I’M A NERVOUS ball of tangled energy as we head to our first hustle. I flip through songs on my phone, disgusted by the sweaty smears my fingers leave on the screen. Beckett’s been quiet since we left his house. Even though I have no desire to talk about tonight, his silence is unnerving. I can’t tell if he’s upset with me or annoyed or what. My imagination runs wild with the possibilities.
When we exit into Oakland off the freeway, Beckett clears his throat. “Hey, about what happened at the house,” he starts, glancing at his GPS.
I groan and press my fingertips to my temples. “It’s fine. Can we not talk about it? I don’t want your apologies.” I’m embarrassed. For all the walls I put up, it’s way too easy to knock me down. But if Beckett wants to apologize, great. I just want to forget what happened outside the bathroom and get this night over with.
He turns on his blinker as we idle on Broadway. “I was going to ask if you’re sure you wanna do this. Tonight might not be the best night to try out hustling if you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset,” I say quickly. Too quickly, because I’m defensive as hell. “I’m fine, Beckett.” Fan-fucking-tastic.
“And what makes you think I was apologizing? There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“Yeah, well, there must be if I’m hanging out with you again.”
The light’s green and we turn onto Twenty-Seventh Street. He just sighs and drags his fingers through his curls. His wounded expression gives me way too much satisfaction.
Once Beckett gets over himself, we park and hash out our plan. Brisk and businesslike, we each do our best to check our emotions. We’re experimenting with the techniques we went over last night. The biggest one is seeing how much the other players underestimate me as a girl, and a drunk girl at that.
I flip open the mirror in the car and use my thumb to smear my eyeliner, muss my hair. Then I tuck my hair into a wig cap and adjust the light-colored locks around my face. The curls hang past my shoulders, the side bang stiff against my forehead.
My mom was gorgeous and had these strawberry-blond curls you could never replicate, but she loved wigs. Wearing them. Dressing up. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Losing herself, as Aunt Fee explained once.
“Whoa,” he says with raised brows, taking me in. “You look weird as a blonde.”
“Thanks.” I bite back the sarcasm and adjust an errant curl. “But does it look natural? Or at least convincing?”
Beckett shuffles through his bowling bag, head bent and face obscured. “Yeah, definitely.”
The only part of the plan I’m steadfastly against is Beckett’s proposed cover story. He wants us to go in there as boyfriend and girlfriend.
“Trust me,” he says for the third time as he recounts our buy-in money. “You’ll seem less suspicious if you’re my girlfriend. No one will question it.”
“Trust me, it’s not happening. Can’t people platonically bowl together?” The malice in my eyes must scare Beckett, because he surrenders.
The Road is more dive bar than bowling alley. Even though we’re on the outskirts of the nicer Lake Merritt neighborhood, it takes only a block or two for Oakland to go from beautiful to sketchy. The Road muddles somewhere in between.
The roof’s flat and low, and the small parking lot is full of rusty cars and gleaming motorcycles. As we get out of the Accord, the wind nips, and there’s an external buzz to the air. That or my nerves have officially seeped out of my skin and mixed with the elements.
When we reach the green-slated door blending in with the bland windowless building, Beckett pauses.
“You ready?” he asks.
My stomach pitches, growls. My heart beats so fiercely, the edges of my vision pulse. What happens if we lose? Or if we get caught? I wipe my palms on my thighs. “Yup. Let’s do this.”
Is my complete lack of confidence showing? I hope not, because Beckett opens the door.
The scent hits me first—sticky and nutty, beer and peanuts—and the worn carpet is ragged from decades of wear. Cigarette smoke clings to the wood paneling, and the felt on the billiard tables is ripped. A bar runs along an entire wall, and in the corner closest to us is a claw machine filled with—yeah, that’s porn. A claw machine filled with porn DVDs.
It’s easy to act intimidated or out of place, because I am all of those things, tenfold. I’m a seventeen-year-old girl in a seedy dive bar. It’ll never be a struggle to look the part. I am the part.
Beckett presses his palm into the small of my back, a sensation that kick-starts me into consciousness.
“IDs?” the barkeeper demands.
Beckett smiles congenially. “We’re here to bowl.”
The barkeeper eyes us, mouth twisted in disbelief. Like anyone, let alone two teens, would come to this dump just to bowl. He walks over, brandishing a thick Sharpie, and slashes an X across Beckett’s hand, then mine. “Uh-huh. Talk to Marky.” With the pen, he points to a separate counter at the far end.
