Page 15 of Unexpected Shot
She looks at my bag, then back at me. “They don’t have your name on them.”
“But they’re mine!” I say, walking and standing in front of them. “Who are you anyway?”
“Shelby.”
Shelby. Shell. Shell Bell. Maybe if I rang a bell at her, she’d quit touching my clubs.
“Are you Gabi’s friend?”
The look she gives me is making it seem like I’m asking ridiculous questions, when she’s the one who was touching my clubs.
“Yes.”
“Then why aren’t you playing with her?”
She looks back at the house toward Gabi’s window. When she turns back to me, she has the same look I make when Mom makes me eat spinach. I hate spinach.
“They’re playing with Barbies.”
I’m still mad at her, but the way she said that was kind of funny. Like they’re worse than spinach.
“You don’t like Barbies?”
She shakes her head. “I’d rather play golf.”
Shelby golfs? I know girls can play, but I’ve never met one. I never see any at the course my dad takes me to.
“You golf?”
“Duh.”
“Why duh?” I’ve just met this girl and she’s really confusing me.
“Because girls can do anything boys can do!”
Why is she yelling at me? “I didn’t say they couldn’t.”
She gives me a mean look. At least, I think it’s mean. I’m not sure what’s happening here.
“So?”
Why is she asking me like I know what she means? “So what?”
“So, stop being a butthead and give me a club. Let’s chip.”
That interaction was a lot of firsts for us.
Our first meeting. Our first argument. The first time she called me a name. The beginning of her nickname that I’m pretty confident she likes more than she’ll ever let on.
I guess some things, even with thirty years in between, never change.
I pull my golf cart right up to the top of Shelby’s driveway, turning it off and sliding the key into my pocket. Not because I’m worried some teenagers will come and steal it. No, I don’t want Shelby to drive it into our shared pond. She would just because she can.
I bang on the door, which might not be the best move. This is Shelby we’re talking about.
I brace myself, ready for whatever is about to greet me when she opens up.
I’m ready for a gun. Or for her to swing her five-iron at me. It’s her usual choice of golf-bag weaponry. Hell, I’m ready for a snarling German Shepherd. She’s been saying she was going to get one for months.
