Instructions for Dancing(36)

I ask Julio for one of the tables on the left-hand side near the pinball machines instead.

Wilshire Billiards is not one of those dark, dingy pool halls you always see in movies. It’s a big, clean space with pristine tables, polished cues and dark-wood mounted racks. The main lights are kept low, but every table has its own overhead light. I’ve always liked the way it looks—large areas of cool dark splashed by pools of yellow light.

It’s late afternoon on Wednesday, so most of the tables are empty, except for the few up front that the old-timers use. They’re mostly grizzled, grumpy old white guys, but they’re excellent pool players. A couple of them recognize me and nod hello.

We get to our table and I take my cue from my backpack. Nice pool cues come in two pieces. I feel X’s eyes on me as I unzip my case and screw the pieces together.

“What?” I ask.

“Is Julio right about you being a pool shark?”

“I’m okay,” I say, downplaying my skills.

“Nah, you’re a shark,” he says, laughing. He picks a cue from the rack. “All right, teach me your ways, big-city snob,” he says.

So I do.

I show him how to make sure a cue is straight by laying it flat on the table and rolling it. If it doesn’t wobble, then it’s straight. I show him how to rack the balls and how to apply chalk to the stick and powder to the area just between your thumb and forefinger, where the cue slides. Finally, I explain the rules: One person sinks the solid balls (solids), except the eight ball, and the other person sinks the striped balls (stripes). Whoever sinks all their balls first has to sink the eight ball.



“Let me show you how to break.” I line up to the table and hit the white cue ball into the rack. The balls scatter across the table.

I reset the rack for him. “Now your turn,” I say.

He lines up to the table. And it’s hard to imagine him doing more things wrong than he does. He holds the cue way too far up, rests it on the wrong two fingers and doesn’t line his head up with the shot. When he breaks, his stick glances off the cue ball so it only travels a few inches before stopping.

He grins at me. “Maybe I should try that again,” he says.

I laugh. “That was tragic.” I shake my head. But secretly, I’m kind of thrilled to have an excuse to get closer to him and fix his form.

I think of every straight rom-com I’ve ever watched with a pool-hall scene. Usually going to play pool is the guy’s suggestion, because:

he can show off his skills.





and

he can get up close and personal with the girl under the guise of showing her proper technique.





I reset the rack. “Here, let me show you,” I say. I stand right next to him, lean over the table and demonstrate the proper hold.

He tries again. This time the cue ball does hit the rack, but with so little force the balls barely even move.

I slap my hand over my mouth to cover my laugh.

This time after I reset the rack, I scoot around the table, lean over and put my arm on top of his so I can adjust his hold.

He turns his head. Suddenly his face (and lips) are just right there.

“Thanks for helping me,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” I say back.

His eyes drop to my lips and stay there.

“The sign outside says Wilshire Billiards, not Wilshire Make Out,” says a voice—Julio—from somewhere behind us.

I practically leap away from X. “I was just teaching him how to play.”

X stays where he is, laughing down into his outstretched arm.

Julio smiles and shakes his head. “Call it what you want, but keep it PG-13 in here for me. I know your dad, for Jesus’s sake,” he says as he walks away.

X just laughs some more.

I poke him with my cue and tell him to be quiet.

“All right, let me see if I got this,” he says, looking back down at the table. Suddenly, his body transforms itself. His stance goes from sloppy to perfect. He’s holding the cue exactly right, and his head is lined up perfectly.

He breaks with a loud smack and sinks one solid. Then he proceeds to sink four more in a row before just missing the sixth. He turns around, catches my eye and gives me the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen.



“Guess you were right about there being nothing to do in Lake Elizabeth,” he says.

I’ve. Been. Had.

I thump my cue on the ground. “Why’d you pretend you didn’t know how to play?”

“Maybe I wanted you to teach me,” he says with a wink. “Or maybe it’s because you made fun of my hometown. Let’s see what you got, city girl.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Oh, you’re going down, country boy,” I say. I shoot the nine but miss. I’m still flustered by his trickery and by how good he is. I don’t get another shot to win, because he sinks his remaining solid and then the eight ball to win.

I swear louder than I should and he just laughs at me. “I like this side of you,” he says.

“Don’t try to distract me.” I pretend-scowl at him, but I’m actually happy that he’s as good as he is. Pool is a lot more fun when you have actual competition.

I win the next two games, but he wins the fourth and fifth. I take the sixth when he misses an easy bank for the eight ball. We’re tied at three games all.