One
I’M ELBOW-DEEP IN some dead lady’s clothes when a customer bowls a perfect game.
Hidden from view, I’m kneeling behind the register as I finish cataloging my latest estate-sale finds, but I can hear the players whoop and holler. I take a deep breath, and the smell of Chanel No. 5 mixed with lavender-scented mothballs tickles my nostrils.
My shift ends in five minutes, but now I have to run interference with a cocky high scorer asking for a free game and his name on the wall of fame. Okay, fame is pushing it, but people love having their name displayed for the world to see. Normally not an issue, right? Except a bowling alley like Bigmouth’s can’t go comping games. I sweep the vintage threads into the garbage bag and pop up just as the winner, a regular named Marty, saunters over from the lanes.
I drop-kick the bag beneath the counter. “Congrats on the three hundred.”
“Thanks. Sign says perfect games are on the house.” He slaps down the scored transparency. Three feet of counter stretch between us, yet my eyes water from Marty’s stale nicotine breath and criminal lack of deodorant. Ah, the aroma of Bigmouth’s remaining patrons.
I side-eye the sign hanging crooked on the wall beside me. We really should’ve taken that down years ago, because Marty isn’t wrong. The refund is for the winning player’s entire group, which is a problem. My brain churns for another option because there’s not enough in the register to cover the sixty-two dollars the men paid for their games and shoes.
Thursdays are league night at Bigmouth’s, but they’re only the second group of customers we’ve had all day. Before his break, Dad grabbed money from the register’s drawer for dinner. A lowly twenty-dollar bill remains in the drawer.
Bigmouth’s is hemorrhaging cash.
“We can give you a voucher for a free game next time,” I offer, grinding my molars. Technically, a voucher is an option. Not the most lucrative one. But Marty’s a regular, and I cross my fingers that he’ll just take the voucher.
“That’s not what the sign says. Look, can you comp our game or not?”
Well, at least I tried. To buy time, I rustle through a stack of forms. “Sure thing. Why don’t you fill this out with your info so your name can be added to the wall?”
This occupies Marty long enough for me to duck to the floor and grab my wallet from my carpetbag purse. I only have forty dollars, which I crumple into my sweaty fist. Goddammit, Dad. When I unload the register, I slip my four tens in with the lone twenty.
“Here you go.” I fork over sixty dollars even.
Marty doesn’t count the bills. Doesn’t notice the missing two dollars.
“Thanks, Chuck,” he replies, pocketing the money.
When they leave, I rip the sign off its hook and toss it in the trash. I kick the trash can, my big toe throbbing through my patent-leather flats, and press my fingertips against my eyelids. I take a scrambled, aching breath, itching for a sense of calm. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t had cash on me? Beyond the sheer embarrassment factor, we can’t afford to upset or lose our dwindling customer base.
Thankfully, tonight is my last shift before spring break, a week of glorious freedom and fashion. Dad promised me a bowling-free vacation. No clunky register or used shoes or the clang of pins hitting oiled alleys. I’ve jam-packed my break with estate sales—they’re a treasure trove of history and cheaper than the overpriced thrift stores in the city. Plus a vintage showcase and a college tour of San Francisco’s Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising on Saturday.
The bell above the door jingles and Dad walks in, carrying a sweating take-out bag. “Caroline! Did I miss the rush?” he jokes, and I find his cheerfulness grating. Our lack of customers isn’t a laughing matter.
“Nope,” I reply, flinching the way I always do when Dad uses my full name, “but Marty bowled a three hundred after you left.”
Dad fails to hide his grimace. The to-go bag of food swings against his legs. “Ah, I see. You comp him?”
“Yep. He wants his name up there,” I add, jerking my thumb to the stretch of wall above the lanes where we’ve immortalized our high-scoring customers. Benjamin O’Neill, my maternal grandfather, who opened Bigmouth’s, is the first name on the leaderboard.
“How’d you refund him?” Dad slides the form off the counter and pockets it without a glance.
I fixate on a drooping cobweb hanging from the ceiling. “I used some of my money. It’s fine.”
“I’ll pay you back, Caroline. I promise.”
The sentiment is nice, but I sincerely doubt I’ll see that forty bucks again. Annoyance flares, lightning quick, before I can tamp it down. Why is it up to me? Why am I helping Bigmouth’s stay afloat? I work for free—running the register and hosing off bowling shoes with disinfectant. Now I’m comping games with the money in my purse?
The stress lines around Dad’s mouth ease somewhat. Bigmouth’s is struggling, but his pride would take a serious hit if the customers found out just how badly we’re doing.
“Don’t worry about it.” Annoyed as I am, it’s a small price to pay for my dad to be happy. Unstressed. “Hey, did you order wontons?”
He sets the food down and attempts a smile. “Want one?”
I pluck a wonton from the Styrofoam container and pop it in my mouth. “Do you still need me around? My shift ended fifteen minutes ago.” I nudge the trash bag of clothes from underneath the counter, ready to dart toward my freedom. A week far from Bigmouth’s.
“Honey,” Dad says. “I heard from Pete and he, um, he quit.”
That small slice of freedom slips from my grasp. “He what?”
“I’m sorry—”
I groan and drop my forehead to the counter for a dramatic moment before looking up and saying, “But you promised.”
Dad tucks his hands into the pockets of his knee-length cargo shorts. “I know, I know, but I don’t have many options. Help your old man out.”
All my weight rests on my elbows as I slouch against the countertop. Helping him out is all I do. “So I’m working spring break after all.”
“Until I get the shifts figured out.” His fingers tap and twitch. I swear there’s an air of relief over Pete quitting—one less salary we can’t afford to pay. Other than me—child labor laws be damned—he was our only employee.
The tension webbed between my shoulder blades refuses to relax, and my throat aches. Resigned, I slouch on my stool. “Sucks Pete quit.”
“Ah, it’ll be okay. Thanks for your help, hon.” He slides his phone from his pocket, glancing at the time. “Can you stay until seven? Jesset’s coming by, and I need someone manning the front desk.”
A visit from the landlord is never good. “Sure thing, boss,” I say, unable to bite back my sarcasm.
Dad winces his smile. “Things are gonna change, Caroline. I promise.” Before I can respond, he takes his dinner and disappears down the hallway toward his office.
Change. The word turns and tumbles in my head. What kind of change?
The comment—and its implications—rattle me. I don’t love working here, but Bigmouth’s is a family business, and I’d do anything to help Dad. But the annoyance lingers over having my spring break hijacked. Not to mention losing my forty dollars. When Dad’s office door clicks shut, I grab my headphones and plug them into my phone.