Page 32 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

Freya sighs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, my God, it was long. I’ll tell you all about it in the car.”

As we head off in the car, Freya starts telling me about all the annoying people she’s had to deal with all day. She tells me about an old woman who wouldn’t sit still long enough to have her blood taken, and a teenager who somehow was walking around on two broken legs, insisting he could still play sports.

“I guess that’s just like me.” I chuckle, slightly embarrassed at the memory of how I’d tried to make her life difficult at first.

“You weren’t the worst patient I’ve ever dealt with,” she says diplomatically. “You still aren’t.”

“No, I was pretty bad. But in my defense, it hurt so, so much.”

“You were having a bad day,” she says, though when I glance over at her, she’s not smiling anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I say hoping that my memory is wrong and this isn’t really the first time that I’ve ever apologized to her for being such a dick.

Instead of saying anything else, she changes the subject. “So, where are we going? Or are you driving me somewhere secret?”

“Well, I made reservations at six,” I say, relieved to move past this awkward conversation. “So, we’ve got a couple of hours to kill before then. I don’t have any plans for that. Let’s do something fun.”

“Such as?” she asks, raising both eyebrows like she doesn’t believe that I can be fun.

“Bowling,” I say, picking the first thing that comes into my mind. “Bowling is fun.”

“Yes”, she agrees, “But bowling is also quite an elbow-heavy activity. And I thought you wanted to get back to playing as soon as possible.”

My mouth wavers at this, and I don’t have any sort of defense because she’s right — bowling is an elbow-heavy kind of activity. And Doctor Minogue did just tell me I shouldn’t be putting too much strain on it, despite the fact that it’s looking better.

“Oh,” I sigh. “Fine. Suggest something better to me, then.”

She hums pensively. "You want to do an activity.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, we don’t have to—” I start to say before she interrupts.

“No, no, I’ve got it. Mini golf.”

“Yeah, we could do that…”

“Oh. Bad idea?” she asks, her face falling like she’s embarrassed.

Quickly, I shake my head. “No,” I say and realize that my tone is still slightly too harsh. “I love mini golf.”

Freya brightens at that, and for the first time all day I feel like she might forgive me for something. “I know just the place,” she says. “I’ll direct you.”

She commands me to turn left onto the highway, and I obey. We drive about twenty minutes before she leads me into what looks like an abandoned industrial estate, highway cars screeching past nearby. “Are you sure this is right?” I ask as we turn into the parking lot of one of the abandoned-looking buildings.

“Yes,” Freya says. “Keep going. Trust me, okay?”

Unfortunately for me, I do trust her, so I keep going. We crawl along and I start to feel just a little bit like I’m being brought here to get murdered. But then, to no one’s surprise and to my complete relief, we turn a corner and there, nestled way behind one of the old mill buildings, is an old-style mini-golf course.

It’s a Revolutionary-War-themed place, and as we step out we are met with the thrillingly tinny sound of fife and drum music being played over shitty speakers. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re about to be subjected to the same weird song on loop for the next hour.

“It might look a bit weird,” she says, running a hand through her hair, “but trust me, this course is great.”

“Okay,” I say, uncertainly finding myself staring into the eyes of the sentry of the gate, a wooden Paul Revere who definitely needs a paint job.

Freya doesn’t seem at all bothered by any of it, though. “I’m just going to go into the bathroom and change. I should have done it at work but I just really wanted to escape Mrs. Briar.”

“Sure, I get you. She always sounds like a nightmare. I’ll go get us tickets.”

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