“See?” he says.
I do. I see a girl who possesses the kind of joyful abandon I’ve been seeking, but am too scared to embrace—even attempt—in my own skin. I need a disguise and an alias to enjoy that kind of freedom. She goes again, this time standing backward. She bends over and pushes it through her legs, then watches it go like that with her butt sticking up in the air. She doesn’t care how she looks or who may be watching her. The ball hits the bumper once and then slowly moves to the center, knocking down the remaining pins. Her friends hoot as she celebrates with a little touchdown dance.
When I turn back to Lipton, I realize I’m standing. My body is braver than my brain, apparently. He hands me a ball. Not my ball, which is still sitting in the middle of the empty lane next to us, but an identical pink ball. I didn’t even see him get it.
He walks right up to the foul line and kicks a lever on each side of our lane, and the bumpers pop up.
I hold the ball in both arms and shuffle to where he stands.
“Just let ’er roll,” he says. “Any way you can.”
I swallow and nod. Glance around. Nobody is watching, but I still can’t bring myself to stick my butt up in the air and roll it between my legs. I slip my two middle fingers into the holes and grip the ball the way Lipton taught me.
“You got it,” he says, backing away. Which is probably a good idea, considering my last attempt.
I wait until he is well out of range, step my left foot forward, swing my ball arm, and release.
It rolls mostly straight. Grazes the left bumper. Veers back to the center and ohmygod . . .
I knock them all down.
Lipton hoots. I turn around, hands pressed to my mouth, which is opened wide in a silent shriek, my shoulders pulled up to my ears.
“You did it!” He rushes toward me, wraps his arms around my waist, and spins me around.
I cling to his neck until we come to a stop and I feel the floor beneath my feet again. But he doesn’t let go. It’s full-body contact, arms around each other, chests and hips and thighs pressed together. Too many points of contact to count.
I’m pretty sure Lipton is as surprised as I am to find himself holding me like this, our noses mere inches apart. His whole face is open—eyes and mouth wide and smiling. Still laughing.
“You did it,” he says softly now.
I might keel over if he lets me go, but not from embarrassment or humiliation or fear. No, this is something else entirely.
“I did it,” I whisper, all breathy.
And before I can even consider the possibility, Lipton kisses me. His warm lips are on mine at first with a loud smack. A celebratory kiss that stuns me, and him, too, I think. Like he didn’t really plan to do that. But still he doesn’t let go.
“That was . . . I . . .” His gaze drifts down to my mouth, then back up to my eyes.
His grip around me softens, his hands sliding to my hips. I rest my fingers on his shoulders.
And we kiss.
In front of the whole bowling alley and I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m scared of everyone who could be watching, but I really don’t want to stop.
I could’ve died happy with the hand-holding alone. But the kissing? This is something worth living for.
Lipton’s lips release mine and break into a shy smile, which I return. Then he’s grinning. His lips are truly exceptional. Kissing. Smiling. Grinning. Smirking. You name it. Lipton’s lips excel at everything. They should have their own Instagram.
“Should we, uh”—he looks around us—“finish our game?”
I couldn’t care less about finishing the game, but people are watching, and now that the kissing has stopped, I feel like I might start hyperventilating a little. We walk back to the console, and he points up to my score. “Look. You’re winning.”
I steady my eyes on the display, not really caring what it says but needing something other than Lipton’s lips to focus on. I am breathless, and happy.
If I am winning, it is not against Lipton. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I am winning against the fear of being—of taking up space and getting in the way . . . of being wrong or stupid or pathetic or not good enough. Of being laughed at.
Finally, I am winning against myself.
26
WE DON’T FINISH THE GAME, because we realize the concert’s supposed to be over in ten minutes and Lipton’s mom will be picking us up in front of the Clubhouse. We return our rented footwear to Now-Humble Shoe Guy, and run into the cold. Compared with the din of the bowling alley, the night air is quiet and peaceful. We can hear and see our breath as we hurry down the hill toward the Clubhouse.
People are streaming out, still buzzing with manic energy from the concert. They are flushed and sweat-soaked and alive. One very tall head bops above the crowd. Raj weaves his way to the sidewalk where everyone who’s waiting for a ride is gathering, and notices us.
He bounds over. “Wasn’t that amazing?” His voice is louder than it needs to be. “I didn’t even see you guys in there. It was crazy!”
“Yeah, we—” Lipton starts to explain that we didn’t get in, but Raj is spinning. Literally. He turns to some girls standing near us. “That was so amazing!”
They shout their amazement at an equal volume, and then they’re taking photos together. Raj is in selfie heaven, maybe because he’s not alone for once.
Lipton leans close. “You’re not upset we missed it?”
I blink at him. “Missed what?”
He laughs.
If time could stand still, this would be a pretty good moment to press the pause button. I am in a crowd but not terrified of it, in the company of someone who knows I have issues but likes me anyway. My lips are still vibrating from our kiss in the bowling alley.
Then Raj is upon us again, his shoulder pressing against my ear, squishing me between him and Lipton, phone raised at the end of his long arm. I don’t have time to slink away or be nervous before he snaps the photo. I’m still smiling.
“Hey, there’s my ride.” He moves toward the line of cars and waves. Several people—none from our high school—wave back and call out good-byes.
It appears Raj Radhakrishnan has found his people.
Lipton’s mother is alone when she collects us in the minivan, so we sit in the back together and hold hands beneath our coats—not that she would care or say anything. All she asks is if we had a nice time and we say, “Yes.” She doesn’t grill us like my mom would.
When we get to my house, Lipton walks me to the door, and I am 99 percent sure my mother is looking through the peephole, so I give him an awkward hug.
He says, “Thanks” and “See you Monday” and “I had a really good time” and I say, “Me too,” and silently curse Vicurious for weaseling into my thoughts. I vow to henceforth say “likewise” or “so did I.”
They don’t drive away until I am safely in the house, though it felt safer outside with Lipton than it does in my own living room, where my mother is ready with her questions.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yes.”