We thank him, walking past the barstools of inebriated patrons who are loud and choleric, or fast asleep on their stools. By the look of it, these people have been here since morning.
The alley itself has thirty lanes, but fewer than half are occupied. Everything’s grimy as hell and has seen better days. Small groups of bowlers dot the lanes. A few nurse beer bottles while others focus on their game. We pay Marky, the cashier, for two games plus shoes.
Between us, we have around five hundred dollars. Not minus the twenty-five to play. If all goes as planned, we’ll earn that back. Tonight, the betting is minor. Beckett told me you never play against the best, because if you beat them, you’re done. No one else will play you. Between now and next Sunday, we’re starting small and working our way up the ranks.
We settle at our lane, where I play my best fake drunk. Hard when I’ve never been drunk, but I’ve watched enough trashy reality television to put on a show. The mussed hair and makeup help. My nerves make me clumsy too.
The guys on the lanes to either side of us watch, so I flash the group of younger guys a smile, leaning forward to pull off my flats. I don’t dare set my bare feet on the ground, though—the floor is damp, multicolored, and makes me want to vomit.
Which, hey, would do wonders for the drunk-girl act, wouldn’t it?
“How’re you doing?” Beckett asks, the drone of the local classic rock station pounding out of the mounted wall speakers.
“Nervous. Do I seem drunk?”
“Passable.” He swaps his loafers for bowling shoes.
Beckett nods toward the lanes. “Okay, game time. You know what to do?”
I push away from the seats and wander over to inspect the ball rack. He programs the console as I pick out my ball from the rack of options. I test out the weight and shift my body; the ball’s balanced in my grip. Bonus points for being bubblegum pink with glitter.
Beckett bowls, and it’s comforting how truly horrible he is.
The setup is easy. After Beckett’s second throw, I bowl sloppily. The pink ball hits a few pins. As we trade turns, I keep my play consistent with loose, random shots, but my ball spends quality time in the gutter. Beckett doesn’t have to struggle to suck, but it’s painful to throw bad shots; I’m glad we practiced choreographing.
The entire game, I’m loud and drunk and the absolute worst.
Toward the end of the game, I bowl a split. Then I convert it into a spare and clear the frame. It’s no strike, but I act like I won the goddamn lottery. I may not have been a good enough actress to play Sandy in sophomore year, but I put on a convincing show tonight.
“Oh my God, did you see that? That’s a strike, right?” I ask Beckett, who watches with thinly veiled amusement. I replay what he told me last night: What’s really going to push you ahead is downplaying your skills. Showing an ineptitude for the game.
“A strike is when you knock down all ten at once. Real close, though,” he says.
I stumble off the platform and lean against the plastic seats. “Nope, that was good. I’m good. You guys saw that, didn’t you?” I ask, turning to the four men next to us.
The tallest man, with white-blond hair, cocks his head. “I saw it,” he says.
“I can take anybody in this joint.” The guy laughs, and I cut him off. “No, I’m dead serious. Anybody. I’ve got money! You’re playing for money, right?”
His attention flickers between Beckett and me. “Yeah. I can show you some action.”
Beckett’s cue. “Caroline, I’m not so sure about that. These guys are serious players.”
I try to not cringe at my full name. We figured it would fly better here.
“And I’m not?” I reply, turning fast and pretending to lose my balance; Beckett grabs my arm to steady me. Feigning drunken embarrassment, I reach for my purse and the money clip.
I peel off three twenties. “Sixty dollars,” I say, shoving the cash at the guy.
“You’re really not going to listen to me, huh?” Beckett mutters with a sigh, reaching for his own wallet. “Here, I’m in. Don’t want her playing alone.”
The guy squints in assessment. “Yeah, sure,” he says, taking our money. “I’m Count.”
I make a face at the grimy floor. Count? As in numbers, or does he moonlight as Dracula?
“Doubles then?” Count asks. “Me and Phil, against you and your girl?”
“I am not his girl,” I point out, which garners laughter.
After that the men barely acknowledge me. Actually, that’s a lie. One of the players’ friends stares at my nonexistent cleavage. Between my boldly patterned dress and honey-blond wig, I look like I tripped out of a seventies film.
The cash is tossed in plain sight, on the table we share between our coupled seats. As Beckett predicted, the owners of the Road don’t show any concern for betting or illegal activities.
