Page 84 of Bridesmaid Undercover
“Sounds like you might need a new recipe,” she says.
“Yeah, possibly. Maybe I’ll send a note to Martha Stewart, ask her if she has any tips.”
“You’re up, Maple,” Timothy says.
Oh. Thank God.
Gives me a second to regroup.
Maple stands and moves toward the balls where she picks up the pink one she’s been using all night. She studies the pins and then sheepishly walks up to the alley, brings her hand back, and shoots the ball forward. She doesn’t move; she just watches the ball race down toward the pins and when they collide, she turns and walks back to the ball return.
She doesn’t cheer.
She doesn’t look at her group.
She just waits.
And I think…I think my assessment about her is right.
Sure, I’ve changed since college—we all do. If you haven’t, you’re not growing as a human. But Maple has changed in a different way. She’s more withdrawn, isolated. Makes me wonder, did Peru change her?
Polly had made it seem like Maple was reluctant about coming back, but she doesn’t want to be here at all. Maybe she wishes she was still in Peru. I would have no idea. It feels like something I should ask, but not something right now, in the middle of the bowling league where we are sitting dead last. Seems like too deep of a conversation.
Since I’m after Maple, I stand as she picks up her ball to shoot for a spare. Not sure what pin is standing up, but she has one on the left she has to knock down.
“Think you’ll keep the ball straight this time?” Everly asks as she looks up at me from where she’s sitting. One of her legs is crossed over the other and she’s sporting a playful smirk.
“Why the hell would I want to break my gutter ball streak?” I ask. “Fuck no, I’m going to pitch it into the gutter twice this go-round.”
“I like your tenacity,” she replies.
“If I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it right,” I say with conviction, which only makes her smile even wider.
“You know, it would help us if you didn’t throw a gutter ball,” Timothy says. “I heard that there might be eliminations in the league.”
“What?” I ask. “How is that possible? Isn’t this for fun?” I look around the bowling alley, taking in all the participants in matching shirts. Some people have their own balls, their own shoes…their own wrist guards. Some are doing the fancy ball curving technique that I pretended to do one time—and nearly broke my wrist in half. Maybe this is more serious than I thought it was.
Timothy scratches his head. “You know, I might have signed up for the wrong league.”
“Which means…you need a strike,” Everly says as she stands and walks over to the ball return with me after Maple earns a spare. “I think it’s the ball you’re using.” She pokes at the blue ball I’ve been failing with all night. “It might be too heavy for you.”
“It’s definitely not too heavy for me,” I say.
She steps in close and whispers, “It’s okay if you’re not throwing the same ball as the other guys. There’s no shame in throwing a lighter ball.”
“It’s not too heavy,” I repeat.
“Why don’t you just try something lighter, maybe something lighter on your gentle wrist.”
I hold up my arm and show her my wrist. “There is nothing gentle about this. This is a man’s wrist.”
“Yes, of course,” she says in a mocking tone. “Very manly, Hardy. But your score doesn’t match the girth of your manly wrist, so maybe we try something different. We can’t screw this up for Tomothy.”
“Timothy,” I correct her.
Her eyes widen as her hand covers her mouth. “Oh shit, you’re right. Oh my God, have I called him Tomothy?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Have you?”
