“Now I know you’re just trying to butter me up so I’ll share my bowling secrets.”
I cocked my head to the side and put a hand on my hip. This had to work. Who would have thought saying “high school sucks” would have made the moment more tense? I always thought that was about as controversial as saying “oxygen is necessary.”
“Luckily, I’m a sucker for flattery,” I added. Kyle grinned—achievement unlocked. No more discussions of Rachel’s profound square-pegness. I walked up to the lane.
“The trick is, you have to follow through.” I started taking slow, exaggerated steps toward the line. “Put your arm back around here, then when you let go”—I swung my arm forward, releasing the imaginary ball—“you keep pointing it in the direction you want the ball to go, and your leg swings across behind you. It’s like a counterbalance.”
“So like this?” Kyle mirrored the motions, but swung his arm up too far, until it almost hit his other shoulder. Without thinking, I came up behind him and grabbed his hand to show him the right place. He jerked around to look at me. I could feel his eyes like a fire on the side of my face, but I couldn’t look back. He’d see too much if I looked back. I was probably already purple from all the blood rushing to my cheeks.
“More like this.” I forced myself to look only at his hand—it was just a hand, just fingers, not a car battery jump-starting every nerve in my body. Holding my breath, I moved his arm through the motion, letting go as soon as I could. “Smoother, see?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He half-smiled at me as he went to grab a ball. “And I curtsy at the end?”
“More or less.”
Kyle walked through the motions a couple of times with the ball in his hand, faking the backswing so he wouldn’t accidentally throw the thing down the lane. Finally he let the ball go. Six or seven pins toppled over.
“See?” I couldn’t keep the squeal out of my voice. Idiot. “That was way better!”
He laughed at me. “Not a high bar, Rach.”
“Okay, fine, but next game you’ll be better yet.”
“I think I need a break.” He smiled tightly. “Wanna grab some of those gourmet nah-shows?” He turned the word into some sort of terrible French, pointing at a sign over the snack bar, probably from about 1989, featuring globs of Cheez Whiz on bizarrely orange chips. I giggled. It was a dad joke, but we were joking again, thank all the gods.
“Yes. Definitely.”
We ordered the chips and sat at one of the peeling plywood tables near the counter.
“It’s nice, actually. Being in a place where no one knows you.” Kyle looked around the room thoughtfully.
“Seriously?” I grabbed a Cheez Whizzy chip, then just held it. How do you gracefully eat a hockey puck of dripping goop? “I thought you were loving the attention.”
“Meh, for a little.” Kyle tossed a chip in his mouth. Because this wasn’t a date, so who cares how we eat. Jesus, Rachel, get it together. “It’s cool to have that many people notice you, obviously, but it’s also kinda insanely stressful.”
“You don’t seem stressed.” I frowned. Seriously? Thirty seconds with Laura, and I thought he’d been born on talk shows.
“Yeah, well, the inside isn’t matching the outside there.” He raised an eyebrow, grinned, and grabbed another chip.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Seem so . . . normal?”
“I mean . . . I dunno.” Kyle blushed slightly. It was quite possibly the most adorable thing a human face has ever done. “It’s like when I’m about to go on the field. I’m nervous, but it’s like all the nerves are making me sharper, you know?”
“No. I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” It sometimes took me multiple in-head rehearsals to give an answer in class. One that I knew.
“I mean, I’m nervous. Like, super nervous. But it’s this rush too. I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Why don’t you do theater?”
“Weirdos do theater,” he said automatically, then squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head.
I knew it. He did just think of me as the weird girl. The pity girl.
“I don’t mean that, just that . . . my parents always pushed me and Carter, my brother, to be a certain way. We never . . . theater is cool, honestly, it’s just not my thing.”
“No, for sure. It’s not for everyone.” I could hear how tight my voice sounded, but I couldn’t change it.
“Rachel, I really didn’t mean—”