I NEARLY SLAM INTO CHARLIE’S DAD on my way down the stairs, my feet tangling together in an attempt to avoid collision. He wraps his huge hands around my arms to steady me. Instantly, I go rigid, pretty much jerking away from him and retreating back two steps.
“Whoa there, Mara,” he says, presenting his palms. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. You just startled me.”
“No problem.” He smiles and loosens his tie. Mr. Koenig is a big guy. Tall and broad and generally imposing, sure to scare the hell out of all the kids he educates on a daily basis. He’s got a head full of dark hair, and a beard covers half of his face. He’s handsome, for a dad, and has always been super nice to me, welcoming and gentle. He’s just so huge that my first instinct is always to shrink up and disappear.
“You girls headed out?” he asks, moving around me on the stairs on his way to his room.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He turns back, his brows furrowed. “It’s Monday. Don’t you and Charlotte always go to the bowling alley? I know it’s been a couple weeks. We’ve missed you around here.”
I blink at him, his smile totally at ease and normal. “Oh. Oh, right.” Charlie and I have gone to the bowling alley every Monday for the past couple of years. It’s smoke-free and neon-lit, full of old people with personalized bowling-ball bags and monogrammed shirts. We people-watch while we gorge on nachos and soda and candy and, yes, hit the shit out of some bowling pins. I usually kick her ass, and I crave my favorite swirly pink ball that I manage to find every week exploding against the pins.
The ritual started pretty early on in our friendship. One Monday, we were riding our bikes through downtown Frederick, found out it was two-for-one games at the Queen Pin, and that was that. Except for the past three Mondays, when one of us has begged off with stupid excuses like homework and lack of sleep the night before. Last week I had a plan to tell her I couldn’t go because I thought I was getting sick, except I never got the chance. She beat me to it, claiming a sore throat. Now that I think about it, she was probably busy with Tess.
“You two should get going,” Mr. Koenig says now, glancing at his watch. “Deirdre will be home soon and you know she’ll talk your ear off.”
Before I can answer or figure out how to excuse myself from the house without his daughter in tow, Charlie’s bedroom door opens. “Dad, who are you talking—?oh.” Her eyes widen when she sees me. “I thought you’d gone.”
“I did. I mean, I was. I am.”
“Hi, honey,” Mr. Koenig says, running his hand over Charlie’s short hair.
“Hey,” she says to him, but she’s looking at me.
“Have fun, you two. Don’t be too late. And try to eat something other than junk.” Then he drifts off down the hall toward his room, fingers tugging at his tie.
Charlie squints at me. “Bowling?”
I nod. “Bowling.”
“We don’t have to go,” Charlie says, folding her arms over her chest.
I nod and take a step down the stairs, but then my mind fills with images, fuzzy at the edges and too bright all at once, like a dream. Owen, sitting on the couch, crying. My mother, baffled and trying to comfort him. Hannah’s accusation, a quiet whisper trailing all of us through the rooms.
“No, I think we should,” I say.
Charlie’s eyes narrow, but I just nod my head toward the front door.
“Let’s go—?I’ll drive.”
“Are you sure?”
I huff out a breath. “If we wait any longer, your mom will come home and then we’ll be stuck here for an hour.”
She laughs. Charlie’s mom could talk the paint off the walls of an empty room. “Truth. Let me grab my shoes.”
“Can you get me some?”
She glances at my bare feet and rolls her eyes, but nods.
Soon we’re in my car, windows down, wind loud. I can’t tell if it’s because we want it like that or we’re avoiding conversation, avoiding eye contact as the twilight dims into night.
At the Queen Pin, we exchange our shoes and stock up on licorice whips, Cherry Cokes, Whoppers, peanut M&M’s, and a bag of popcorn as big as my torso. We don’t usually get this much crap to eat, but we pile it all onto a chair at lane five. I search for my pink ball in the racks lined with colorful spheres while Charlie taps our names into the computer. My ball tucked under one arm, I spot a black ball exactly Charlie’s size. She doesn’t usually care what ball she uses as long as her fingers don’t get stuck and it won’t fall on her toes when she swings it back to hurl it down the lane. But this ball—?this ball is Charlie. Blackest black with gold and silver swirls. I grab it and make my way over to her.
Her mouth ticks up in one corner when she sees the ball, but she says nothing. Soon, we’re bowling, stuffing our faces with sugar and greasy popcorn and laughing at Mr. Hannigan, a middle-aged pet-store owner in town who is here every Monday night and can never seem to keep his pants above his crack.
