TEN PIN ALLEY

  Normally, I don’t go this way. School is the other way. Everything is the other way. This is the not-so-nice part of town. A pawn shop sits next to Ten Pin. There are bars on the windows. When I was a kid, my dad brought me and Mae here. He drank at the bar while we bowled. As long as we all walked, Mom didn’t mind. Or she didn’t until the day we came running into the house panicked, wanting our little red wagon so we could get Dad off the sidewalk— where he’d fallen— and bring him home. That was the beginning of the end, I guess. Soon after, he moved South and we never saw him again. There were some birthday cards and phone calls … for a while. But then they tapered off into silence. Now cold air and old memories wrap around me the moment I open the door. Everything is the same in Ten Pin. The smell. The lights. The long, dark bar. And the lanes all lit up like a party. It’s not like my dad was so great or like he left a big hole in my life. But just the same … being here makes me feel weirdly closer to him.

  AND MAE, TOO

  She was my partner in crime here, chasing balls down the lane. We invented bumper ball, speed ball, and all sorts of other new ways to bowl. And I wasn’t too bad at it. Without thinking, I pull crumpled bills from my pocket and hand them over for shoes and a lane.

  GUTTER BALL

  Once. Twice. Three times. Apparently, bowling is not just like riding a bike. I’m ready to quit when— You’re turning your wrist. It’s a girl in the lane beside mine. I recognize her from school—Ricki. Blue hair frames the hearing aids behind each of her ears. She’s famously loud and opinionated. The type of person who once put together a protest over girls not being allowed to wear shirts with spaghetti straps. We’ve never spoken before. Now, without waiting for a response, she comes over, grabs hold of my wrist, and guides my arm through the motion of throwing the ball. Here, she says, pausing the motion with my arm stretched out in front of me. Tapping my wrist, she then rotates it, just slightly. There. Like that. Feel the difference? She steps away, but I leave my arm where she’s placed it. I think so? I say, more because it’s what she wants to hear. She nods. Good. Try it again. I should probably tell her to get lost and leave me alone. But I’ve been alone for what feels like forever. I’m sick of alone. Grabbing my ball, I approach the lane and think of my wrist and how it felt when she turned it. I pull my arm back and send the ball toward the pins. This time it stays straight and true. Six pins fall. A seventh wobbles, considering, before tumbling, too. Nice! Ricki is right next to me, pointing to the remaining pins. There, she says. That’s where you want to aim the ball to get the spare. Again, I do what she tells me. And again, it works as if she’s taken control of my limbs. It almost feels like magic.

  FOR A MOMENT

  I wish that I could turn my whole life over to her. Eat this, not that. No, don’t think about the fat. Okay, that’s enough. Stop or you’ll be sick. I can’t control my body, but maybe she can. As if reading my mind, she says, That settles it. You’re joining the bowling team. It’s an announcement. Not a question. Like what I think about it doesn’t even matter. And I realize that actually I do want a say in my own life. No, thanks, I tell her. But this girl is not the type to take no for an answer. You’re a junior, right? She sticks out a hand. Me too. I’m Ricki. As if I don’t know her name. Everyone does. After a moment of hesitation, I take her hand in mine. June, I say. She nods. I know. You’re Mae’s sister. I interviewed her for the school paper last spring. I remember this. It’s not a good memory.

  MAE GETTING INTO

  the New York City art school was a BIG deal. The paper put her interview on the front page along with her senior picture where she looked gorgeous. Like an old-fashioned, plus-size pinup model. The paper comes out monthly, and then sits piled in the cafeteria, library, and front office. Mostly I forget it exists. But Mae’s month, I saw it everywhere. On a back table in the library with bubble words over Mae’s head reading, “I’m too fat to wear normal clothes.” Crumpled in the hallway near my locker. Someone had taken a red pen and circled then labeled all the places where Mae needs improvement. Upper arms. FAT Legs. FAT Belly. FAT Chin and cheeks. FAT Cankles. FAT They circled ALL of her. I tore up the ones I found. But I’m sure there were more. I’m sure Mae saw them. But she never said a thing. A part of me was mad at her. Furious she put herself out there for kids to draw on her face. And then for pretending to not care. But mostly I hated her for being fat and not knowing enough to be ashamed.

