A girl with a head full of intricate braids turned around. Her skin was the color of the woman next door, dark and beautiful. “I’m Sarah. This knucklehead is Bill. He thinks he’s a comedian, but you’re mainly going to groan at his bad jokes.”
“Everyone’s a critic,” Bill said.
“We can’t help it around you, bro,” Tucker said.
“No respect, can’t get any respect,” Bill said, causing the others to laugh.
I could barely follow the conversation, new words coming at me fast. Knucklehead. Comedian. Critic.
Sarah waved her hand at me. “We’ll try not to overwhelm you on the first night.”
“No promises!” Bill called back. He moved the gearshift between him and Sarah, and the car shot forward.
I clutched Tucker’s arm. My mother didn’t drive like this, and I’d never been in a car with anyone else.
He turned the corner hard, a squealing sound coming from the tires.
“We should buckle you up,” Tucker said. “It’s by your shoulder.”
I found the harness and brought it down to click into the base.
“Red light incoming,” Sarah said.
Bill turned and gave her a big smile. “Thanks, hon.”
She leaned in for a quick kiss.
Bill roared up to the light, then slammed the brakes again. The motion of the car made me shift forward against the seatbelt.
Tucker took my hand. “I swear I won’t drive like a maniac.”
“It’s fine.” My heart hammered painfully, but sitting here with two strangers, my hand gripping Tucker’s, I felt electrically alive. Everything was new, the sights and colors, stores and cars and people on the sidewalks. I wanted to see it all.
As we crossed town, I got used to the crazy lurching of the car. Bill turned into a small parking lot and killed the engine in front of a tall statue of a boy in a green outfit.
“Peter Pan Mini Golf,” Bill said. “Tucker, I have the libations hidden in a bag behind my seat. Can you get them?”
Tucker unearthed the bag from a pile of jackets, and wescooted out of the car. Bill and Sarah were already halfway up a set of concrete stairs. “Nine holes or eighteen?” he called down.
“The way you suck, nine,” Tucker replied.
I clutched his arm and leaned in close. “What are libations? And what are we doing with holes?”
Tucker slid an arm around my waist. “Do you know what golf is?”
I shook my head.
“You swing a metal stick called a club to knock balls into holes. He was asking how many holes we wanted to aim at.”
“And libation?”
Tucker lifted the bag. “Drinks. But don’t worry. Alcohol doesn’t play nice with my meds or yours. We’ll get cokes. Or bottled water. Whatever you want.”
I was grateful to be with someone who understood. As we collected our golf clubs and chose different colored balls, the sheer number of people overwhelmed me.
Brightly painted statues were strewn around the outdoor space. A rabbit. A turtle. A huge blue whale.
Tucker squeezed my hand as we approached the first hole. It was surrounded with green ground and short walls.
