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) arejust 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 WilshireBilliards,not WilshireMake Out,” says a voice—Julio—from somewhere behind us.
I practically leap away from X. “I was just teaching him how to play.”