  SPEAKING OF COLLEGE... …

  Ricki’s words jolt me back to the present and I realize I missed half of what she said. Luckily, she keeps talking and I piece things together. You know colleges like to see extracurricular activities on your application. Plus— Before she can say more, four girls near the entrance yell out, Ricki! She spins to face them, a grin on her lips. Guys! I got a live one! she hollers back. They join us and I recognize them all from school. Tall and dark-skinned, her hair in a curly bun on top of her head, Ammiah Smith throws an arm around Ricki’s shoulders. She tells me, If she offered you money to join the team— that’s illegal. Then adds, Also, she doesn’t have it. Ricki laughs at this. This is Striker. She’s our star. Ammiah shrugs off this praise. Or you can call me Ammiah just like my mom does. She pauses, then adds, You’re June, right? We had ELA together last year. I nod. Yeah, I remember. Holding my breath, I wait for her to say more and mention the video. But instead, she just gives Ricki a friendly shove. Girl, you gotta stop trying to recruit every female who comes in here just wanting to bowl. Turning her attention back to me, she adds, Last week, she made a poor middle school kid cry. Ricki scoffs. She was tall for her age! How was I supposed to know she wasn’t in high school yet? Ammiah ignores this. The other girls chime in. You wanted to poach the track team’s shot put girls. She tried to go after the golf team, too. Her next plan was to start cold-calling every girl in the school. Ricki throws her hands up even as she laughs. We need six people for a team. And look— She points to me and all their attention comes my way. I take a step back. June has potential. She takes direction, can make adjustments. This earns thoughtful looks and nods. Plus, she seems cool. She’s got a good vibe. I think she’d fit in with us.

  I LOOK AT THE FIVE OF THEM

  Do I fit in? In some ways … maybe. These don’t look like girls who play teenagers on TV. They aren’t skinny with perfect hair and skin. Ammiah looks like a bodybuilder. Ricki is probably the same size as me, but she stands TALLER. Legs spread. Feet planted. Taking up space without apology. The other three are similar. They are themselves. Gangly with oversized glasses and a jagged bob, Kimi started the Asian representation club at our school. I vaguely know Laurel from art class but have never really registered her as anything other than a tiny, angry emo girl. And finally Polly is a senior, but she made a splash last year for getting a face tatt— a broken heart on her left cheekbone to mark her grandmother’s death— that the school made her cover with a Band-Aid. Right now she’s wearing suspenders with shorts and a rainbow Pride T-shirt. Mae would fit in with them. But I don’t.

  THEY SEEM FEARLESS

  And I am … Sorry, I mutter, already backpedaling. And then— even as Ricki calls Wait!— I’m turning my eyes to the exit. The automatic doors open, and as I step through, I hear Ricki call, We’ll be here all week if you change your mind!

  I HOLD OUT

  for three days. Once again hiding in my sweatbox bedroom. At dinner, Bill announces, If you think this is hot, you’re in for a surprise! Weather reporter says this coming heat wave’s gonna break records! I open my window, trying to catch a breeze, but instead I see Toby.

  TOBY’S BIG SECRET

  was his mom. He pretended she didn’t exist to everyone except me. But now she’s back in his life making it messy, ugly, and loud as she throws his things out the front door and into the front yard. Clothes. Books. Underwear. An old stuffed bear. This is my house, she yells. You don’t tell me what to do! Toby grabs his things off the lawn. I can see how hard he’s trying to be invisible, to make her and this whole situation go away. Having the whole neighborhood see his mother— fresh from drug rehab— is his nightmare come true. What would his basketball buddies say if they found out? Toby’s mom jumps on his back, and the two of them whirl round and round. Toby’s mom screeches and claws and curses. At last, Toby shakes her off and she hits the ground hard. It’s Grandma’s house, he says, just barely loud enough for me to hear. Then he turns his back on his mother as she starts to cry. He goes back inside, where his secrets are safe. I turn away, too. Close my window. Lie on my bed. I think about how lonely he must feel, locked away inside, alone, guarding himself, holding himself apart. And I finally make up my mind.

