Except I can’t.
My brain is running a treacherous marathon right now, and I sit up, searching bowling hustlers on my phone. A handful of articles from the New York Times explain the dangerous form of betting popular decades ago. There have been several movies, including one from the sixties with Paul Newman—who was apparently a serious babe—on hustling, but they focus on pool or poker.
Even my worst options are outdated. Great. That’s just great.
I adjust my search, adding San Francisco to the query, but nothing concrete surfaces.
A banner notification flashes at the top of the screen, alerting me that MavenMody95 is online, and I hop onto WhatsApp.
VINTAGE_ALLEY415: Did you know Paul Newman was seriously attractive?
MAVENMODY95: I did actually. My mom’s obsessed with him! What’s up, other than ogling hot old movie stars?
VINTAGE_ALLEY415: I’ve had the weirdest few days.
MAVENMODY95: What’s going on?
I sink deeper into my pile of pillows and tell Mila all about Bigmouth’s financial troubles, Beckett Porter’s unsettling reappearance, and how I’m missing out on my spring break of fashion to man the register at a failing bowling alley.
MAVENMODY95: Do you miss Beckett? Sounds like he’s trying to mend your relationship.
The question catches me off guard. I haven’t really allowed myself to miss Beckett. The hurt is too painful. Blinking, my dry eyes stinging, I type out a response.
VINTAGE_ALLEY415: I don’t know. No. UGH. Stop asking the important questions, Mila.
MAVENMODY95: Sorry, sorry. Fuck him (is that better?)
VINTAGE_ALLEY415: Yes. Thank you. He’s probably messing with me, anyway. He can’t be serious.
MAVENMODY95: What if he’s serious? Maybe he’s offering a solution? Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious?
VINTAGE_ALLEY415: I’m nowhere near a good enough bowler to con people. Dude’s lost his mind. New topic?
We chat about fashion until Mila has to sign off. I’m left alone with dangerous thoughts. Such as, is it possible to earn eight thousand dollars in ten days? Not legally, but could I pull off such a stunt? The thought is oddly enticing—the ability to earn more than enough money to stay in San Francisco. But I check myself, forcing it from the forefront of my mind. It’s not an option.
Aunt Fee’s too lazy to walk up two flights of stairs, so she texts me that dinner is ready. My insides roil with guilt and frustration as I head to the first floor. I hate not being able to solve a problem, but Bigmouth’s closure may be beyond my grasp. Because discounting Beckett’s offer, I’m out of ideas.
Jean Paul Gaultier stalks me downstairs like a shadow. When we reach the kitchen, he nudges my ankles before disappearing into the darkened hallway. Off to raise hell with the other neighborhood cats, no doubt.
“Buffalo chicken chili,” Aunt Fiona announces the second I enter the kitchen.
I wrinkle my nose. “What?”
She taps a spoon on the glass top to our slow cooker. “Bon appétit. Amazing, right?”
Suspiciously, I sniff the air and settle at the table. “Let’s hope so.”
“What’d you say?” Aunt Fee grins and pulls a bowl from the cupboard.
“Nothing.” She slides the floral-patterned bowl in front of me, and the oily yellow broth makes me gag. “Thanks.” I dip my spoon into the cluster of—vegetables?—in the center, figuring they’re safe to eat.
Aunt Fiona is a punk rock Rosie the Riveter, especially when she has a bandanna in her waist-length black hair. Then there are the tattoos and piercings and her infamous sailor mouth. She’s my dad’s only sibling, younger by fifteen years; she acts like my older sister. With expectant green eyes, she watches me take a tentative sip of chili. “Delicious?”
Nope. God. Awful. Lips puckering, I give her a thumbs-up.
I love Aunt Fiona, even if she’s the world’s worst cook and shittiest mom figure. When I first got my period, Fee left a box of supermax tampons in my bathroom. Didn’t tell me how to use them or bring me less-frightening options.
Embarrassed, I wadded toilet paper in my underwear for six months. Aunt Fee means well, but again, zero maternal instincts. When I finally figured out how to use those tampons, I flushed them down the toilet because I didn’t know any better. Needless to say, our ancient house and its aged pipes suffered.
“How was school?” she asks, sipping her kombucha.
I manage a mouthful and chase it with water to clear my throat. No way I’m telling her about my run-in with Beckett, so I shrug. “Fine. Hey, has my dad said anything about Bigmouth’s being in trouble?”
“Nope, but business has been on a pretty steady decline since your grandfather retired. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s suffering with all the tech bros moving into the city,” my aunt says with an eye roll. “Why? What’s up?”
I stir my gruel. How would the grandfather I never knew handle our situation? Not like he had to deal with the Silicon Valley tech boom and watch as it warped the San Franciscan landscape.
Is it worth telling Aunt Fiona what I saw at the alley yesterday? If something were wrong, Dad would confide in her. I think. After all, Bigmouth’s Bowl is the tacky glue holding our family together.
“I thought there’d be more customers with the start of spring break, that’s all,” I say, frowning at my soup.
Aunt Fee shrugs, switching topics and telling me about her latest article, featuring an heiress who died and left her fortune to her cat. A woman after my own heart. My aunt studied journalism, and her true passion lies in reporting, but she’s had trouble finding work as a local reporter. Until then, she writes fluffy human-interest pieces and beauty-product reviews for BuzzFeed and Refinery29. The only upside? Fee gets tons of free makeup and skin-care products to review, most of which she gives to me after she’s submitted her write-ups.
Later, once Aunt Fiona sets up camp on the couch with her laptop, I return to my room. Jean Paul Gaultier is off with our neighborhood’s alley cats, so it’s particularly lonely up here. JP’s adoption was somewhat spite fueled, but it was surprising how much comfort a cat brought into my life.
Cats don’t love as easily as dogs, but once you win their affection, you have it for life. Wouldn’t it be nice if people were the same? No judgment, no ability to let you down? Just love. Stubborn and unconditional love.
I curl up on my comforter with my laptop. My cursor hovers over my iMessage app, and I click it. I type Beckett’s name into the search bar, not expecting his phone number to pop up. I swear I deleted and blocked him into obscurity, but there it is. His number. I open a new message and type.
ME: Were you serious today? What you said in the quad?
Beckett has no chill because his reply dings in my in-box not a full minute later.
BECKETT PORTER: As a heart attack. Did you change your mind?
Not willing to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m considering it, I lie.
ME: Nope.
BECKETT PORTER: Put your misaligned hatred of me aside for one second and consider my idea.
ME: I’m unable to put my perfectly aligned hatred of you aside. So sorry.