Chapter Ten [Flashback]

On the last week of school our eighth grade class went on a field trip to a bowling alley on the outskirts of Iowa City. Its location was absolutely terrible, Field of Dreams-level, but instead of cornfields they were sewage lagoons and cornfields. The place had a connected arcade and indoor miniature golf course, but I wasn't sure that made up for it.

The occasion: our middle school graduation party. Teachers cared about their students as a whole back then, probably because they spent more than one class with them each day. They understood how scary going into high school would be for a lot of us, so they arranged the perfect send off.

And it was perfect. A perfect disaster.

Juice and I were great friends at the time, so we shared a seat on the bus ride over with our hips pressed together for thirty minutes that weren't nearly enough. We sat close because we were sharing a pair of headphones. That was my excuse anyway. It was so much easier to talk to him back then. All I had to do was think up some vague music reference or mention Drake and then, no topic was off-limits.

Saylor and Faith were still my best friends, but they sat together. It was much better than the three of us squeezing into one seat. Even back then, Saylor took up a lot of room. We all got off the bus together though because everyone had to bowl in groups of four. In hindsight, I was already off to a terrible start. I had thought it was a good idea to wear a bowling shirt, despite being terrible at it. I thought of it as dressing for the occasion. It wasn't my fault if certain people jumped to conclusions.

"Jerri, y'all four with us?" Blake asked, which was definitely a challenge, not an invitation.

Jerome didn't earn the nickname Juice until freshman year, so everyone called him Jerri. He and Jerome were rivals back then. Blake was in a group with Marcus and a couple ditsy girls who'd never bowled before and would never bowl again. Marcus and Blake had the same last name and looked nearly identical, but they were cousins, not brothers. They had stocky builds, thick brows, powerful jawlines and the same blond Caesar haircut from kindergarten onward.

"We just chillin. Nobody cares about bowling, but I'll ball you up any day," Jerome replied. He had this way of turning down a challenge while still coming out clean as his dumb white sneakers.

"Nah, look at this!" Marcus shouted over a belly laugh, "you have a pro on your team." He pinched the bright teal and black fabric of my flashy, checkered nylon polo. "My dad only dresses like this when he comes to play."

He wasn't wrong. I had made the worst fashion decision of my life, but they were hustling Jerome. Marcus neglected to mention that his dad took him and Blake to league practice regularly.

Jerome looked at my shirt and shook his head. "You can't bowl, can you?"

I nodded, but it was one of those questions where overall body language should've given him the right answer. If someone asks, 'do you mind if I sit down', no one focuses on the literal response.

Juice flashed me a coy grin and chuckled to himself, which made me instantly stop caring about my answer. "Y'all know I don't play for free. What you boys got?"

My stomach turned, begging me to care about my answer again. Jerome hated losing and I was deathly afraid that he was counting on me. Even if I had been decent at bowling, I would've folded under this kind of pressure.

"Let's put up our boxes," Blake said, jutting his head to the side in machismo.

He meant pizzas. For lunch, we were splitting them between two students. Jerome and I were supposed to split a taco pizza. I never had an appetite in front of him, but I'd been looking forward to sitting across from him while he ate. I hated where this was going.

"Alright, bet," Jerome said.

He stuck his hand out. Blake shook it. My fantasy of a lunch date flickered. I followed Jerome closely inside. Back then, we were nearly the same size. We were still nearly the same height, but he quite aptly, juiced up over his intense summer without me.

The bowling alley was festive for the event. The main lights were shut off and replaced with multi-colored, star-shaped spotlights for what was called 'cosmic bowling'. The speakers were blaring music, likely from the archives of closed roller rink playlists. There were class banners strewn across the lanes that were reserved for us and dark color, tie-dyed balloons were taped to the hoods of the ball returns. The tables for lunch had black plastic covers with good luck printed all over them in white. I tried not to think about how slim my chances were of ever sitting there.

Jerome slung an arm around me, cupping my shoulder and giving it a shake. "Don't worry. We got this." He puckered his lips, which was unexpected. Then, he blew air in my face, which was probably for the best. I'd have died if he'd kissed me. "Keep your arm straight and aim at them little arrows on the floor, not the pins." He winked and slapped me hard on the butt. "That's for suckers."

I pumped my fist in an awkward display of sportsmanship. It was like I tried catching an imaginary glass that slipped from my hand. I hoped imaginary friends didn't walk around barefooted.

While everyone went off to get shoes and choose balls, I stayed to type our names into the system. To the untrained eye, I seemed like a nice person who was trying to make himself useful. In actuality, it was all about making sure I didn't go last. It would've been a tragedy if the game ever came down to my final roll.

Control what you can control. Thanks, Mom.

