In Your Shoes Page 4

  “Then let’s bowl!” the tall guy said.

  “Definitely.” The second guy rubbed his hands together.

  “Yeah,” said the third. “Let’s bowl.”

  Miles’s nerves took hold of him, and he started the game by missing an easy spare. That would hurt him. He understood he was laying a lousy foundation. Why was he letting these guys rattle him?

  The three of them bowled strikes, then more strikes. They played way better than they had in the previous game.

  Miles got a sick feeling that made his legs wobbly. He’d come over to hustle these guys and earn some bank for his grandfather’s gift, but now it was clear these guys were trying to hustle him!

  Miles could distract most opponents with random chatter or weird stories about the ways people have died, but not these three. They were laser focused. Dumb tricks wouldn’t work on them. Miles had to dig deep and bring his A game.

  The tall guy, Kyle, bowled his third strike in a row—a turkey.

  Miles’s stomach tightened. How could he beat them? Miles felt like David against Goliath, except without the awesome slingshot. He couldn’t even use his Blue Thunder Storm Crux ball. Miles had to bowl with a house ball so he’d look like an inexperienced player.

  One important key to success is self-confidence. An important key to self-confidence is preparation.

  —ARTHUR ASHE

  Bowling may be all science-y—rolling a heavy ball down a wooden lane in an effort to knock over pins—but winning…ah, winning…now, that’s not science-y at all.

  Often our greatest challenges come not from outside ourselves, but from within. Be careful! We can create roadblocks to our own success with the thoughts we think—the stories we tell ourselves.

  What story did Bill Fong, a bowling enthusiast from Plano, Texas, tell himself the night he starting dropping strike after strike?

  Mr. Fong bowled thirty-four strikes in a row during league play. Thirty-four strikes! If he’d knocked down one more pin, he would have achieved an elusive 900 series—three perfect games in a row. That coveted accomplishment has been officially recorded only thirty-two times in the United States.

  Did Mr. Fong knock down that final strike at the end of the third game to complete the perfect series?

  What do you think?

  On the last roll of the last frame of the last game, Mr. Fong managed to knock down only nine of the ten pins. Yes, dear reader: one pin remained standing. He scored a total of 899 points.

  What story do you think Mr. Fong told himself that night as he took that final roll? That he’d succeed? Or that he’d fail?

  What story do YOU tell yourself when things get tough, when challenges loom large?

  A “Yes, I can” story or a “No, I can’t” story?

  Your mind-story matters!

  Are you brave enough to imagine a story—your story—with a happy ending?

  Standing among these three guys who were taller and older than he was, Miles remembered some things Bubbie Louise had taught him. He remembered to follow through and bring his thumb to his nose after the shot to keep the ball straight. He remembered her telling him it wasn’t about strength and speed, but about maintaining control and accuracy. But you still have to throw the ball hard, boychik. Those pins aren’t going to knock themselves down.

  Thinking of his bubbie’s words, Miles reminded himself he might not be great at a lot of things, but when it came to bowling, he was the Sultan of Strikes. That was what Bubbie Louise called him when he had bowled his best game ever with her—the Sultan of Strikes!

  With these thoughts swirling around in his mind, washing away negative thoughts and filling him with a tide of confidence, Miles bowled his own turkey. He followed that with a solid spare and another three strikes.

  Miles told himself he could beat these guys.

  Should beat these guys.

  After the final frame was bowled, Miles bested the top-scoring guy by three points. Three lousy points. He had never had a game come that close when he was trying so hard to win; it made him sweat in places he didn’t usually sweat. Slipping all the money off the table and into his pocket, Miles said, “Um, thanks, guys. See you later.” He couldn’t wait to get away from them.

  “You wanna play another game?” the tall guy asked in an almost threatening way. “My treat for this one. Right?” He looked at the other two guys, who were nodding like bobblehead dolls.

  But it was too late. Miles understood they were hustlers who probably hung out at Lightning Lanes over in Doylesburg but had come here to see if there were any suckers. Miles was only three points away from being that sucker, and it felt awful.

