“You, uh . . . want to go home?” says Lipton. “Do something else?”
“No. I’ll wear the shoes.” But I don’t move, because I can’t, because the shoe guy is judging me. I can only stand there hovering behind Lipton, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might look at me funny. Which is everyone.
Lipton touches my arm. “I’ll get them for you. What size?”
“Eight,” I whisper.
He returns to the counter and says, “Size eight, please.”
Shoe Guy scans the size eight cubbies and grabs the most scuffed pair he can find. The laces are frayed and dirty, and the suede is completely worn off in places. Someone has taken a red Sharpie to the bare spots, even the ones on the blue side. They’re hideous.
Lipton stares at the shoes. He lays his hands on the counter. I tug gently on the back of his shirt because a line has formed and everyone is looking at us and I just want to take the shoes and go.
But he doesn’t pick them up. He says, “Do you have a nicer pair?”
“No. Sorry.” Shoe Guy motions to the next person. “Size?”
The girl behind us glances nervously at Lipton before answering. “Um, eight?”
Lipton slides the grubby pair over to her. “This is all they have in size eight, apparently. You want them?”
She grimaces. “No, thanks. They’re nasty.”
Shoe Guy takes a much nicer pair of size eights from the cubbies and hands them to the girl. She receives them guiltily and hurries away. Which is exactly what I want to do.
I probably deserve the scuffed shoes. I don’t even know how to bowl.
But Lipton is pissed. Off.
He lifts himself taller and gets right in Shoe Guy’s face and says, “We’d like to trade these for a different pair, please.”
“You’ll have to go to the back of the line,” the guy says.
Lipton’s jaw gets very tight. I have never seen him like this, even when Jeremy was laughing at his Minecraft presentation. Instead of blushing and laughing it off like he usually does, he slides his arms wide so they block the width of the counter.
“No, actually, we’ll wait right here while you reach two feet behind you, grab that pair of size eights . . . right there.” He motions to the cubby directly behind the guy. “And pass them over here to me. Then we’ll give you back this crummy pair that shouldn’t even be in circulation anymore. Okay?”
Shoe Guy stares Lipton down for a minute, and I just want to disappear before this whole ridiculous situation draws any more attention. The guy finally takes the worn shoes away, and replaces them with the new pair.
“Thank you.” Lipton smiles pleasantly, leaning across the counter so he can get even closer to the guy. “I’ll be sure to mention the excellent service we received next time I see Mr. Pasternak.”
The oh-crap expression on the guy’s face is priceless. Lipton gives him an exaggerated thumbs-up and we turn toward the lane we’ve been assigned.
Everyone. Is. Staring.
But these are not the what’s-wrong-with-her? sort of stares I’ve grown accustomed to. They are more of the whoa-did-you-see-that? variety. Still unnerving, but not as bad. When we reach our lane, Lipton sinks into a chair and lets out a slow, whistly breath.
I drop to the seat next to him. “You okay?”
He nods, but his hands are shaking. “My therapist says I need to stand up for myself. It scares the crap out of me, though. I’m not naturally assertive. You may have noticed.”
Lipton has a therapist? This fact stops me, because of the way he mentioned it so casually. Like it’s no big deal, when for me even walking into Mrs. Greene’s office feels like a humongous deal. I desperately want to ask him about this, but instead I just say, “Well, you can tell your therapist you were great. I could never do that.”
“Yes, you could. If you had to.”
“But you didn’t have to.”
He smiles on one side, dimple tweaked. “And let you wear those awful shoes on our first date?”
I lower my gaze. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Well, I would’ve.”
“So, you stood up for me, not yourself.”
Lipton pinches his lower lip between his fingers for a minute, then sits up taller. “Still counts,” he says. “I’m counting it.”
“Okay.” I smile. “Lipton, one. Judgey Shoe Guy, zero.”
Lipton raises a fist in victory. “Yes!”
“Who’s Mr. Pasternak, anyway?”
“The owner,” he says. “He owns all the bowling alleys around here.”
“You know him?”
Lipton grins sheepishly. “Never met the guy.”
I laugh. Too loud. It’s a guffaw, really. I slap my hand to my mouth. Lipton laughs, too, but at a normal volume.
He bends down to unlace his street shoes and I realize I’m going to have to take mine off, too, which is one of those weird things that goes on my list. I’m afraid to remove my shoes in public.
What if my feet are smelly?
What if there’s a hole in my sock?
What if I misplace one of my shoes and then have to walk around with only one shoe?
Lipton is already lacing up the red-white-and-blue ones. He glances over, sees that I’m not doing the same. Sticks out his patriotic feet.
“Come on, they’re not that bad,” he says.
I laugh nervously. Still can’t take my shoes off. “Is there a ladies’ room?”
He points to where it is, next to the arcade.
“I’ll be right back.” I hurry away with bowling shoes in hand before I have to explain my shoe problem.
The bathroom is gross. I balance on one foot while changing the shoe on my other, so I don’t have to touch my socks to the floor. I should change into a fresh T-shirt, too, except I’m afraid I might drop my sweater on the floor or into the toilet. Also, Lipton is waiting and if I don’t get out there soon, the awkwardness of having spent too long in the bathroom will ensue.
I quickly finish and wash my hands and now it’s been almost ten minutes since I came in here and he’s going to think something’s wrong with me.
This is pretty much why I should never leave the house.
I waste another two minutes coming up with eight different excuses to explain my lengthy absence. When I return to our lane, I don’t have to use any of them because Lipton is not there.
Add “Being abandoned in a bowling alley” to my list.
I sit and wait, walking myself through various scenarios of what I will do if he never returns. Most of them end with me never leaving my house again.
A minute later, Lipton comes out of the men’s bathroom. He gestures to my feet and shouts, “WHAT ARE THOSE?”
I want to die.
I mean, I know the meme. I’ve seen the videos on YouTube and witnessed kids at school shouting it at each other a thousand times. There’s a reason I don’t wear interesting shoes.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “You actually look really good in those.”
I’m pretty sure my face now matches the red in the shoes, and I can’t think of anything funny or clever to say.
A waitress appears, carrying a full tray of drinks and food. She rests it on the table behind us. “I’ve got two milkshakes and a large order of fries for lane thirty-eight,” she says.
“That’s us.” Lipton stands again. “But I didn’t order—”