Shuffle, Repeat(49)

Apparently this is the food of my mother’s youth.

A few bites into the cracker chicken (shockingly delicious, BTW), Mom says she appreciates my discretion. I knew this would be coming, but still, it’s nice to hear. “Oliver’s parents are having some problems,” she tells me. (Duh.) “You should stay out of it.”

I’ve been turning this over and over in my head all day and I’ve come to a decision. Yes, Oliver and I made a pact about honesty, but telling him this truth would only hurt and confuse him, and I don’t want to do that. I know it’s risking our friendship and the rare trust we’ve somehow found between us, but this is one of those times when I’m going to choose what’s good for another person instead of what offers the most safety for me.

Besides, it’s not my story to tell.

“Okay,” I say to my mom. “I’ll stay out of it.”





General cacophony abounds as we trundle along the highway behind the other yellow bus. People throw wads of paper and bounce in their seats. Someone starts the school fight song and most of our bus joins in with great exuberance. It’s like they’ve all turned into a bunch of children.

I am squeezed between Darbs and Lily on one of the narrow vinyl seats. Darbs sings along but Lily is looking out the window and talking to me. “Ice-skating,” she says loudly so I can hear her. “Isn’t there a rink out this way?”

“They did that last year. Cal Turman broke his ankle.”

“Oh, that’s right. Maybe apple picking?”

“Wrong time of year.”

Lily is trying to guess where we’re going for Senior Off-Campus Day. It’s (yet again) one of our high school’s traditions, but this is one I can get behind, because it means no classes for a day. In fact, that’s apparently the reason it was invented a decade or so ago: to combat the previous tradition of Senior Skip Day. The only unfortunate part is that we have zero say in where we go. The administration plans it all and then we’re surprised when we get there.

No one ever claimed that high school is a democracy.

As we find out when we arrive, this year’s senior class of Robin High is going bowling. Wolverine Lanes has been rented out so we can bond over balls. I came here once as a kid, maybe for someone’s birthday party, and it doesn’t look like the decor has changed since then. Still the same spatter-printed carpet and lime-green walls and ancient arcade games. Still the lingering scent of greasy food and feet.

A teacher tells us to line up for shoes and explains that during our three hours of knocking pins down, we also get free sodas and hot dogs and hamburgers. Predictably, Darbs pitches a fit about the lack of vegan options and ends up with an extra bag of chips.

We accidentally get in line behind Theo, who hefts two bowling balls in front of his crotch. “Just like the real ones,” he tells me.

“Just like your brain,” I say. It’s not a great comeback, but it’s the first one I think of.

“I hate him so much,” Darbs says to me, and Theo swings his head (and his balls) in her direction.

“I can hear you.”

“Good.” She gives him the finger.

“Next!” says the woman at the counter, and Theo finally turns away from us.

“I hate him, too,” I tell Darbs.

Once we’re all wearing red-and-blue shoes, we head to a lane, where Shaun is typing our names on the sticky keyboard attached to the ball return. “Do you want Darbs or Darby?” he asks as we arrive.

“Darbs, dumb-ass.” She flicks him in the head.

“Hey, this is a sporting event. Maybe you’re formal at sporting events.”

“Speaking of formal, are any of you going to the prom?” Lily asks.

“A: it’s like four months away,” I tell her. “And B: I wouldn’t be caught dead.”

“I bought a dress,” Darbs says, then sees my look. “What? It’s a big deal.”

“Whatever, I’m not going.”

“I’m with June,” says Lily.

Shaun taps a final key. “Darbs is first.”

We play our first ten frames, taking turns flinging a heavy ball down the lane. Shaun gets two strikes and a whole bunch of spares, so of course we tease him mercilessly. “This is terrible,” he moans. “I’m good at bowling!”

“You’re going to get one of those shirts,” I tell him. “The ones with the collar and the embroidered name on the pocket.”

Oliver arrives at our lane and hears that last bit. “Ooh, what’s Shaun’s bowling name?”

“King of the Pins,” I tell him.

“The Strikemaster,” Oliver says.

“Holy Roller,” I shoot back.

“Ball Buster.”

“Gutter Guru.”

“Spare me,” Darbs groans.

“Good one!” Oliver tells her, and she rolls her eyes.

“No, I actually meant please spare me having to listen to the two of you play this game. Do you ever stop competing with each other?”

“We weren’t competing,” I say. “We were—”

“Having fun,” Oliver says, and grins at me.

“Whatever,” says Darbs. “Are we going again?”