When Beckett knocks—three loud, booming taps—I jump like a freaking cartoon character. I locked up for security, so I hurry down the entry to let him in.
Rain smacks the cement, dribbling off the overhang as Beckett steps inside.
“What took you so long?” I shut the door behind him, flipping the latch. “It’s late.”
“Chill out. I thought you wanted me here after closing.” Shaking off the rainwater, he walks into the main part of the alley. Stubborn droplets cling to his curls. He plops down on a couch and unlaces his sodden sneakers. “I had to put Willa to bed, and there was an accident on the Bay Bridge.”
“What were you doing on the bridge?” I gather two pairs of shoes from the cubbies behind the register.
“Uh,” he replies, drawing it out, “we moved to Berkeley.”
I hand him his shoes. “Since when?”
“After my dad left town and never came home.”
I lower myself beside him. “Beckett, I had no idea.” The guilt is thick. Beckett’s dad must’ve left in the last year. The year when I ignored his existence.
“It’s fine,” he says, but it’s not fine. Not at all.
“When did he leave?” I snap and unsnap the button on my overalls pocket.
Beckett exhales loudly. “About a week after that party, after our fight. I figured you knew? Heard from someone, or your dad?”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not like I—”
“Cared?”
Ouch.
“I wasn’t going to say that. But I didn’t know. Honest.”
“Would it have changed things?”
When I don’t answer, Beckett leans forward to tie his shoelaces. We’re close enough that I inhale the dampness of his clothes, the warmth of his skin, mixed with deodorant. The same deodorant he’s always worn. My brain insists the Beckett sitting beside me is the same Beckett from sophomore year, just because he smells the same. Damn olfactory system. Swirling up all these old and bruising memories.
“I figured as much.” Beckett drags his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, I couldn’t deal. You were mad at me and my family was imploding and I didn’t deal well. I let us fall apart too.”
All the scrambled puzzle pieces slot into place. And as upsetting as this is, it makes sense. Why I saw him less and less at school. Why he got into a fight at the end of sophomore year. By junior year, he became a truant. I never let myself care—or show that I cared—why Beckett acted the way he did. Until now.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, wishing my heart would slow down or my mind would speed up and help me decide what to say. “I’m sorry about your dad,” I eventually tell him. The other half of the sentence—I should’ve been there—stays unsaid.
“Me too.” Beckett’s smile is rueful. A lull of silence fills the air, and then he adds, “We moved toward the end of sophomore year, once it was clear my dad wasn’t coming back.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again because the silence is too much.
“No worries. Enough sad shit.” He clears the thickness from his throat and pulls his notebook from his backpack. “Let’s get back on topic. The game tomorrow starts at ten at the Road.”
“Ten? That’s kind of late.”
Beckett cocks a brow. “How old are you? It’s spring break. Live a little.”
“Excuse me for having a curfew.” Technically, my weekend and holiday-break curfew is midnight. But I make it a habit to be folded between my comforter and sheets by ten p.m. every night.
“We’ll figure it out.” When he hops to his feet, it’s like he leaves his sadness behind. “The Road’s a bowling alley and pool hall in Oakland. Low-key, low stakes, and hopefully low stress. This is a good starter game because the players stick to this specific alley, and we won’t run into them later in the week.”
I flip through the notebook, my heart rate settling now we’re talking business. Something straightforward without the taint of emotions. “What other games are we playing?”
“I’m still hitting up contacts about any games going on between now and next Sunday. Not all are announced in advance. With enough seed money, we should be able to flip a profit.”
“I have two hundred to contribute.” Doing so will drain my savings, but if we’re doing this, we’re doing this right.
Beckett bobs his head. “Excellent. I have three hundred to throw in. Five hundred is a decent starter. We can play a game tomorrow for cheap, like sixty a head. I was thinking this once we’d bowl as a team, so you can get a feel without too much pressure. The stakes are low, so if my sucky skills pull our score down, we won’t lose much.”
“Sure. That works.” I study his notebook, then tap the page listing different players. “How do you know these guys? And about hustling?”
“I don’t know them, not personally. Back at the start of the school year, I was betting on games—I actually know a lot about bowling, thanks to you—and that’s when I first saw people hustling. The good ones are subtle. Everything else I learned online.”
“Why were you betting in the first place?”
Beckett checks out our selection of bowling balls, lifting them and testing their weight. “My mom was laid off last summer, and a little extra pocket change never killed anyone. Medicine, gas, and groceries don’t pay for themselves.”
My heart swoops—first with sympathy and then with curiosity. What the hell happened? Mrs. Porter used to be a pediatric nurse at St. Mary’s Medical. Then again, Beckett’s dad was still in the picture.
To busy myself from falling too deep into a well of guilt, I flip through the pages, full of countless bowling alley names and notes on their players. Never once do I read Bigmouth’s name in the notebook, but I have to ask, “Does Bigmouth’s ever do this?”
Beckett laughs and rubs his chin. “Nah. Your dad is too straitlaced to allow hustling.”
True. My dad is old-fashioned and believes people should bowl because they love the sport, not because they prefer to get drunk and throw a ten-pound ball at pins for fun. But our lack of a liquor license wasn’t Dad’s idea—it was Grandpa Ben’s. He was a recovering alcoholic and preferred not to be near booze twenty-four seven.
“First lesson,” Beckett says, gently tugging the notebook from my hands. “Subtlety is key. An easy trick is appearing drunk. Drinking at bowling alleys is a given these days. If you appear tipsy and loose-handed with your cash, the players will view you as nonthreatening. I mean, you have the advantage of being a girl. I’ve never seen a female hustler.”
Ah, sexism at its finest. “But won’t that make me more noticeable? If I’m the only girl? What if people take pictures or something?” I slip off my platform heels and trade them for the bowling shoes.
Beckett pauses and squints at me. “Huh, okay, I hadn’t thought of that. I know some more hard-core places require you to leave your cell phone at the door, but you raise a valid point.”
I approach the nearest ball rack and hunt out my favorite, a twelve-pound Hammer Absolut Hook. The colors are funky, a rich purple marbled with black. I hoist the ball against my hip as I punch the override code into the console for a free game.