Beckett’s first. He ties his hair back at the base of his neck, drying his hands over the blower, before approaching the foul line. He throws a creeper, a slow ball that takes a lifetime to reach the pocket. It knocks into the headpin and three pins clatter. His second shot is even worse.
Count bowls next and clears the frame with a strike that sends pins spinning.
My turn.
Beckett leans close and his hand lingers on my hip. “Knock over a max of three pins. Good luck.”
“Will do.” As I turn, his hand slides from my hip, sending confusing shivers down my spine.
On the platform, I gingerly slide my fingers into the ball’s holes, my shellacked nails flashing. I tweak my left hook to sweep and fell three pins—the headpin, the third, and the sixth. A few others wobble, but my ball shoots into the gutter and the pinsetter resets my lane.
For my next shot, it’s hard not to earn myself a spare and knock down the rest of the remaining pins. I receive four more points, leaving an open frame, which is decent enough. I can’t let my score fall too low—or inch too high—in the beginning.
The night goes on like this. The men are drinking, getting sloppier and sloppier as each frame passes. Still feeling awkward from what happened at dinner, Beckett and I don’t even bother with small talk. Preferable because being around him is stirring up feelings I’d rather bury.
When we’ve each bowled five frames, I pick my game up, imperceptibly. I upgrade my shots to include splits I convert into spares. Beckett tries hard, but he sucks. Admittedly, he puts on a good show.
My score has crept close to Phil’s, but I’m behind Count. Only our joint score will matter. Beckett can bowl his sucky frames if I bag two strikes in the final frame. The friends are making side bets on who’ll have the highest score between Count and Phil. They’re not concerned about their friends losing to us.
Emboldened, I lean over the set of seats. “I’ll bet you another forty dollars I can bowl a strike in the last frame.”
“Caroline,” Beckett says, jaw sharp.
Count overhears and lifts a pale eyebrow. “No offense, but you haven’t bowled one all night.”
I roll my eyes and grab my money. “This is for fun, right?” I slip out two twenties and dangle them above the pile of winnings. “You in?”
Count looks to Phil, who agrees. They each toss down two twenty-dollar bills. “Why the hell not?” To Beckett he adds, “I hope that’s her money she’s throwing away.”
Annoyed by his sexist comment, I return to my lane and prepare for the final frame.
Beckett nods me over, his expression grim. “What’re you doing? We aren’t supposed to bet more.”
“We’re going to win.” I eye the scoreboard with confidence. “They don’t think I’m a threat. This is working.” My giddiness would embarrass me if we weren’t about to cash in.
Beckett’s pissed. “We had a plan. In the future, you do not deviate from the plan, okay? It could get us into trouble.”
“It’s an extra forty dollars,” I insist. “Besides, who made you boss?”
Beckett gives an annoyed shake of his head and shoots his last frame. He gets lucky, the first shot setting up an easy split, which he almost converts into a spare, but a single pin is left standing. He slumps into his seat and pulls the tie from his curls.
Count shoots his final frame, but at this point he’s tipsy, and he doesn’t bowl a second. Their lead has dwindled, but my palms still sweat as I do the mental math. I need to punch out to win. No room for error.
I approach the lane and grab my ball. Drop the charade. I draw my arm back, swinging it forward and releasing the ball. My follow-through isn’t great, but I shoot a strike.
“Hell yeah!” Jumping in the air, I clap my hands together.
“Fuck,” one friend says with a disbelieving laugh.
Count narrows his eyes. “Guess you got lucky.”
I hold my fingers out over the blower to slick the sweat away. “Guess so.”
Beckett leans forward in his seat, hands clasped tight.
My unease is a twisted and thorny knot in my chest as I set up my shot and take a second to settle my thoughts. Sure, being lucky is better than being good, but being both is great. I shoot another strike and ten more pins fall, electricity charging within me. Behind, swearing erupts, and after a beat I turn around.
I smile—easy when my insides are beaming—and run over to Beckett, who’s no longer pissed. No, his face is stretched wide with a smile. And I can barely remember why I was so mad at him earlier tonight. In the high of the win, I don’t push him away as he lifts me off my feet and spins me.
My heart palpitates when he whispers, “You did it, Chuck.” His lips accidentally graze my jaw before he sets me down, and I’m flushed and tingly.
What is he doing?
What am I doing?
