“On the house.” She nods toward the shoe counter.
Shoe Guy waves. All friendly-like.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” says Lipton under his breath. He doesn’t wave, though. Just stares at the guy for a second and then gives the slightest of nods.
“He must really need that job,” I say.
Lipton pops a fry into his mouth. “You think?”
I sit across from him at the table and we take turns dipping fries into the little paper cup of ketchup. Our hands brush every now and then, and it is ridiculous how much of an effect it has on me. Like I’ve been existing in some kind of suspended animation, my nerve endings grown numb from lack of use. Lipton is jolting them all back to life.
A trio of girls walks by on their way to another lane. One of them wiggles her fingers at Lipton. His eyes widen and he looks over his shoulder to see who she’s waving at. But the only thing behind him is the empty bowling lane.
He blushes, and they giggle.
“Do I have ketchup on my face?” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
“No.” I smile and shake my head.
“What?” He runs a hand through his hair—his super-thick, flopping-adorably-over-his-eyes hair—and brushes some nonexistent dandruff from his shoulders. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I can’t tell him they think he’s cute because that would be almost the same as telling him I think he’s cute, which I do, but I can’t say that. “They’re just being friendly?”
“Oh.” He glances at them and checks his shoes once more, then straightens his shirt. “We should get some balls now,” he says, then quickly adds, “bowling balls.”
He takes me to the rack behind our lane, where an assortment of colorful balls is available, and helps me choose one. Eleven pounds. Bright pink. I have no idea how to hold it, and I put the wrong fingers into the holes.
“No. Like this.” He shows me how to position my hand. For a minute, I forget how open the bowling alley is. How on-display we are. It’s like a little cone of privacy has fallen around us, just Lipton and me and my bright pink bowling ball.
“Then you lift it like this,” he says, twisting my wrist around so the ball rests in my palm. His face is very close to mine, his voice low. “And use your other hand to steady it until you’re ready to swing it back. Got it?”
“I think so.” But that doesn’t mean I want him to step out of our protective cone.
He lets his hands linger on mine for a few seconds longer than necessary. “We really don’t have to do this if you’re not into it,” he says. “We could play arcade games, or just sit here and talk and watch the other bowlers.”
“No,” I say. “Let’s bowl. I want to bowl.”
I mean, how hard can it be?
Lipton smiles. He wants to bowl, too. And from the way he expertly selects his own ball and carries it, I’m guessing he’s pretty good.
“Just don’t laugh,” I say.
“I promise.” He sits at the controls for our lane. “You want to be Vicky, or . . .”
My eyes widen.
“. . . Do you want to use a different name?” He starts typing, and the name “Gregor” appears on the scoreboard above. I wait for him to add the “y” but he doesn’t.
“Call me Vic, then,” I say.
Lipton types it in. Gregor and Vic. And we bowl. Or, rather, Lipton bowls and I attempt to roll the ball in the general direction of the pins, though it invariably ends up in the gutter. Luckily nobody is playing in the two lanes on either side of us, so I can almost pretend nobody sees me. Almost.
After five turns, my score is a whopping thirteen. Lipton’s is fifty-eight, and I’m pretty sure he’s purposely trying to miss. He keeps giving me tips. “Follow through,” he says, showing how my hand should end up pointing in the direction I’m aiming.
“Okay. I got this,” I say, with a confidence I usually reserve for Vicurious.
I approach, lift the ball, swing my arm, slide . . . and forget to let go. The ball arcs high and comes down with a loud thunk. In the next lane. It doesn’t roll all the way to the pins. It just . . . it stops.
Lipton buries his head behind the scoring console. He’s trying not to laugh. Or maybe pretending he doesn’t know me. His shoulders are shaking. And people in other lanes, all the way down the alley, are looking. And pointing.
I scurry to the seat behind him and hug my knees to my face. “You said you wouldn’t laugh,” I mumble.
He comes back to sit next to me. “I’m not laughing at you—”
I snap my head up. “Don’t even say it.”
“Just kidding. It’s okay.” He bites his lip. “People do that all the time.”
“Seriously?”
“Uh-huh.” He nods, then shakes his head. “Actually, no. I have never seen that in my life. Do you know how much oil they put on those lanes? They’re super slippery. I didn’t think you could stop a ball like that even if you tried.”
I bury my face again. “Not helping, Lipton.”
“Sorry.” He lays his hand on my back, just below my neck, and rubs small circles. He has now touched me in four different places.
“You want me to get you a new ball?” he says.
“How about I just watch you?”
“That sounds like the worst date ever. I bowl, you watch? No.”
I sit up straight. “I’m serious. I want to watch you bowl. I bet you’re really good at this. Show me your best stuff.”
He scrunches his face up. “Really?”
I nod. “Really.”
He sighs. “This is weird.”
“And when has that ever stopped you before?”
“Ouch.”
I laugh. “I mean that in the best possible way.”
“Okay, but you have to sit up here at the console and talk to me.”
I move to the console and try to look official. Lipton picks up his ball and rolls a strike. Then another strike. Some spares and another three strikes. He’s playing my turns, too, so my score is looking much better.
“Wow,” I say. “I might catch up to you.”
Then he purposely gutter balls on his own turns so that I do.
“Not fair,” I say.
He beams at me. Only two more rows or frames or whatever they’re called left to play. It’s his turn again, or time to play his turn, not mine.
“You’re not going to let me win, are you?” I tease.
Lipton narrows his eyes at me and stands there longer than usual, then slowly begins his approach and sends a curveball down the lane. I’m not really paying attention to the ball, though, or how many pins he knocks down, because those new jeans he’s wearing are a little distracting.
“Steee-rike,” he says, grinning. “Your turn.”
I blink up at him. “You mean, your my turn?”
“No, your your turn.”
I shake my head.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll even put the bumpers up.”
“Bumpers?”
He points to the lane where three girls are playing. I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s a padded rail on each side. One girl stands at the foul line, holds the ball in both hands, swings it low between her knees, and lets it roll. It ricochets off the bumpers all the way down and ultimately takes out two pins. She squeals.