Page 59 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

I grin. “Knew you were a natural.”

The pins reset, and she sits down at the console while I grab my ball. “So, first question,” I say. “Is your name popular?”

She rests her cheeks in her hands. “Nope. Not at all.”

I groan. “Damn . . . so this is going to be a tough one, huh?” Another strike.

She stands and passes me to grab her ball. “Is that your second question?”

I bite my lip. “No. Is it a name that could be for a boy or a girl?”

After she rolls her ball into the gutter, she waits for it to return and answers. “Umm . . . yeah, I suppose it could be.”

“Hmm, interesting,” I say, my eyes glued to her backside as she rolls the ball again to knock down half of her pins.

I step forward and take my turn. Another strike. “Does it end with aY?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Can I ask questions too?” she asks, standing up to take her turn.

“Of course.”

She positions herself and throws the ball, knocking down all but one. With a shout, she jumps and claps her hands. “I almost did the strike thing!”

“Try throwing the ball with a bit of spin, it’ll knock down that last pin if it goes straight down the middle.”

With a tilt of her head she takes my direction, but maybe with too much spin because it ends up in the gutter. She turns around with her hands on her hips. “You trying to make me lose?”

I shake my head and pass her. “Of course not, I’m already whooping your ass.”

While I take my turn, she sits. “How’d you get to be such a good bowler, anyhow?”

“My grandparents owned an alley back home in Wisconsin.”

She nods. “Ah, now it all makes sense.”

There’s a loud crash as the pins drop. “My parents would leave me with them all the time, so I got my run of the alley. Then when I was in junior high, I started working there. Resetting the pins and sanitizing shoes. It was something to keep me out of trouble.”

“Sounds like you had a fun childhood,” she says, standing up to face me, the timbre of her voice giving away that maybe she didn’t. I would ask her, but I need to keep these questions about her name for now.

“Does your name start with a vowel or a consonant?” I ask.

“A consonant.”

“Damn,” I say. “Was really hoping to only have to pick through five letters.”

She grins and takes her turn.

“Does your family still own the bowling alley?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No. When my grandad died, my parents couldn’t afford to keep the place up and running. Plus, they had their own careers.”

“Oh, Joel,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. It was years ago.”

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