#famous(51)

“I dunno,” I muttered. I couldn’t tell her the thought that had just now burbled up from somewhere I couldn’t see. Ugly, hyperdepressing thought: I only really tried at things I was good enough at to not have to care about.

“Of course if you were willing to admit you needed it, I could help you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.”

“What makes you such a bowling guru?”

“I’ve spent a lot of time here with Mark and Britta and Mo.”

“Why?” It came out a little too fast. But seriously. The place still smelled like stale cigarettes. How long ago had they banned smoking?

“The atmosphere.”

“Are you serious? I bet prison is more appealing than—” I looked at Rachel. She was failing to repress a grin. “Oh, ha-ha. Fine. You got me. But why, really?”

“I told you on the way over, no one ever comes here.”

“So?”

“So you can get away from the hell that is Apple Prairie High if you hang out at places no one there is into.”





chapter thirty-five


RACHEL

SATURDAY, 12:44 P.M.

Oh god, now I sounded utterly pathetic. Kyle would probably walk out so he wouldn’t get tainted by my social outcast germs. Why had I teased him about being bad in the first place? We’d been laughing—even if he was doing it through gritted teeth—before I’d opened my big mouth.

So now I had to keep talking, try to bring it back around to normal with more words; I’d turned the moment into something weird, and unpleasant, and Ingmar Bergmany, but I could fix it, right? Jesus, Rachel, you don’t have to prove your arts cred to everyone by going Nordic on a bowling date. Hangout. Not even a date.

“You really think it’s hell?” He looked genuinely confused, his eyebrows ridging together over his nose.

“Doesn’t everyone?” I aimed for flippant. Pretty sure I missed.

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Even with girls like Jessie Florenzano polluting your friend group?”

“Yeah, Jessie’s . . . a piece of work. But she’s not a bad person, honestly. She’s just . . . I dunno, insecure, I guess? When she’s not trying to prove something she can be a lot of fun.”

Jessie Florenzano? Were we talking about the same person? How could anyone see a good person underneath all that . . . Jessie?

“Probably only interesting people think that about high school.” He smiled, but his eyes were still confused, still sad. I could feel my throat catch on itself. I almost felt . . . embarrassed. Mean and nasty, like I should live under a fairy-tale bridge. What the hell was up with that? I swallowed hard and faked a cough to buy myself time.

“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.