  “I, um, can’t. Sorry. Maybe next time.”

  As Miles walked away, he knew there would be no “next time”—not with those guys. To try to relax, he played video games, but it didn’t work. Being repeatedly attacked by aliens was not calming. His heart beat wildly as he kept checking to see if the guys had left. He knew he wouldn’t calm down until they were gone.

  When they finally left, Miles joined his grandfather at the snack counter.

  “Phew. That was close.” Miles put his head on the counter.

  “Phew what?” His grandfather took a swig from his glass. “What was close? How much did you hustle those guys for?”

  Miles sat tall. “They tried to hustle me, Pop. Put up twenty bucks each.”

  “Whoa! That’s a lot of dough.” Grandpop Billy swirled the ice in his drink. “Must’ve been rich kids from Doylesburg. Kids from Buckington wouldn’t have that kind of cash to bet.”

  “I know.” Miles bit his bottom lip. “First they pretended to play badly. Then they knocked down strike after strike on the game we were betting on.”

  “Hmm. Sounds like how I taught you to do it.”

  “Exactly,” Miles said. “It was terrible. I couldn’t stop sweating.”

  Billy covered his smile with his hand. “Mm-hmm.”

  In that moment, telling his grandfather about how lousy it felt to almost get hustled, Miles decided he’d quit betting kids on the lanes—as soon as he had enough money to pay for Pop’s big gift.

  “Except for your habit of hustling kids on the lanes—which, if your parents ask, I had absolutely nothing to do with”—Billy raised his glass to his grandson—“you, Miles Spagoski, are an A-one terrific kid.”

  Miles looked down. He didn’t feel like an A-1 terrific kid. That morning he’d said something really stupid to his best friend about their friend Tate. Then his bowling shoe had knocked some girl in the head, and she might have gotten a concussion and died, for all he knew. He might read about her someday on an online list of weird ways people have died. Finally, he’d nearly gotten hustled out of twenty bucks doing something he shouldn’t have been doing in the first place.

  “You are,” his grandfather insisted, as though he could read Miles’s mind.

  “Listen to your grandfather,” Stick called from his wheelchair near the billiard table. “Sometimes that old fool knows what he’s talking about.”

  This made Miles and Grandpop Billy laugh. Stick laughed, too, as he knocked the six ball into the side pocket.

  After his grandfather’s seventy-fifth-birthday party, Miles decided, things would change. He’d spend all his extra time on the lanes working toward bowling that perfect game. And when he did, maybe he’d get written about in the Buckington Times. He knew it would make his parents and Grandpop Billy proud. Mercedes and Stick would be impressed. Maybe some random girl would find out about Miles’s perfect game and want to go out with him. It could be the beginning of amazing things in his life. And it would all start right after his grandfather’s big birthday party.

  Thinking about it made Miles feel better than he had all day.

  On her walk “home” from school, Amy realized how ridiculous she mu
st seem, jerking her head around every so often to look out for flying bowling shoes.

  Of course, there were none.

  She reminded herself that the chance of getting clonked in the head with a bowling shoe twice in the same day was infinitesimal. But that wasn’t really what she was afraid of or why she walked home slowly. As soon as she saw the parking lot, Amy’s shoulders relaxed. There was only her uncle’s car, along with a couple other cars and the hearse.

  There hadn’t been a funeral since Amy moved into Eternal Peace Funeral Home a week ago, and she was grateful there wasn’t one today. She couldn’t deal with that now, not on top of the shoe incident and her lackluster day at school. She was feeling way too vulnerable.

  After entering the back door of the funeral home, Amy walked through the laundry room and into the kitchen. Even though she was allowed to enter through the front door, she didn’t like going that way because it meant passing the rooms where the viewings and funerals took place.

  Uncle Matt was leaning against the sink, cradling a mug. He startled when Amy walked in. “Oh, hi, Ames. How’d your first day go?”