  I TEXT MAE

  even though it’s been silent since she left. Still, I think this news might be something to make her hate me a little bit less. Picking up my phone, I type, Remember Ten Pin Alley? I’m gonna be there a lot … as part of the girls’ high school bowling team! Wish me luck?

  AS I ENTER

  the bowling alley, my phone finally **dings** with Mae’s reply— Of course I remember Ten Pin. We grew up there. And I’m always wishing you all the luck. My throat grows tight as I read Mae’s words. Quickly, before I can think twice, I type back, Thanks! I miss you. Hope you’re doing well. Three little dots … Then nothing.

  YOU CAME BACK!

  Ricki cries out. I glance up in time to see her running toward me. Arms outstretched. Barely giving me time to brace for a huge bear hug so tight that I worry my ribs might crack. The other girls appear and peel Ricki off me. Remember our talk the other day about not scaring people away? Ammiah asks. Ricki just laughs. I know, I know. I have no chill and I need to dial it down. She mimes turning a knob. But, on the other hand … Ricki grins and then throws her arms out in my direction like she’s displaying an amazing prize. June came back! I expect one of them to point out I’m nothing to get this excited about. But instead they just smile and say hello. And just like that— without any tryouts or interviews or tests— I’m part of the girls’ bowling team.

  I’M ON THE TEAM

  but not IN it. Not like the rest of them are. The five of them clearly share stories, memories, and even nicknames. Ricki is DUCK! because of how many times the ball has slipped from her hands and flown backwards. Ammiah is Striker— for obvious reasons. Kimi is Bam Bam because of how she throws the ball, launching it up into the air so that it hits the lane with a bang and then bounces and bangs again. Laurel is RAWR for the noise she makes as she watches her ball take down the pins. If it’s a good one, she’s pumps her fist and cheers RAWR! If the ball rolls into the gutter, then it’s a sad mournful raaawrr. And finally, Polly is The Lobster. I don’t even know why. It’s another inside joke that I’m outside of.

  I QUICKLY LEARN

  the bowling team is more than just bowling. The girls are friends, but more than that, they’re— Radical Feminist Warriors. That’s Ricki’s term, anyway. And Ricki mostly run things. And everyone else mostly lets her, only pulling her back when she gets carried away. The others warn me that Ricki will run my life if I let her. Ammiah calls her a bully, but one with the best intentions.

  FOR EXAMPLE

  The other girls tell me how Ricki has roped everyone on the team into writing op-eds for the school newspaper. Soon, she’ll start badgering you to do it, too, Polly predicts, and the others agree. They laugh about how last year Ammiah’s article started a HUGE controversy. She wrote that bowling was the BEST sport humans had EVER come up with. And that NO ONE played it BETTER than GIRLS. Laughing, Ammiah admitted, I didn’t even know anyone read the paper until people started yelling at me in the halls. The idea of this freaks me out on her behalf. But Ammiah thinks it’s hilarious. And Ricki almost glows when remembering the hate mail they got. We made people feel something. We made them respond. We woke them from their slumber.

  I DON’'T TELL RICKI

  that I’d rather let people sleep on and leave me alone. Or that my greatest dream is to become so small that I eventually disappear entirely.

  BREAKING THE ICE

  Mae and I are talking— well, texting— again. A little. And it feels like I can get enough air into my lungs for the first time in forever. She tells me she’s found a place to live and how she has 5,000 roommates. Three are human, the rest are cockroaches. But the thing she really hates is not having a working oven for baking. At the end of one texting session, she slips in almost shyly, I’ve sorta met someone. I respond with a row of hearts and then ask— A romantic someone? There’s a long pause. I watch … the dots … on the screen … as Mae … decides … what to say.

  FINALLY

  Yes. I think so. Then she adds, Gotta go meet some friends! … and she’s gone. Off to her other life totally separate from me.

