Beckett places a twenty-dollar bill beside the register. “I’m here to bowl.” He peers over the counter and cocks his head. “Nice overalls.”
The comment oozes sarcasm, but I flash him a smile. “Thank you.”
They’re no ordinary overalls. I tailored and customized them. I believe—after many Friends reruns—the nineties ruined overalls for future generations. Which is a shame. I’m trying to rectify that, although I get an awful lot of weird looks for wearing overalls. Even in San Francisco, capital of the Weird.
“Just one game?” I ask, sliding the twenty off the countertop.
“Yep.”
I ring Beckett up, careful not to touch his hand as I drop the coins into his palm.
Beckett sets up in lane seven, and yeah, he still sucks. Why is he spending money on something he clearly lacks the skills for? But I might have high standards. It’s a miracle I wasn’t born in this damn alley, that’s how ingrained bowling is in our family.
Grandpa Ben opened Bigmouth’s in the late sixties, christening it after the nickname my grandmother gave him for being a huge gossip. Benjamin “Bigmouth” O’Neill died when I was six months old, my grandma a year after him. Death came in threes for my family, because my mom died two years later.
The business was already going downhill when my dad took it on full-time. Through the years, we’ve cycled through landlords, iffy clauses, increased rent thanks to the tech boom, and now we’re stuck with Jesset’s eviction threats.
I fiddle with the Biba scarf, but spying on Beckett while I’m sewing is kind of hard, so I set the project aside. Inside my carpetbag purse is my latest library find, and I crack the spine, flipping idly through the pages. Much more suited for spying.
From the corner of my eye, Beckett flounders to knock over pins. He’s consistently crappy and doesn’t manage a single strike. Which makes me wonder how he got into hustling. I make a mental note to ask about his bowling history later when we—I refuse to call it hang out—have our business meeting.
If you can call hustling a business.
Dad comes out from his office to watch Beckett bowl. Dad clearly still adores Beckett, and seeing them together acting chummy, talking, laughing? It sets off alarms, raises red flags, and broadcasts warning signals. S-O-freaking-S.
Beckett is giving my dad the wrong impression, instilling false hope that we’re friends again. Dad was pretty devastated when we had our falling-out. He pushed me to forgive Beckett and mend our friendship, but it’s not my fault he’s unworthy of redemption.
I hide behind the library book when they both approach the register.
“Caroline, honey, why didn’t you tell me you were doing a project with Beckett?”
I shoot Beckett a look. There’s no way he told him.
Beckett says to Dad, “Our teacher asked us to spend break doing a research project on something unique to San Francisco.”
Mr. Haust, my history teacher, assigned no such project. We’re not even in the same class. Beckett’s lying to my dad to give us a reason to spend time together. To get me out of work. I hate lying, and Beckett’s lied me into a corner.
“What’s your project on?”
“We’re thinking of focusing on the city’s criminal roots,” Beckett adds.
“Fascinating,” Dad says, then to me, “What’re you still doing sitting back there?”
I glance around. “Back where? The counter? Because you told me to.”
“School comes first.”
Uneasily, I smile. “I didn’t want to inconvenience you, Dad.”
“Nonsense. Beckett’s headed to the library. You should join him.”
“What about—” I gesture to my work space helplessly. And here I thought I had a few more hours to compose myself before meeting with Beckett. “Who will do my job?”
“I’ll need your help if things pick up, but an afternoon away might do you good.”
When I don’t move, they both stare, waiting. Sighing, I pack up the scarf and my book and sling my purse over my shoulder. “I have my phone, okay?”
Dad grins so wide, the gold in his molar fillings glints. Not only is he excited I’m interacting with someone in real life, but the fact that said person happens to be Beckett Porter is apparently too much joy for him to handle.
“I’ll be fine. You two have fun.”
I hug Dad and burrow my face against his chest, rolling my eyes. Yeah. Fun with Beckett. Not in this lifetime, or the next. That chapter in our shared history ended a year ago.
Beckett returns his bowling shoes and walks out with me. He carries a beat-up bowling bag held together with electrical tape.
“Pretty smooth, huh?” he asks, pumping his eyebrows at me. Like he’s challenging me not to laugh at his ridiculousness.
“You’re way too pleased with yourself.” A smile threatens my lips, so I look away and study the sidewalk. We’re here to talk business, not joke around. “School project is the most basic lie in the book. Be happy my dad is super gullible and feels guilty for saddling me with work during spring break.” I gamble a sideways look at him. “What’re we even doing right now?”
“We need to talk over the plan,” he says, patting down his pockets. After a moment, he pulls out a set of keys. “There’s a lot you don’t understand yet. You’ve got the talent, but hustling is an entirely different game.”
Hustling. The word alone throws me. “Enlighten me,” I say, the pulse of nerves making my hands shake. I cross my arms so Beckett can’t see my weakness.
Beckett glances darkly at Bigmouth’s closed doors. “Not here.”
Wow, dramatic.
I tread behind Beckett as we walk along the street and stop at a parked junker near an expired meter. The car is a patchy blue, from the eighties by the condition. A Honda Accord. “Nice ride,” I say sarcastically.
“You’re just jealous I have one,” Beckett fires back, rounding to the other side of his shitty little car.
He has a point. Having been held back in kindergarten, Beckett turned sixteen last year, before our fight. We couldn’t wait until his provisional license period was over. City driving sucks, and parking is worse, but there’s something to be said for the freedom of having your own car. Or so I’ve been told. I don’t even have my learner’s permit.
Beckett leans across the seat and unlocks the passenger door from the inside, popping it open. I duck into the Accord, which smells of coffee and something warm and spicy, like cinnamon breath mints. Not bad, but weird. Like this entire situation.
“Can this deathtrap make it up the hills?”
Beckett turns on the radio. His phone has a cassette player adapter plugged into the headphone jack, and he studies the screen before selecting a song. Father John Misty’s “Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings.” I introduced him to the singer, and the fact that he still listens to him irks the hell out of me.
The car lurches as Beckett shifts into gear, and he flashes me a smile. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
Oh my God, I’m going to die.
At least the music is appropriate.
* * *
“How have you never been to Dynamo’s?” Beckett’s accusation rivals Black Francis’s hoarse scream in “Hey” on the Pixies’ Doolittle album playing through the speakers.