Page 55 of Pete and His Precious

I hardly want to admit that it’s because I’m no good. After all, I just agreed with him that it’s important to play with people who are better than you, and not be afraid to lose, and all that good stuff about losing being good for you.

I lift a shoulder. What else can I say but the truth? “I didn’t know she enjoyed playing so much. But I would totally lose, because I’m terrible.”

“And you just said it was good to lose. It teaches you valuable lessons or something like that. You don’t live what you believe?” He asks that in a lower tone, and it’s almost like he’s saying it tenderly, not accusing me of anything, but rather, promising me. Maybe making me think a little.

It reminds me of what I said about playing with someone who’s better than you are. Talking to someone, being with someone, hanging out with someone who is better than you are, deeper, wiser, closer to the Lord, inspires you to be the same.

“You’re right. I should play with her more often.” I grin at Bexley, who jumps up and down, like she actually would enjoy playing with me. I can’t imagine that. When you’re so much better than someone else, playing with them is usually an exercise in frustration. At the very best.

“How about we finish this game? And then you and your aunt can play together, and I might be able to give her some tips. How about that?” Pete says, looking at Bexley. Talking to her like I’m not even there.

I want to say, guys, I’m standing right here, but Bexley nods her head eagerly.

“I’m good with that!” she says, and I know she’s just thrilled to have people who are actually paying attention to her, and doing something with her. She’s so starved for that. I don’t know if it’s socialization, as much as it’s just having people who understand her. And who act like they want to be with her.

She takes the ball and goes back over to her side of the table, while Pete takes his paddle, and stands across from her. He does some kind of thing with shifting on his feet and moving his paddle around, and I think he’s just goofing off. Whether he is or not, it makes me laugh because he looks ridiculous, but cute too. Like... He’s not acting like a little kid exactly, and not being goofy in an annoying way, just... Maybe I would admire him no matter what he did.

That thought startles me. Is it true?

I cheer for both of them. Whenever either one of them gets a point, or has a great save, I clap my hands and callout encouragement. After all, I could hardly root against my niece, but I can’t root against Pete either. He’s being so kind to her, Iwould have no choice but to love him, but... He’s been kind to me too.

Pete wins the game by two points, and they walk to the side of the ping-pong table, and shake hands, just like it was a real match. It’s adorable, although Baxley is beaming, even though she lost. Which I love.

“All right, Ace. Your turn.” Pete turns to me, and I laugh a little at him calling me Ace. For some reason that reminds me of Trixie and how he called me Pete’s precious. That wasn’t exactly what he said. Pete and his precious? Yeah. I think that was it. I think I like Precious better than Ace.

“All right, I’m warning you. I’m terrible.”

“You’re not terrible, Aunt Zoe. You’re going to be pretty good.” I know Bexley is just trying to make me feel better, and I smile at her. She’s sweet. I’m blessed to be her aunt. She is being very generous with her praise, and trying to encourage me.

“All right. Which hand do I hold this thingy with?” I asked, as Pete hands it over.

He laughs, as I intended, and I’m tempted to be a little bit more goofy, but I don’t want to be annoying. Baxley really does love playing, and she doesn’t want a total goofball as a partner. But, it’s a little bit too revealing for me to be exactly me. No one likes to show their worst side, and ping-pong is nowhere near anything I do well. So, just the very fact that I’m going to be standing in front of Pete, who I am not sure about my feelings for, and doing something that I’m terrible at, makes me nervous.

I don’t know why. I shouldn’t be, because as we get started, I have the ball and I’m holding my paddle and, to my surprise, his arm comes around me, and he holds one hand on my hand that’s holding the ball and his other hand on my paddle hand.

“Hold it like this,” he says, and his voice rumbles in my ear, going down my backbone and sending curly cues of heat all the way to my fingertips. Which were already tingling because ofhis touch. Plus, his warmth is like a furnace behind me. Funny that he has his arms around me but I don’t feel stifled. Or claustrophobic. Which is sometimes an issue for me. I record my books in a closet, but it’s always a relief to get out. There’s always a little bit of a fear in the back of my head that I’ll get locked in.

It stems from a childhood trauma, but I’m mostly over it. At least I like to tell myself that.

My breathing is a little uneasy, and so, to hide my uncomfortableness, I say, “Like this?” As I try to hold my hand the way he’s showing me.

“Yeah. That’s exactly right. You’ll have a better angle on the ball if you do that. That way if you point it out too much, the ball won’t hit the table, and it’ll be her serve.”

Every word he says rumbles all through me, and I’m not sure how anyone could expect me to play ping-pong when I’m feeling like this.

“All right, I’m going to move back,” he says, and I feel like retorting that he doesn’t need to warn me that he’s moving away, but he should have warned me he was moving closer. But I don’t want to come off as being offended. Because I wasn’t. He was trying to help, and he didn’t cross any lines.

Bexley is across from me hunched over a bit, moving back and forth, her eye on the ball.

I suppose that is what I need to do too. Try to keep my eye on the ball. In ping-pong, as in life. Although, I’ve kind of forgotten what the ball is.

I don’t try to figure that out now, but throw the ball gently, and swing, and miss the ball entirely.

I want to die. I’m with two people who can play ping-pong circles around me, and I’m so incompetent it’s embarrassing.

“I feel like I’m wasting your time. You could be playing an actual game of ping-pong and enjoying it right now, if it weren’t for me. I’m happy watching.”

“I want to play with you, Aunt Zoe.”

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