Page 72 of What I Like About You

Amy Chen

WE MISS YOU

5:40 PM

November 16

OMG just seeing this now—congratulations, elle!! that’s SO ridiculously amazing

8:36 AM

Elle Carter

Thanks, Kels.

8:39 AM

Elle Carter

Glad you’re still here with us! We were about to send out a search party.

8:40 PM

TWELVE

Fact: Bowling nights are stupidly competitive.

It’s kind of hilarious.

Like, I haven’t taken bowling this seriously since I was twelve and determined to beat Sinclair Daniels, the product of the douchiest producer Mom and Dad ever had the—ahem—privilegeof working with. Us doc kids usually made our very limited social life at the bowling alley, because every town in this country has a bowling alley within a ten-mile radius. If my parents had a late night or a long weekend of interviews and filming, one of the assistants would corral all the kids into the minivan and take us to the nearest one.

Sinclair Daniels was the only brat to ever give me a run for my money.

Because, plot twist: I, Halle Levitt, am a bowling prodigy.

Okay, fine,prodigyis a strong word for what is probably the most useless talent on the planet. But I’m good. I can’t draw or run a mile without running out of breath, but I can consistently bowl over 200 like it’s my job.

It impressed Le Crew the night of my first bowling appearance.

Now, they’re just annoyed.

Because that’s the thing about bowling. It’s the type of game that everyone thinks they can win, with no actual skill.

When Nash and I arrive at the bowling alley, Autumn and Molly already have their shoes on. Sawyer is sitting on the floor, his feet in the butterfly position. He leans forward, his head barely touching his toes. Of course, Sawyer is stretching before the bowling begins.

“It’s a sport,” Sawyer had said the first time I witnessed his elaborate routine. “Gotta get limber.”

Do you, though?

“Hey!” Molly says, greeting us with a hug.

I’ve learned to lean in to Molly’s embrace instead of flinch away. Autumn waves from her seat on the bench in front of our lane. She’s hunched over the table, writing phrases on notecards and putting them in Sawyer’s upside-down Red Sox hat.

“Is it lyrics night already?” Nash asks.

Molly shakes her head.

“Shakespeare?” Autumn asks.

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