“How would you help me?” I ask. The bigger question remains unsaid—why? Beckett should be relieved, or at the very least, indifferent about my departure from San Francisco.
“You need eight grand by next week, right?”
“You were never supposed to hear that conversation.”
“Neither were you,” he points out.
“Whatever it is, I’m not interested. And you shouldn’t be poking your nose into other people’s business. Bigmouth’s is all my dad has left.”
“Which is why I’d like to help,” Beckett says, brandishing a notebook from his backpack. “I have an idea.”
Is this guy for real? We don’t speak for a year and because of one seriously misguided eavesdropping experience he thinks, what, we’re friends again? Not happening.
“Chuck?” He slides the notebook into view.
I forgot that ignoring Beckett only makes his powers of annoyance stronger. I switch tactics, hoping he’ll leave me alone if I humor him. “What’s this? Your diary?”
Beckett laughs, and I make the mistake of looking up. His face is earnest and hopeful. It’s all kinds of wrong. “Sorry to disappoint, but nope. This,” he says, and Vanna Whites the journal, “is your ticket to staying in San Francisco.”
“How is your diary going to keep me in San Francisco?”
“It’s not a diary! Just—look.” He folds back the front cover and turns the journal so I can read it. “Last year I started betting to make some extra cash, just a few hundred bucks. There are these underground bowling games in the Bay Area and some allowed betting. This is where I kept track of those games, different players, and my winnings.”
“What about your losses?” I ask, digesting this new piece of information. I’m not surprised—Beckett was all about hijinks when we were friends, constantly getting me into trouble—but discomforted. Not like I made a habit of thinking about Beckett the past year, but I imagined his life as business as usual. It’s unsettling to think of him experiencing new things without me.
He grins. “Oh, I rarely lost.”
“Your modesty overwhelms me.” I don’t want to care—and I definitely don’t—but I can’t fight my curiosity. My eyes scan the notebook, columns of names and stats. “Get to the point. The bell rings in three minutes, and unlike you, I care about getting to class on time.”
“Okay, just hear me out. When I was betting on these underground games, I saw players hustle their opponents out of thousands of dollars. Hustling was popular in the sixties. It still happens, but it’s seedy shit.”
“You want to hustle these guys? Con them?”
Beckett nods. “You’re still good? At bowling?”
Just because I don’t love bowling doesn’t mean I’m not any good. Growing up in a bowling alley meant I had access to the lanes whenever I wanted. But never with bumpers because “Wilsons don’t use bumpers.”
Beckett and I used to bowl together. I’ve always had an uncanny talent, but I rarely play anymore. I’m good—not as good as our regulars like Marty, but I have a mean left hook.
“Sure, I guess.” The heft of his gaze is making me uneasy. “Hold up, you want me to hustle?” Beckett always joked that my comfort zone would kill me, but this isn’t just outside my comfort zone. It’s in another state—a different freaking country.
He drags his fingers through his curls before tucking them behind his ears. “I’d coach you, and we could work as a team.”
“What do you get out of this?” I ask, wishing I wasn’t secretly dying for his answer. Wishing my heartstrings would stop aching with the sincerity of his words. Because everything about this conversation is making me more confused and conflicted than ever.
“We split the winnings fifty-fifty. I could use extra cash, and I know the ins and outs of the illegal side. We could win big.” He bites his bottom lip and looks at me. “What do you think?”
“That you’ve lost your goddamn mind.”
Unfazed, he presses forward. “Your talent plus the element of surprise? Priceless. Half of any successful hustle is lowering expectations. No one will expect you to be good.”
“What? You can’t hustle people with your shitty bowling skills?” I ask, retreating to my safe space: sarcasm.
“I know I suck, okay? And you’re right—you can’t hustle someone when you’re not a decent player. But you’re good. Deceivingly so.”
I stare at him. I’ve never broken the law. As far as teenage acts of rebellion go, hustling underground bowlers is ludicrous. Beckett must be messing with me because we can’t win that much money in a week. It’s impossible.
“Not interested,” I reply. I shovel the rest of my forgotten food into my backpack, close my notebook, and get up. Showing Beckett how unnerving I find his presence does me zero favors, but I can’t sit near him anymore.
“Chuck, wait.” Beckett trails me across the quad, stopping me outside the library.
I pivot on my heel. “I said no.”
“Why not?” Beckett’s face twists in what I can only guess is confusion, and he shakes his head. “C’mon, I… I promised Willa I’d help pay for her summer camp, and being a part-time delivery boy doesn’t pay well. We both need the cash.”
Willa’s his little sister, and if he’s trying to play the sympathy card, it’s not working. “Life is full of disappointments. Willa should learn that now.”
“What about Bigmouth’s?”
I tuck my jacket tight against my ribs, glaring at him. “What about it?”
“Is it worth losing over being so fucking stubborn?” Beckett’s cold gray gaze is hot and itchy, but I can’t look away.
“I can save Bigmouth’s on my own, thank you very much.”
“Yeah? How?” He nods to the notebook tucked beneath my arm, full of my scribbled online-auction notes. “By selling some clothes online? Do you really think that’s going to make a difference?”
I open and close my mouth, fists clenching in frustration. “You are such an ass.”
“If you change your mind, text or e-mail me, or send me a carrier pigeon.”
With an exasperated huff, I walk away, lifting my hand high to flip Beckett a different species of bird.
Three
AFTER SCHOOL, I declare my spring break DOA and head to Bigmouth’s.
I’m not sad; rather, my brain has kicked into high-gear panic problem-solving mode. Because there has to be a way out of this mess, a logical one. One that doesn’t include accepting help from Beckett and/or breaking the law. I’m hopeful I can make a few hundred dollars selling my nicer vintage items online. It won’t be much—and it’ll suck to part with the finer items I’ve saved the past few years—but I hope it’ll be worth it. I mean, it has to be worth something. I don’t have any other moneymaking schemes hidden up my sleeves.
If we can’t come up with the money? I shudder at the only other outcome. In my head, the next few months play out like dominoes falling. Bigmouth’s closes. Dad lets me finish junior year at Castelli’s. We move to Arizona over the summer, probably before the Fourth of July. Full stop. Because I can’t picture myself existing outside of San Francisco.