“This is the trip home from quiz bowl regionals all over again,” I say.
No one said a word on the ride home from the Tri-Cities after we lost last year. Darius Vogel and Lily Gulati were in the front seat, leaving Neil and me in the back. Somehow, even a quiet McNair annoyed me. He claimed he got motion sick, but I assumed he was miserable (rightfully so) over losing.
“Except we still have a shot at winning,” he says.
“Because now you know the final battle of the Revolutionary War was Yorktown, not Bunker Hill?”
He groans. “Trust me. It’s burned into my memory forever.”
I’m a little surprised he isn’t defending himself, but then, plenty of this day hasn’t made sense. He shifts in the seat again as though trying to get comfortable, something that may not be possible in his rival’s car, and when we’re at a red light, I notice one corner of his yearbook peeking out of his backpack. It’s enough to make me grip the steering wheel tighter. I should have just signed it.
Then he picks up his phone, scrutinizing the Howl list. I wonder if he knows any I don’t.
“Did you know the world ‘clue’ comes from Greek mythology?” he says. “A clew, C-L-E-W, was a ball of yarn. Ariadne gave Theseus a clew to help him out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth. He unraveled it as he went so he could find his way back.”
I vaguely remember the myth from world history. “So it used to be literal, and now we’re metaphorically unraveling a ball of yarn when we try to solve something?”
“Exactly,” he says, nodding vigorously.
“Huh,” I say, because while it’s not unlike McNair to spout an etymology fun fact, this is maybe the first time I’ve noticed how excited it makes him.
At last we pull into a parking spot a few blocks from Hilltop Bowl.
“Thank God,” he mutters, and I’m not sure if he’s glad we had an easy time finding parking or relieved to be getting out of my car. Getting away from me. Probably both.
“Well… good luck, I guess,” I say when we reach the bowling alley entrance, slightly unsettled but not entirely sure why.
He sticks his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Same.”
After Logan Perez checks our names off a list and announces that we have forty-five minutes of safe-zone time, we go our separate ways. I’ve never been so excited to put on a pair of shoes that have been on hundreds of other people’s feet.
Kirby and Mara are waiting for me in a lane at the end.
“You want bumpers, baby Ro?” Kirby asks.
My bowling skills are about on par with my left eyeliner skills. It’s a miracle if I break fifty. “Ha ha. Maybe.”
“Let her have bumpers if she wants,” Mara says, fiddling with the controls.
A few lanes down, McNair bowls a seven-ten split, that trickiest of bowling shots, and his friends let out a chorus of groans. McNair just laughs and shakes his head. The four of them have an ease to their interactions that makes me wonder again what’s happening to all of them after graduation. If they’ll spend this summer together before autumn obliterates them, and if they’ll stay in touch after that.
“Mara and I decided to team up for the rest of the game,” Kirby says after she throws a gutter ball. “We don’t have each other, so we figure we’re safe for now.”
“Team up with us too!” Mara says, a little too eagerly. “The three of us! That would be fun.”
Kirby bowls another gutter ball in her second frame. “Maybe I need bumpers too.”
“Says the girl who mocked the bumpers.” Ordinarily, I’d love to team up with them. But… “I’m not sure. About teaming up.” And it’s not just because I’m intent on destroying McNair by myself.
Kirby slides into the plastic seat across from me. “Is this about the vacation?”
There it is. “Yeah, Kirb, you know what? It is. It’s about the two-week vacation you two are taking without me when you’re going to have an entire year of college to be together.”
“I’m sorry,” Mara says, more to Kirby than to me. She wipes her palms on her khakis before picking up the purple ball. “I really didn’t think she’d be this upset.”
She bowls a strike, but she doesn’t look happy about it.
“I guess it feels like there are so many Mara-and-Kirby things I can’t be part of,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “You’re in love, and I’m happy for you both, truly. But it’s like sometimes you forget I’m here too.”
They exchange an odd look. Mara puts a hand on the back of Kirby’s seat. “Rowan,” she says softly, “that’s how we feel about you.”
I scrunch up my face in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve been so wrapped up in Neil this year,” Mara says, slowly gaining volume. “You had to spend all weekend on your physics project to make sure it was better than his. You had to attend every single school event so you had more face time with the voting public or whatever. Even this morning, when I asked if you were okay after the fender bender in the parking lot, you thought I was asking you about him. And… did you two get here together? Maybe this isn’t easy to hear, but… I think you’re a little obsessed with him.”
“Obsessed?” I throw the word back at her. “I’m not obsessed. McNair—he’s not my friend. You two are. There’s no comparison.” I look to Kirby, hoping she’ll be on my side.
Kirby sighs. “We thought for a while that you liked him, and that would have made more sense. You know you can tell us if you do, right? We could talk about it, maybe help you—”
“We’re not in third grade.” I nearly yell it, but I can’t help it—Kirby’s theory is that absurd. A cluster of kids at the next lane over swivel their heads in our direction, and I lower my voice. “We’re not taunting each other because we secretly like each other. And that shouldn’t be a thing, anyway.”
“Fine. You’re not obsessed with McNair,” Kirby says flatly. “Can you remember the last time the three of us hung out?”
“I—” I break off when nothing comes to mind right away. Last weekend, McNair and I had to meet up with Logan to hand over some student council responsibilities. And the weekend before that, Mara was at a dance competition. Then we were studying for AP tests, and Mara and Kirby were at prom, and even farther back, I was with Spencer.…
“The senior auction,” I say. It was back in early May, but it still counts.
“A month ago,” Mara says. “And even then, you had to solve a crisis with him, and you abandoned us for most of the night.”
I rake my fingers through my bangs. “I’m sorry. It’s—you know how hectic the end of the year has been.…”
But I’m thinking about how I used to tell them everything, and yet they don’t know I’m writing a book. Mara’s pursuing an artistic career too, but we all know she’s a great dancer. There’s plenty of video evidence. All I could do to back myself up would be a tiny whispered confession: I think I could be good at this. A confession I’m now wishing I spilled the first time I closed a Delilah Park book and thought, Maybe I could do this one day too. Maybe I could write a book like that. Then there would be the need to convince them romance novels aren’t the garbage they think they are.