Page 112 of Story of My Life
“Hey!” Zoey plopped down next to me, holding a plastic cup of frozen purple liquid that smelled like all of the alcohols mixed together. “What the hell is this?”
“Some kind of mutant bingo,” I explained. “More importantly, what is that?”
She shrugged and held up the cup. “A couple of intoxicated ladies tailgating in the parking lot were making them in a blender. They said it’s called Mermaid Sharts. At least that’s what I got from the laughing and slurring. Wanna try?”
I shook my head. “I think I’ll pass.” Staying up all night writing had left me feeling vaguely hungover.
“Suit yourself. Anyway, I was heading straight to your house but saw these shenanigans and got nosy. Speaking of nosy. Why do you look good?”
“Um, ouch. Mean.”
She leaned into my face so close I could smell the onions she had for lunch. “You look happy,” she said with suspicion.
I scoffed. Twice. And then snort-laughed to cover the excessive scoffing. Even though two of Cam’s siblings knew about our fake date, I didn’t want to open my big mouth to Zoey about the kiss…at least not here, surrounded by the entire population of Story Lake.
“What? Me? Happy? No. I’m still miserable. But I did write ten thousand words in one sitting.”
“Seriously?” She shoved me in the arm so hard I nearly fell over.
Hmm. Maybe my heroine could be toppled from the bleachers and the hero could scoop her up in Book Cam’s strong, hero-y arms? The staring into each other’s eyes intently thing could be great. Although if she had already been fished out of the lake, maybe I should give her a break for a few chapters before pushing her off anything else.
“Hey. Where’d you go?” Zoey demanded, shaking me by the shoulders. “It’s creepy how you just zone out like that.”
“Book stuff,” I said by way of explanation. “And stop pushing me. I’ve already been shoved in the lake. I don’t need to get thrown off the bleachers in front of my constituency.”
“Who pushed you in a lake, do you want me to beat the crap out of them, and why do you look so damn happy about it?”
I was saved from responding by the crowd collectively getting to its feet.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“The opening ceremonies,” Darius explained as we stood.
The Story Lake Warblers, wearing patriotic T-shirts, marched up onto the bingo caller’s riser and performed a spirited a cappella rendition of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” After the last harmony had faded, the six teams faced each other and bowed formally.
Scooter Vakapuna separated himself from the Warblers and picked up the emcee mic. “Welcome, Lakers, to ultimate bingo!” he said, voice booming through the speakers.
The crowd went wild. Zoey and I shrugged and joined in the revelry.
“G55,”Scooter announced into the mic.
“Ted’s alive,” the players responded, slapping their hands to their facesHome Alone–style.
A whistle blew, and one of the supervisors stood up. “Five-point deduction to the Bottom Feeders. Willis didn’t use both hands for Ted’s alive.”
The spectators seemed divided on the decision.
“What was that all about?” I asked Darius.
“Back in 1953, Story Lake had a resident named Ted Branberry, who went fishing by himself early one morning. His boat was found floating around the lake, but there was no sign of him. He was presumed dead. Turned out he faked his deathover a gambling debt and was found alive, singing backup for a lounge singer in Reno.”
“Wow.” I wished I’d brought my notebook.
“Oh, this is gonna be good! N31,” Scooter shouted triumphantly into the microphone.
“Get up and run,” the crowd chanted in response.
We watched in awe as the seated “stampers” handed off their daubers to their closest teammate and a bizarre relay race erupted. Team members were running interference and in some cases physically holding back other runners as they charged around the makeshift bingo hall.