I entered our names: Faith, me, Saylor and then Jerome. Our opponents had the same idea. Their order started with the girls and ended with Blake. Marcus was probably the better bowler, but Blake wanted to face-off with Jerome. I was pretty sure bowling wasn't a contact sport, but I wasn't going to try pointing that out.

Saylor returned to our lane with shoes for me since he knew my size. I stood up once I had them on and Jerome bumped into me from behind as he tossed his ball into the return. I nearly fell over, but that wasn't his intention. I turned toward him and he was holding a white pearlescent ball that nearly matched his smile.

"Here. This one's specially for you," he said.

He was an avid grinner, but for him, beaming was rare. It was special and I had no defenses built up for dimples and pearly whites. I was frozen in place, staring at him. His was the medusa of smiles.

Without realizing it, I drew closer to him. The bowling ball was the most distance between us and it was an outlier. My heartbeat must've carried my lifeless body over to him because I couldn't remember moving. It must've also touched my hands to the bottoms of his because I would've never been so bold.

My heart had proven it was much better off without my mind's interference. Jerome slowly slipped his hands away to transfer the ball over to me. He took a step back and sound returned. I could hear the singer riffing the last few seconds of Wake me up before you go-go over loudspeakers.

The ball was light and the holes fit my fingers perfectly, but looking down at it, I still hoped Jerome had planted some secret course correction device inside. As much I appreciated the sports psychology move, I wasn't convinced it'd make a difference. Placebos only worked if you believed in them.

Jerome fended off an argument for a practice game and we started bowling with our lunches on the line. I thought practice would've only helped us since the girls on Blake's team weren't exactly motivated to improve, but Jerome was convinced his bowling math was better than mine. I couldn't argue. Math as a whole wasn't a language I'd ever know. Que?

Faith rolled a strike to start us off with the lead. I couldn't believe it. It wasn't a fluke either. She did that stupid leg kick on her follow through. If I had known she could bowl, I'd have gone first. I picked up my ball from the rack and started heading for the hardwood, but Jerome grabbed me around the waist. It was lovely.

"I can't step out there with you, so show me your form right quick," Jerome said. He held the ball for me and I did my best impression of what I'd seen Faith do—save for the leg move. He set my ball down and guided me through it once more. "That'll work." He was lying. "If nothing else, keep your arm straight."

I stepped up to the hardwood and stole one last glance back at Jerome. I imagined walking across a plank with him prodding me forward with a hook for a hand as a parrot on his shoulder yelled, "Rah, keep your arm straight! Keep your arm straight!" I chuckled to myself as I held the ball under my chin.

As I was making my approach, Marcus ran past me in the next lane and rolled the ball. I stopped. His ball looked like it was bound for the gutter. It kissed the edge, sparkled—I swear it did—then, curved back to the middle. I looked back at him and he had one leg angled behind the other like a figure skater. I could tell from his first pump that he'd rolled a strike.

I hurried through my approach because my blood was boiling and rushed to sit down as soon as the ball left my hands. I heard the clanks of pins drumming against the floor, but it didn't sound like nearly enough to keep sitting. I took a few deep breaths, but I couldn't calm myself. I didn't care about bowling. It didn't make sense to be angry over Marcus's etiquette, but I was.

Something was building up inside of me.

Jerome ran his fingers up through the back of my hair—a move that should've erased everything and everyone else from existence—but, I shoved him away. I was furious. I couldn't control myself.

I stood up and screamed because the whole left side of my face felt like it was melting. "Get away from me!"

I covered my left eye with three fingers and started to run for the exit. I didn't make it very far. I tripped over something and slammed my face against the hood of the ball return. It hurt like hell because I poked myself in the eye when I went down, but the pain faded in an instant, along with the burning sensation. I looked to see what I had tripped over and saw my own damn shoes sitting behind me. I was the only one who hadn't put theirs on or underneath a seat.

Faith and Saylor crouched down beside me to make sure I was alright. They were talking to me, but I couldn't focus on their words. I kept nodding until they shut up. I looked over at Jerome, but he was facing away from me with his arms crossed. He was sulking. He never was the type to chase someone who didn't want to be chased. He wouldn't be quick to forgive me for yelling at him in front of everyone. I screwed up and I wasn't sure how to fix it.

Saylor helped me to my feet and I peered down the lane and then, at Blake's team. There were two gray flecks with inverted spires suspended above them: one halfway down in between our two lanes and another right where Marcus was standing. It was too late for him. The spire disappeared, but nothing happened right away.

The game continued, but my nerves to perform were gone. I had nothing left to play for after screwing things up royally with Jerome. He wouldn't talk to me. I tried to apologize, but he wouldn't hear it. That actually motivated me to bowl a decent game. I was hoping that if I did well enough, he'd have to forgive me. Winning was said to cure everything and if we won, at the very least, he'd have to endure an awkward lunch with me.

