me and Lipton, the warmth of his arm through my coat, the feel of his chest against my shoulder. His breath in my hair.
I know Lipton can’t make me a different person. He can’t magically vanquish all my fears or stop my irrational freak-outs. But right now, in this moment, in the space of his arms, I almost feel normal—at least, what I imagine normal to be.
Then someone comes out of the Clubhouse entrance and announces that the building is full to capacity and the fire marshal will not allow anyone else to enter. “I’m very sorry,” the man says. “The band will be returning for three additional concerts, which will be announced on their website in the next few days.”
There are cries of disappointment all around us.
A couple of girls actually start weeping. Some of them mob the guy at the entrance, begging to be let in.
The guy just shakes his head and keeps saying “I’m sorry” and telling them to check the band’s website for information on future concerts. People start to disperse, noisily and unhappily. The girl standing in front of us gives Lipton and me another dirty look, as if we’re to blame, and says, “Stupid Vicurious.”
I startle backward. “I’m not Vicurious!”
“Yeah, no kidding. But it’s all her followers that jammed the place.”
Lipton takes a step toward her. “We’re not followers of anybody. Adrian Ahn invited us personally.” He glances at me. “Who is she talking about?”
I shrug.
Immediately, I feel bad. That shrug was a lie, which means I just lied to Lipton’s face.
She snarls at us and stomps off.
“I guess we should’ve gotten here earlier,” says Lipton. “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay. Concerts scare me, anyway.”
“You don’t mind missing it?”
“I kind of have this fear of people,” I say. “You may have noticed.”
“Then it’s not just me?”
“It’s not you at all. Not anymore.”
We stand there smiling at each other until the sidewalk is empty and the flush on our cheeks is no longer enough to keep us warm.
“What do you want to do?” he says. “My mom isn’t picking us up until ten thirty.”
We look around. There’s not much to choose from within walking distance. An orthodontist’s office, a bank, a 7-Eleven, and a bowling alley. I’ve never bowled in my life. It’s probably not a good idea to start now.
But Lipton’s eyes light up when he sees the bowling alley. “Do you bowl?”
I shake my head.
“You want to try?” He’s bouncing on his toes a little bit. Grinning.
I blink up at the Bowl-a-Rama sign, then back to Lipton’s hopeful face. He looks so relieved to have found something to salvage our date. I glance at the 7-Eleven, which is our only alternative aside from walking around freezing our butts off.
“I can teach you,” says Lipton. “It’ll be fun.”
My head starts nodding before my brain has given it permission, and I hear myself say, “Okay.”
“You sure?” Lipton takes my hand and squeezes it.
I am not the least bit sure about trying something new—a sport no less—in a very public place, but I squeeze his hand back and nod anyway. I can’t live vicariously forever. “Just please don’t let me make a complete fool of myself.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry. That’s my job.”
25
INSIDE THE BOWL-A-RAMA, THE NOISE is at first jarring. They’re blasting the kind of pop music that makes your teeth ache, punctuated by the electronic beeps and buzzes of a dozen arcade games. Add the hum of people trying to talk over it all and you can barely hear the clatter of bowling pins in the background.
It’s the kind of noise you can get lost in, though. And once I adjust to the volume of it, I like that nobody will hear me if I say something stupid.
“I still can’t believe the concert sold out,” Lipton says as we head over to the check-in counter. “Adrian must be out of his mind.”
“Marissa, too.”
“That girl in front of us, though. What was she talking about?”
“Something on Instagram, I think.” It’s a lie of omission, and I feel bad about that, too. But I’m not ready to tell him about Vicurious. I don’t know if I ever will be. I rack my brain for another topic, anything to change the subject.
“Have you bowled here before?”
“A few times.”
I glance at the nearest lane, where a guy wearing some kind of heavy-duty wrist supports knocks all the bowling pins down in one shot. He looks professional. If I have to bowl next to him, I’ll pass out for sure.
Lipton leans down to talk low in my ear. “It’ll be fun. Don’t worry.”
So of course I start worrying, because people never say “don’t worry” if there is absolutely no cause for worry. They also don’t say “be careful” if something is perfectly safe. Or “stay warm” if there isn’t a distinct possibility of freezing to death.
Lipton smiles and swings my hand as we wait our turn in line. Our shoulders brush together and it is enough to pull me out of my head, away from all the stuff that is spiraling out of control. I lean into him, and he leans into me, and it’s okay that we aren’t very good at using our words.
I reach in my pocket for money when we get to the register, but Lipton insists on paying. Then we’re directed to a different counter that is dwarfed by a towering wall of shoe cubbies, which are occupied by the ugliest examples of footwear I have ever seen. Flat-soled shoes with red on one side, blue on the other, white laces, and white heels.
Lipton notices the crinkle of my nose. “Sexy, huh?”
“People wear those?” I say.
He laughs and asks for a size ten. The guy at the counter looks down at us from his elevated perch, grabs a pair of shoes from one of the cubbies, and slams them on the counter in front of us without a word. “Uh, thanks,” says Lipton.
He and Surly Shoe Guy both look to me then. The noise drowning everything else out falls away and I am suddenly on display. All my anxiety comes rushing back, and I’m convinced that I will say the wrong thing even if all they want from me is my shoe size. It will be the wrong shoe size. I’m sure of it.
I step backward and chirp, “No, thank you.”
Surly Shoe Guy gives me a weird look, and Lipton leans to my ear. “You need shoes.”
I drop my eyes to the ankle boots my mother loaned me. Not shoes, technically. But close enough. “I’m fine with these.”
He smiles nervously, and immediately I know I’m doing something wrong. I can feel myself starting to sweat.
“They don’t let you bowl in street shoes. You have to wear theirs, or bring your own.” He turns over the pair in his hand to show me the smooth sole. “See, you have to be able to slide. Plus, it keeps the lanes clean.”
“Oh. Okay.” I glance up at the shoe guy, who is all head-shaking and eye-rolling.