Ramona tilted her head back and laughed. Dickie’s Miniature Golf was about five miles outside of Clover Lake, and it was infamous for its intricate courses and wild props and animatronics. Right now, they stood at hole one, staring down three rusty red loop-the-loops in a row. Meaning, a player had to aim exactly right for the first loop, then hope and pray to the Putt-Putt gods that enough force would shove the ball onto the second and third.
“This is deranged,” Dylan said.
“It’s iconic,” Ramona said, setting her bright pink ball onto thegreen. She loved Dickie’s, had been coming here since she was a kid, and the best part was, most summer people had no idea it was here. They frequented the newer, flashier course near downtown with the lake view and greens without mold growing in the corners.
“Whoever created this course is cruel,” Dylan said. “They’re a cruel person.”
“And it’s a par two.”
“I don’t know what that means, but it sounds bad.”
“It probably means you won’t be seeing Llama Face anytime soon,” Ramona said.
Dylan narrowed her eyes. “Oh, so you’re in cahoots with this cruel creator of impossible Putt-Putt courses.”
Ramona just smiled. “Cahoots with Dickie? No. But I might’ve thought about how I usually take six or seven strokes on these courses to get the ball in the hole when I made the Llama Face deal.”
Dylan flattened her mouth. “Iwillget a hole in one.”
“No one has ever gotten a hole in one at Dickie’s. Except maybe Dickie himself.”
Dylan groaned as Ramona lined up her shot. “At least tell me about Llama Face.”
Ramona swung her club, smacking the ball into the first loop hard enough that it followed the correct path, but then veered off to the right instead of zooming onto the next loop.
“Damn,” she said.
“Okay, if I can get my ball onto the second loop, you tell me about Llama Face,” Dylan said, setting her purple ball on the ground.
“It’s not that thrilling of a story.”
“Deal?” Dylan said, lifting a brow.
Ramona laughed. “Fine.”
“Excellent.”
“But you’ve never even played Putt-Putt before, so I think I’m safe.”
Dylan ignored her, lining up her putter with the ball, studying the loops with narrowed eyes. She was very patient. Very…very…patient.
“Wow, you really want that story,” Ramona said.
“I want the Llama Face.” Dylan glanced up, eyes meeting Ramona’s, a wry smile on her face.
Something happened in Ramona’s stomach then—a low flutter. Too fluttery to be ignored and too low to be chalked up to nerves.
“Guess we’ll see,” Ramona said.
“Guess we will,” Dylan said, then went back to her very focused analysis of the hole.
Ramona watched her, amused and intrigued. And when Dylan hit the ball and it made it onto the second loop—though not the third as it veered off to the left—Ramona groaned dramatically.
“Baby steps,” Dylan said, then leaned on her club. “Story please.”
Ramona sighed. “April used to be scared of llamas.”
Dylan blinked. “Scared. Of llamas.”
