Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,49

of balls before choosing an orange eight-pounder. I wiggle my eyebrows up and down. “You ready to get schooled?”

She swishes her hips as we walk back to our lane. “Don’t get too cocky, Mr. Watson. I might surprise you.”

“Let me have it. No holding back.”

She laughs. “Oh, don’t you worry about that.”

I set up the computer system, keying in the monikers Linda and El Toro, which mean “pretty” and “the bull.”

Brianna says, “What’s that?”

I grin, forgetting she’s doesn’t speak Spanish. “What? I’m half Mexican. This is my cultural twist on Beauty and the Beast. Linda means pretty.”

She smiles. “All right, Toro. Show me what you got.”

I say, “Who says I’m Toro? Kidding.”

I snag my ball and swagger toward the lane. Thunk. It hits the wood with a loud thud and rolls straight down the middle. Two thirds of the way down, it starts curving toward the gutter.

“It’s all part of the plan,” I say. “Watch and learn.”

Then the ball curves back at the last second and knocks two pins down.

“All part of the plan, eh?” Brianna bumps me with her hips.

I’m having trouble focusing.

I wait at the ball return, finally able to come up with something witty. “Humble beginnings make victorgs 18" aligy taste that much sweeter.” I grab the ball as it pops out of the chute and approach the lane holding the ball in both hands. I stand at the edge, widen my stance, and bend down, swinging the ball back between my legs and tossing it gently down the center. It wobbles down the middle and ends up knocking down all but one remaining pin. I turn to Brianna, waiting for a response. She winks and gives a small nod of appreciation. I pull my arms back, fist tightened, in a yeah baby motion and take a seat. “You’re up, Buttercup.”

Brianna grabs her ball like she knows exactly what she’s doing. She walks like a queen toward the lane, stops at the edge, flings her arm back and releases the ball too early. It makes a loud thud and rolls toward me. I stop it with my feet. Then I howl with laughter.

Brianna shrugs her shoulders. “Humble beginnings, right?”

“I’m thinking that’s along the lines of inglorious or meager or infamous.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

She gets the ball and heads back toward the lane. I walk up beside her and say, “Okay, it’s time for a mini-lesson.”

She puts a hand on her hip and waits.

I say, “Watch me act it out in slow motion.” She watches my exaggerated walk and fake release, looking antsy to do it herself. “Notice, I didn’t stop and then toss. It’s all one fluid movement. You want to keep your thumb pointing straight. If your thumb points to the right, then the ball is likely to roll in that direction. Keep your elbow straight and slightly bend your left knee, which should be in front by the time you glide to the edge.”

“Got it.”

I say, “Let me walk you through it.”

Then I stand so close I can smell her perfume. I reach for her right arm and guide her through the motion, my hand on the back of hers. As I swing her arm to the edge, I say, “Release now.” Then I let go of her hand and step away fast, blood whooshing through my body. “You’ll get it this time.”

She says quietly, “Yep. Definitely. Thanks for the tip.”

Then she knocks down eight pins. We high-five. “You rock!” I say.

By the final round, she’s kicking my butt and loving every minute of it. We return our funky shoes to Gladys. She hands me a buy one hour, get the second hour free card. “Come again, honey. And bring your girlfriend.”

And even though I’m not sure about the label, neither one of us corrects her.

twenty-one

Everything has to be rethought.

—Elias Canetti

The last prewashed dish clinks as Mom arranges it in the dishwasher. I grin, thinking about Mom’s need to clean dishes by hand first.

The dishwasher isn’t for scrubbing the dishes; it acts as a sterilizing agent. — Mom

The dryer buzzes. “Grace, let’s fold clothes and catch up on how things are going,” she says.

The words by themselves sound inviting, but her tone is all business. Ugh. I head for the laundry room and transfer warm, lavender-scented laundry into a basket. I toss nearby hangers on top and trudge to the living room couch, which is our home base for folding and hanging clothes.

I grab a shirt and begin to fold it as meticulously as the clerks at Saks