  ONE DAY AFTER PRACTICE

  I get a text from Mae— How are the bowling girls today?! I tell her about Ricki. Joke about the whole op-ed bully thing. Mae responds with a laughing emoji and then a moment after that— So, what will YOU write?

  I MUST HAVE MISLED MAE

  Let her think that I’ve changed just because I joined the bowling team. Which is sort of what I wanted her to think. Because she doesn’t want an ugly mess for a sister. But that mess is still who I am. So I change the subject. Except… neither of us mentions the awful things I said before she left … which means I can’t apologize for them. And even though I tell Mae every time how much I miss her— she never, not once, replies that she misses me, too.

  DREAMS ABOUT BOWLING

  creep into my sleep. My Spanish teacher says that a language remains foreign until you begin to dream in it. Maybe this is similar. Or maybe I’m just at the alley too often. We practice every single day. I start to marvel at the little ways my body is working for me. Planting my strong legs, swinging my strong arm. Landing that strike.

  RICKI SAYS

  we could be contenders. She pushes us to get better and practice harder. Sometimes my fingers hurt from gripping the ball. But mostly I don’t mind. It gets me out of the house. And also, the girls are fun. Also … there’s Benny.

  BENNY IS

  Ammiah’s twin brother. He comes by to pick her up because— as he loves reminding her— he has his driver’s license and she does not. To my surprise, fearless Ammiah is terrified of driving. Or as she puts it, What’s wrong with riding a bike? When Benny’s around, we end up next to each other. Maybe because we’re the two who talk the least. Even when he’s razzing his sister, he speaks in a low rumble. Ricki teases him like she’s his sister, too. Oy! Benny! Can I give you some of my volume? She makes a big deal out of turning up her hearing aid.

  BENNY AND I

  sort of know one another. We were partners in bio lab last year. But we never really talked. Except, that one time after the video (yes, that one) came out. He said to me, out of the blue, Lots of idiots at this school. I’d tensed, unsure if he meant I was the idiot. But then I saw the look on his face. It wasn’t the cruel sneer or dead eyes I’d come to know from other classmates. Instead, he seemed nervous. Like he knew he’d overstepped. Like he cared what I thought. I could tell he was blushing beneath his dark skin. Yeah, I’d agreed, softly. But not everyone. Then we went back to discussing the parts of an earthworm.

  THINKING BACK

  I can’t help wondering … Did Benny like me then? Because I sorta think that I like him now.

  A LETTER FROM SCHOOL

  I have to get a physical for the bowling team. The pediatrician I’ve been seeing my whole life is an older man with a shiny bald head and eyes that never seem to fully meet my own. As usual, he lectures me on my weight. Your BMI is a little higher than we like to see. He always speaks in the “royal we.” Let’s try to remember, less potato chips and pop. Translation: Hey, fatso, you obviously eat junk all day and deserve to be fat. Less time in front of screens and more moving our body enough to break a sweat. Translation: You’re lazy and deserve to be fat. Which means don’t forget that deodorant. Translation: Fat people like you smell bad. What do we think, June? Can we do that? Translation: There’s no hope for you, but I have to pretend. He doesn’t actually call me a [[fat]] [[lazy]] [[ slob]] but it’s easy to read between [[the lines.]]

  ON LABOR DAY

  Bill proposes to Mom. His divorce is official, and now he wants their relationship to be official, too. Can you believe this dummy? Mom says. Outta one marriage and straight into another! Her words are harsh, but the big grin on her face makes it clear— she’s thrilled.

  IN SHOCK

  I always thought Bill was temporary. But this means he’s not going anywhere. At least not anytime soon. I want to be happy for Mom. But instead I turn to Bill and I say, You cheated on your ex-wife. How long before you cheat on my mom? Bill jerks back, his face white. I didn’t. I mean, it was … complicated. Mom puts her hand on Bill’s arm, making it clear where her loyalties lie. This man has only ever been nice to you, June. While you stomp around and sigh every time he enters the room. Well, that ends NOW. We’re getting married in November. You have until then to figure out how to be happy about it. Understood? Her tone leaves no room for argument. Understood, I answer.

 

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