During the seventh frame, some of the guys who'd opted to play miniature golf came over with their clubs to watch Jerome. Even back then, he could pull a crowd. Faith was solid, but Jerome was carrying us on his back. Despite the ditsy girls, Blake's team was still in it. In fact, their help could've put the game out of our reach with minimal effort, but they refused to put their fingers in the holes of the ball. They didn't want to risk their manicures on some dumb boomer game; their words.

On Faith's roll, she knocked down eight pins, then picked up the last two on her second throw. I learned from Jerome that high scoring came down to keeping 'the multipliers going'. He was still ignoring me, but I listened to everything he told Saylor and Faith.

Since I went after Faith, I walked up on the hardwood with the white pearlescent ball Jerome had chosen for me tucked under my chin. Marcus ran by to interrupt my approach again, but when he went to release the ball, his index finger didn't come out of the hole until his hand was high into his follow through. The ball crashed down onto the hardwood and slowly rolled past the starting line.

Jerome and Blake stood behind me, shouting at each other about the rules. I was still clutching the ball underneath my chin like an idiot while Marcus was crouched down in front of his lane, waiting to see if his glittery orange ball reached the pins. He was wincing and favoring his wrist, but I guess his health came second to the life-changing result of a seventh frame roll.

Jerome and Blake stepped up onto the hardwood and crouched down on opposite sides of him. I finally got the sense to put my ball away. Or maybe I ran out of arm strength. The mini-golf boys' interest was waning. They were swinging their clubs like wiffle ball bats at some hard plastic toy they'd won out of a claw machine. It looked like a magic eight-ball.

Marcus's ball came to a stop not more than a foot past the gray fleck I'd seen through my left eye. It was at a complete stop, but he wasn't ready to accept it. "Dude, it's still moving. Give it thirty seconds."

He still hadn't moved from his crouched position. He probably hadn't blinked either. Jerome yawned obnoxiously loud, but it was cut short by a wince the moment he saw Marcus's wrist. It had swelled considerably in such a short time.

"The ball has to gutter if it doesn't hit pins. That's just physics," Blake said.

Jerome kissed his teeth and stood up. "No, that's game." He pointed down at Marcus. "You can't bowl on that wrist son. Guess y'all forfeit."

He gave me a fleeting glance without trace of a smile. Blake stood up to protest, then stood speechless when he saw Marcus's wrist. Marcus rose to his feet and they whispered to each other. I was certain those idiots were figuring out how to keep his wrist hidden until the party was over.

"You really wanna win like that, Jerri?" Blake asked. As soon as he pointed at the ball halfway down his lane, I knew what he had in mind. I'd been racking my brain for the past six frames wondering how that spire could possibly come into play. "Or we settle it right now, you and me. First to the ball."

Jerome nodded and started hiking up his shorts. My whole body was trembling. I knew something was going to happen. I couldn't stand there and wait for someone to get hurt.

"Don't Jerome. Please." I pleaded, but that only made him more determined.

He had great balance and I'd never seen him fall before, but my mind was telling me it was going to happen if he ran after that ball.

"You don't think I can win?" Jerome asked with indignation. He took several steps back until he was on the back edge of the hardwood. "Shit, I'll start here and still win."

I tried to keep protesting, but he and Blake were talking over me, taunting each other. Jerome started counting down from five and I felt powerless to stop them, but I knew I had to. I couldn't tell him I thought he'd lose his balance and fall. That would provoke him. I was at a loss. At four, I thought about Marcus's swollen wrist. At three, I looked for my friends, but they'd left with the girls to get pizza. At two, I said, "Listen, I have powers and something bad's going to happen."

When I finished speaking, Jerome was running toward me. I wasn't sure either of them had heard me. In desperation, I jumped in Jerome's way and wrapped my arms around him. He knocked me over and fell on top of me.

I hit my head on the hardwood floor and started bawling uncontrollably. Good old fashioned, chest heaving, snot dribbling, ugly crying. Not only from the pain, but from everything. The doubt. My helplessness. The hateful expression on Jerome's face. My dumb superpower. While holding onto Jerome for dear life, I craned my neck to look down the lane. Blake had grabbed the ball and was on his way back.

Jerome effortlessly and wordlessly separated from me by pressing a hand against my collar bone to stand up. I hated myself for letting him down. Blake came to a jumping stop in front of the ball return and tossed the orange glittery ball down onto the rack.

As it landed, we heard two loud crashes: the ball hitting the rack and a stainless steel, domed ceiling lamp crashing to the floor in between our lanes. Someone had struck the eight-ball with a golf club and hit a home run right into that twenty pound lamp.

It had landed nearly halfway down the lane, exactly where the gray fleck had been.

The fleck and spire were gone.

Crisis averted.