Molly bats her eyelashes at me, all innocent.
“Come on, it’ll be fun! You can stink like the rest of us.”
“Speak for yourself!” Sawyer says, now standing up and bent over in a forward fold.
“Find your breath, Sawyer,” Autumn says.
Sawyer flips her off.
She’s so competitive, Nash mouths to me.
I smile at him, but this weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. I shake out my hands and go over to pick up my ball, but I still can’t quite calm the bubbles building up in my throat. It’s all fun when everybody has stupid rules against them to hinder their game. And okay, I get it, they’re targeting me since I’m good. But if my winning streak is so detrimental to their good time, why am I even here?
Maybe I’m getting worked up over nothing. I’m not going to overthink it.
Holding the ball in my left hand makes everything feel off-balance. I know this isn’t going to go well, so I attempt to position myself to minimize the damage. Step back, three steps, except now my right foot is in front and it’s all wrong. I release without really meaning to, but the ball doesn’t curve off into the gutter like I expect it to. Five pins fall. That was … not terrible?
Molly’s face melts out of its confident smirk.
My second ball still feels awkward but knocks down four more pins.
Maybe I am a bowling prodigy.
“Damn, Levitt. You could’ve mentioned you’re ambidextrous,” Sawyer says, hand up for the high five. Then he leans in. “Please excuse my girlfriend,” he says, voice low.
I sit at the score screen seat and Nash slides next to me with a basket full of fries. I take one and dip it in ketchup. It’s a good fry—it has the perfect ratio of crunch and salt. It’d just be better dipped in honey mustard, but that’s a Kels-Nash argument.
“Nice work. Molly’s going to pop a blood vessel before the night’s over.”
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“SAT scores,” Nash mouths.
After we took the in-class practice SAT, Molly asked everyone their best scores from previous exams. At lunch. It was awkward for me, but everyone else is used to Molly’s grade nosiness, so they spilled their numbers without hesitation.
But October scores were emailed this morning. Molly took the SAT last month too—she’s extra like that. If she liked her number, she’d have been the first to share it.
“Did she tell you?” I ask.
Nash nods. “It’s not even bad. It’s just not Molly.”
“Damn.”
Nash’s box lights up on the score screen and he is off to bowl. “Uptown Funk” blasts through the Rock n’ Bowl speakers and Nash dances over to the balls like he’s Bruno Mars.
It’s adorable. He’s adorable.
Nash, a lefty, bowls the frame with his right hand. The first ball flies into another lane and knocks down four pins, to the absolute delight of a giggling toddler. The second ball is much less aggressive in execution and rolls down its proper aisle, but barely clips two pins off the left side.
“What are you doing?” Molly asks.
“Only Halle can bowl lefty, right?” Nash asks.
Molly rolls her eyes. “You are a lefty.”
“That was not specified.”
“I probably would’ve yelled penalty,” Sawyer admits.
“You can’t … I didn’t. That’s not the rule!”
Molly has the look on her face that I get when everything is Suddenly Too Much and it doesn’t matter that she’s been cold and competitive to me all night. I grab her hand, look to Autumn to grab the other, and we drag her across the alley and into the bathroom. Inside, I see Molly’s eyes are wet. Her perfect eyeliner is smudged at the edges.
“Breathe,” I say.
Molly exhales.
“I’m not going to college,” she says.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Autumn says.
“Well, I’m not going to Cornell,” Molly says.
“Screw your parents’ Ivy League expectations,” Autumn says, rubbing Molly’s back.
I hold Molly’s hand like Ollie would hold mine.
“Their faces,” Molly says. “The first thing Mom did when Shabbat ended was check my score, and when she saw it I couldn’t run away fast enough.”
“Molly,” I say, “you’re the actual definition of well-rounded. If Cornell doesn’t want you because of a number, NYU is definitely not going to want me for mine.”
Molly wipes her eyes. “You’re stressed about scores too?”
I nod. “I’ve been killing myself to improve my math score. It’s not happening.”
“Also, look at it this way. If you don’t get into Cornell, it’s because of something arbitrary. If I don’t get into USC, it’s because I straight-up suck at my dream career!” Autumn says, biting her lip.
Molly shakes her head at Autumn. “But that’s completely subjective!”
“Exactly,” Autumn says.
Molly pulls a paper towel from the dispenser and wipes her nose. “So what you’re saying is we’re all stressed about things we cannot control?”
“No. I’m saying we can control not being stressed about this!” Autumn says.
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” Molly says.
“Me either,” I say.
“Well, I say if Cornell or NYU doesn’t want you because of a number, screw them,” Autumn says.
“Screw them,” I repeat.
Molly squeezes my hand.
“Screw them,” she whispers.
* * *
I win again, but I throw two genuine gutter balls with my left hand.
“You did it for Molly,” Nash says as he drives me home.
Yeah, Nash drives me now. That’s a thing. It’s kind of the only option, if I want to socialize with Le Crew on the weekends. I don’t have a car and Gramps has rejoined his brotherhood friends for Saturday night card games. I’m so happy he’s going out and socializing that I don’t even care that I had to stop treating the Corolla like it’s mine.
“Did not. Bowling lefty is hard,” I say.
“If you say so. But thank you,” Nash says. He turns the radio down so the soft rock guitar hums in the background. “I love Moll, but sometimes it’s hard to empathize.”
“I’m stressed too,” I say. “I get it.”
“But at the end of the day, Molly is going to get into Cornell. If not, well, at least she knows she can still go wherever she wants. Molly is getting out of here, and …” Nash’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel.
“You’re not,” I say, finishing his sentence.
Nash nods. I suck in a breath and think about what words should come next. At first, I was nervous accepting rides from Nash—I almost said no. But I’ve been starting to like hanging out with Le Crew too much to continue to turn down bowling. The rides are usually a mash-up of stupid jokes and car karaoke, though. Not this.
“Why?” I ask.
Nash shrugs.
“Money. Paranoia. Fear. Hypochondria. All of the above. It changes daily. I swear, if my parents had it their way, I’d never leave the house. I get it, sometimes. But I’ll be lucky if I can convince my parents to let me live on campus at UConn. Molly is sobbing over Cornell and Autumn is lusting over USC and Sawyer has multiple offers from recruiters—and it’s hard not to hate them sometimes.”