  Amy shrugged. Her uncle looked like an older version of her dad. They both had curly brown hair, but Uncle Matt had gray sprinkled throughout his, and wrinkles around his eyes. His face was clean-shaven, unlike her dad’s. He was older than her dad by nine years and two days. Her dad had told her that when he and her uncle were younger, their parents would have only one birthday party for the two of them. Amy’s dad used to think it was fun to share a party with his big brother, but her uncle admitted he’d been annoyed to share his party with his baby brother. Amy didn’t have issues like that because she didn’t have any brothers or sisters, only a dog. Well, she sort of had a dog. She looked at the picture of Ernest and Pam wearing sunglasses, then deleted it from her phone. She didn’t need a reminder of what she didn’t have anymore.

  Uncle Matt put his mug on the counter. “Want some hot chocolate, Ames?” He put water on to boil without waiting for her answer.

  “You know it,” she said, trying to act cheerful.

  He grabbed the packet and a bag of mini marshmallows from the pantry. “It’s not hot chocolate without the—” Amy’s uncle came close to her face and squinted. “What the heck happened to your head?”

  “You really want to know?” Amy plopped into a chair at the small round kitchen table.

  “Yes.” He put the marshmallows down and sat across from her.

  “I got hit by a flying bowling shoe.”

  “Uh-uh,” Uncle Matt said. “Not one of your made-up stories. What really happened? Did someone at school do this to you? Because if—”

  “I’m telling the truth. I was walking to school, and a bowling shoe hit me in the forehead.” Amy had known no one would believe her.

  Uncle Matt raised an eyebrow. “Come on.”

  “Really. I think some kids were fighting and one of them must have taken the other kid’s shoe and thrown it.”

  Uncle Matt tugged on his earlobe, like her dad did when he was trying to figure something out. “Why was the kid wearing bowling shoes to begin with?”

  “I have no idea. But don’t worry”—Amy pressed the bandage on her forehead and winced—“it barely hurts at all.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  Amy didn’t tell her uncle the truth about what really hurt her: Sitting with a bunch of cardboard boxes in the lunchroom at school instead of with a potential new friend. Missing her mom and her dog and her best friend. Worrying about her dad while he was away during the week, taking classes to get a license to work in the funeral home. She didn’t tell anyone, but she was terrified something awful might happen to him, like what had happened to her mom. Amy knew she couldn’t survive losing him, too. This last thought made her feel like a volcano about to erupt with scalding tears. But she wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not in front of her uncle. “Hey, do you think we could go out and buy some school supplies?” she asked. “I need a few things for tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely,” Uncle Matt said. “Maybe we can pick up some bowling shoe repellent while we’re at the store.”

  Amy tried to smile, but she just didn’t have it in her.

  “This is why I’m a funeral director and not a comedian,” Uncle Matt said as he finished preparing Amy’s hot chocolate and placed the mug on the table.

  “Thanks.” The hot chocolate smelled sweet, and the steam tickled Amy’s nose. It reminded her of sitting with her mom in their sunny yellow kitchen back in Chicago. It was getting harder and harder to hold back thoughts that Amy knew would bring on tears. She squeezed the mug until the heat from the hot chocolate burned her palms.

  “We’ll have to get your school supplies tonight. Can’t go now. I have an appointment in…” Uncle Matt checked his watch. “Oh my.” He rushed out of the kitchen. “School supplies after dinner,” he called.

  Amy felt the weight of being alone.

  She sipped hesitantly but still burnt the tip of her tongue.

  Hoping someone had sent her a text message, Amy pulled out her phone and felt a wave of regret for having deleted the photo of Ernest. She wished she could get it back. It was like she had erased him from her life, which she totally hadn’t meant to do. Did Ernest even know how much she missed him? Did he miss her? Or had he forgotten about her? Did he curl up with Pam in bed at night like he used to do with her?

  No one had texted her, so Amy sent a text to her dad.

  Hi. At home. DYING to see you. Ha ha.

