“Shut up.” I inch outside, if only to get away from him.
“Okay, fine, but I didn’t dress for spying.”
The dumpster is large enough to hide me from view. To my horror, Beckett follows, and I grab him by the collar, pulling us both into a crouch behind the dumpster before Dad or Jesset notice. It’s dark out, but a huge light glows above the exit. Moths bounce and burn against the glass.
Jesset’s car is parked in the alley’s entrance, and he leans against the hood as my dad paces. If I listen hard enough, I can overhear their words slipping through the mist.
“I thought we had an arrangement,” Dad’s saying, his voice thin and watery.
“Jack,” the landlord replies, “I’m sorry, but I already gave you extra time. If you can get me that eight grand in back rent before the lease ends on the thirtieth, then we can talk.…”
Eight thousand dollars? I glance at Beckett, and from his face I can tell I heard Jesset right.
“I understand,” Dad says, but his hands worry through his hair.
“I hate doing this, but I have no other choice.” From the tone of Jesset’s voice, this doesn’t sound hard for him at all. In fact, it’s effortless, like he could be placing his morning-coffee order. Jesset’s breezy tone makes me want to punch him; there’s nothing casual about this conversation.
Deep down I know we’ve been struggling with Bigmouth’s rent, but Dad never gave me a reason to doubt that we were square with the landlord. From this conversation, it’s obvious he hasn’t been paying the whole rent for the last few months if we owe an extra eight grand. That’s an entire month’s rent.
“Asshole,” I say, and shift forward to get a better view.
“What’d I do this time?” Beckett jokes, knees folded awkwardly to his chest as he balances on his heels.
I almost smile, but catch myself. “I meant Jesset, but now that you mention it, yes, you’re an asshole.”
“That’s a bold claim.”
“Well, I have a lot of evidence to back me up.”
“Do you hear yourself talk?” His tone has hardened, and he brings a hand to his mouth, exhaling harshly between his fingers. “You are such a hypocrite, Chuck Wilson.”
I’m the hypocrite? If we weren’t hiding, I’d push him on his ass. Instead, I ignore him and focus solely on my dad. Because that’s why I’m out here: figuring out what’s going on with Dad. Not making hostile small talk with Beckett Porter.
Dad’s shoulders slump forward and his hand shakes as it brings a cigarette to his lips. Jesset looks at his phone, like he has better places to be. All I want is to give Dad a hug, comfort him, but I stay hidden.
“Sorry, bud,” Jesset says, and pats my dad on the shoulder. “You’re my favorite tenant, but if you can’t come up with the money, take this as an official notice of your eviction.”
Dad mumbles something too quiet for me to hear, and Jesset dismissively shakes his hand before ducking into the car and driving off. Dad stands there for a second, sucking on his cigarette, head tilted backward as if he’s praying to the foggy skies or trying not to cry. Maybe both.
When he turns and walks toward Bigmouth’s back door, Beckett tugs on my arm and snaps me into motion. I smack his hand away, but we hurry inside, and I slump onto the stool, all my energy zapped. My headphones sit on the counter, the music still playing.
Beckett hovers, his face a mash-up of confusion and pity.
“Don’t you dare say anything. To anyone.”
The menace in my voice does the trick, because Beckett’s eyes widen and he holds both hands up in surrender. “I won’t say a word.”
I nod, even though I don’t trust him, not one bit. Beckett doesn’t have the best record when it comes to keeping my secrets. “I can’t believe this is happening,” I mutter to myself, my mind spiraling to the worst possible scenarios. Lingering on Dad’s comment earlier about change.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, I never thought you liked it here.”
“If Bigmouth’s closes”—I wave my hands to encompass the bowling alley—“then we leave San Francisco. So pardon me for panicking.”
Beckett just stares at me, but before he can respond, the back door closes with a creak and a slam. I school my expression before Dad enters the lobby. His despondence is gone. The Wilsons are masters at faking it until we make it.
“Wow, it’s brisk out there,” Dad says, rubbing his arms. “Makes a man long for warmer climates. Wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace, Caroline?”
I press my lips together, tethering the haphazard swirl of panic brewing behind my sternum. Like I was explaining to Beckett, if Bigmouth’s finally kicks the bucket, Dad will move us to Arizona. Hell, also known as Arizona, will have to freeze over before I leave San Francisco.
Then Dad spots Beckett, and a megawatt smile lights up his face. “Beckett Porter! What’re you doing here?”
“Beckett’s works for Schulman’s now. Isn’t that just great?”
“It’s wonderful!” Dad replies, not picking up on my sarcasm. “We’ve missed you around here.”
“Thanks, Mr. Porter,” Beckett says with a super-annoying grin.
“You’ve missed him,” I clarify, handing the clipboard to Dad, “not me.”
Beckett’s smile droops, and he clears his throat. “Where do you need these?” He gestures to the boxes of—I tilt my head to read the label—nacho cheese. Yuck.
Dad signs the clipboard and then claps his hands together. “Storage room should suffice. Not like this stuff needs refrigeration,” he adds with a laugh, and leads Beckett down the hall.
He’s so smiley that if I hadn’t witnessed him with Jesset, I’d suspect nothing was wrong. Here’s the thing—if we can’t comp a game, there’s no way we can afford eight grand in back rent. Dad knows it. I know it. Hell, even Beckett Porter knows it.
Bigmouth’s is like an ancient relative you never want to visit because they smell like death and pinch your cheeks until your face bruises, but that doesn’t mean you’d be happy if they died. I practically grew up here, and memories are layered into the dust that’s settled over the ancient trophies and wobbly-legged ball racks. But with every passing birthday, the bowling alley lost its fanciful charm. I finally see Bigmouth’s for what it truly is: our family’s failure. The problem is, Bigmouth’s Bowl is all Dad has left. And without it, we won’t stay in San Francisco.
I pick up the yellow silk dress and needle and try losing myself in the mindless work of fixing the hem. With each stitch, I can’t help but think: We’re screwed.
FRIDAY, APRIL 20 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 10
Two
THE QUAD BUZZES in anticipation of spring break, but after yesterday’s accidental discovery and the glum realization I’m working all week, I can’t muster the smallest bit of excitement.
Castelli High is one of the largest schools in San Francisco, and getting lost in the crowd is easy. The campus is made up of hulking white-and-tan buildings with burnt-clay tile roofs and fancy arches, spanning several city blocks. My classmates spread out on blankets during our lunch period, despite the gray fog. I’m not hungry, but I take my food to the quietest part of campus.