Why do I feel this way?
“What was that?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral while my head rings with alarm bells. The way his arms felt around my waist, the warmth of his lips on my jaw—it all felt good. And I’m freaking out.
“Um.” Beckett shifts away from me and studies the sticky floor, his curls curtaining against his cheeks. “I’m just excited. That you won,” he says, lifting his chin to meet my gaze.
My face is hot, and I wipe my sweaty palms off on my dress. “It’s whatever. Just, uh, don’t do it again.”
“Two strikes, huh?” Count says loudly, his eyes darting suspiciously.
“Beginner’s luck. The actual worst, am I right?” Beckett replies.
Innocent. Stay innocent. I pick up the glorious hunk of money off the table. The original two-hundred-and-forty pot, plus the eighty dollars in the side bet, totaling three hundred and twenty dollars. Minus what we bet and paid to play, that’s a pure net profit of one hundred and seventy-five dollars.
This is a start. The start of guaranteeing my future in San Francisco.
Count’s pale face spots with pinpricks of red. “If I find out you hustled us?”
“Hustle?” I repeat, as if the word is foreign, and tuck the winnings into my bra. “What’s he talking about?”
Beckett places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” To Count he adds, “You had us until the last frame.”
“Fuck,” Count swears again, and fists his hands. Phil chugs his beer. The nameless friends are amused more than anything else, exchanging money from separate side bets.
The money in my bra has a palpable weight. Money I won illegally.
“Maybe we’ll see you guys around,” Beckett tells Count.
“Nice to meet you,” I add, and the guy who’s been checking me out stops us. More specifically, he stops me. He’s not bad-looking, but too old, college-age.
“Hey, I’m Matt,” he says, and grins. “Have you ever been on a motorcycle?”
Is he trying to flirt with me? That’s got to be the worst pickup line.
Beckett grunts, a noise somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “Sorry, Matt, but—”
“Why don’t you let Caroline answer for herself?” Matt hulks over Beckett, who’s tall, but this guy is bigger. Wider, like he plays football or something.
Hearing my full name—my mother’s name—is the verbal equivalent of having a bucket of ice water dumped on my head. “No,” I say loudly. “Uh, no thank you.” I grab Beckett’s hand and drag him toward the door.
“This is why we should have a boyfriend-girlfriend act,” he mutters. “Do you want to deal with creeps all week?”
My heart twists. A year ago, being Beckett’s girlfriend was everything I wanted. I hate that it still hurts hearing those words thrown around casually. It’s true that I don’t want more run-ins with guys like Matt, but I can also tell it’ll make Beckett happy. “Yeah, okay.”
We’re outside, and I focus on my adrenaline. It fills me like a shaken can of soda. Together we cross the parking lot, and Beckett tosses the bowling bag into the trunk.
I hop into the front seat of the Accord.
“Really? Fine?” he asks from the driver’s seat.
I have no desire to dwell on rules or acts or anything other than the winnings I extract from my bra. “Yes, fine. Now, are you going to congratulate me or what?”
“You were damn impressive, Wilson.” He holds up his hand for a high five and I slap his palm. It’s safe to say that after tonight, our no-touching rule has officially been lifted.
As we leave the Road’s parking lot, I release a bottled-up sigh. “Holy shit.”
“I knew you could do it.” He smacks the steering wheel. “I knew it.”
“About the side bet—”
Beckett shakes his head. “Let’s try sticking to the plan, okay? We’re a team, and we need to be on the same page every second.”
I nod and slip the curly blond wig off, securing it on the mannequin head. “Noted.”
“I’m too wired to go home,” Beckett says as he steers the car toward Lake Merritt. “Wanna check out the lake?”
“Uh.” My body is buzzy and energetic, and oddly, I don’t want to go home just yet. Spending more time with Beckett probably isn’t advisable. And yet I find myself saying, “Sure. I’m already breaking curfew. Guess another hour can’t hurt.”
Something is shifting between us. What, I’m not quite sure. But despite what happened at his house earlier tonight, it’s like we’re on solid ground for the first time in a year. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the least bit curious to find out what this shift means.
At a red light, Beckett turns, wearing this beaming grin. “Great job tonight.”
“Thanks.” I can’t contain my smile, and it’s hard to stay mad at Beckett right now. He helped me win and get one step closer to saving Bigmouth’s.
The happiness stretches my face, and my cheeks ache.