  Her dad didn’t reply. Maybe she’d pushed the humor too far.

  She texted again.

  Hope you’re good. How’s it going?

  Still…nothing.

  Dad?

  Amy knew he was probably in a class, but it felt like he wasn’t answering on purpose. He could at least take a break and check on how her first day at Buckington Middle went. Amy pressed the sore place on her forehead to make it hurt so it would distract from her painful thoughts.

  Then she texted Kat.

  Survived my first day. Barely.

  Kat sent back a blue heart and three smiley face emojis.

  Still in school. Text soon.

  Amy put her phone back in her pocket. How had she forgotten that Chicago was an hour earlier than stupid Buckington? She took her hot chocolate and walked down the hall, past the rooms on the left she didn’t want to look at. Then she turned right, toward the grand staircase with the fancy burgundy carpet on the wooden stairs. Amy unhooked the thick velvet rope that hung across the bottom of the staircase with a sign—Private Residence—rehooked the rope behind her and headed for the bedroom where she was staying.

  As she climbed the stairs, her feet felt like boulders. Her forehead throbbed. Her heart was a lump of gray clay.

  Amy remembered coming home from school back when her mom was feeling good—before she’d gotten sick with cancer. There would be music playing in their apartment and all the lights would be on. Her mom would give her a big squeeze and kiss the top of her head. If it was warm outside, her mom poured cranberry juice mixed with seltzer for both of them; if it was cold, she made them hot chocolate. Always with mini marshmallows and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

  They’d sit together and tell each other about their day.

  Whether the events of each one’s day were good or bad didn’t matter: it was the telling that mattered; the laughing, the listening, the being together that meant everything.

  It was perfect.

  It was in the past.

  Past perfect.

  Amy wished desperately for present perfect, but that only made her head and her heart ache.

  In her room there were three things: a twin bed with worn gray quilt; a desk, next to the bed; and a nearly empty
bookshelf, across from the bed. Amy kept her handful of books from home in a suitcase under the bed. There wasn’t even a bureau to put her clothes in, only a plastic bin with a lid, in the closet. The room was dim and depressing. But what did she expect from a funeral home? Giant smiley faces and clown pictures in the bedrooms?

  Amy placed her mug on the desk and plopped onto the bed. She fell back against the thin pillow and stared at the ceiling. Even though she’d washed the gray quilt, sheets and pillowcase, they still smelled like mold, the same way the basement in her family’s apartment building in Chicago smelled. Maybe she’d ask her uncle if they could buy new bedding when they went out for school supplies.

  Amy heard a woman’s voice downstairs, then her uncle’s warm, soothing tone, and she knew someone was meeting with Uncle Matt to plan a funeral. That must be why he’d rushed out of the kitchen.

  Amy didn’t know the woman, but she still felt sorry for her. Funerals were hard. And so were the days that followed them.

  * * *

  •••

  There were so many people at her mom’s funeral that a bunch were standing in the back and others couldn’t even fit in the room. Mail carriers her mom had worked with and customers from her route came. Lots of people from her dad’s Unitarian Universalist congregation came. Amy didn’t know them, but they hugged her and told her how sorry they were.

  Some of Amy’s teachers and classmates also showed up. Even their landlord, Mr. Nadler, came. He was a nice guy. But Amy didn’t want a single one of them. She wanted the person in the casket—the person who used to be her mom—to wake up and stop kidding around. Because her mom—her mom!—couldn’t possibly be gone.

  Amy didn’t just want her mom back; she wanted her mom to be healthy, laughing and dancing in the kitchen with her again. She wanted her in the living room, pulling off her work shoes, putting her feet up and telling Amy about the funny things that happened on her route that day. She wanted her mom cuddling with her in bed, reading her fairy tales, saying everything would work out okay, like she did when they were at the doctor’s for Amy’s leg-length discrepancy. Amy remembered how good it made her feel when her mom would say, “You’ll get your happily-ever-after, sweets.”