Page 14 of The Kiss Class

Anna hops up and down as if she’s not used to the frigid temperature. “Cal said this is Richard’s first time back in Omaha in years. They went to UNO together. He probably wanted to swing by the Fish Bowl for old time’s sake.”

“As the hockey great said—” Ilsa starts.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,’” I repeat our father’s favorite quote.

“He’s not a hockey player, promise,” Anna says, knowing that’s a penalty in my book.

“And don’t forget to reply to Nolan. You might just find your knight in shining armor tonight,” Ilsa chirps.

Pressing my lips together, I inhale through my nose, gathering patience . . . and courage. My native habitat is the hallowed halls of some of the world’s finestinstitutions of higher education where it’s not at all unusual to have a date night in the library . . . with a book or ten.

“Good luck,” Anna says, hurrying back to her car with Ilsa scurrying behind.

I pull around to the parking lot and lean back in the seat, taking a deep breath. Knowing my sisters, they’re probably staking out the Fish Bowl like two secret agents, waiting to make sure I go inside.

The one feature that we collectively loved about the minivan was the sunroof. It’s dirty and covered in pollen from the fall, but I push the button to open it so I can make a wish on a star before I take my life into my own hands inside the rowdiest hockey pub in the state.

No sooner is the sunroof cracked open an inch do I get dowsed with cold water.

“No, no, no.” Dodging out of the way, I quickly close it, only now remembering Ilsa mentioning there was a leak . . . six years ago.

Drenched, I’m about ready to turn around and go home when the prospect of dealing with my sisters’ scolding and withholding of all things fudge prompts me to come up with an alternative plan.

Anna mentioned she’d driven the van recently, so maybe she left a sweater or something I can put on. A box labeledNKShirts, Largerests on the backseat, and I pull out a Nebraska Knights player jersey. Pulling it over my head, it hides my damp jeans since my lap took most of the water and will make me fit in at the Fish Bowl.

Hand on the door, I freeze.

“I can’t do this. I don’t want to,” I whine at a whisper. But the disappointment I’m sure to face when I tell my family about school will only double if I back out of this, too.

After checking my hair, I bravely exit the minivan. Thedeep intonation of “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” plays from inside the building.

I take three steps forward, then two back, and turn around, retreat, continue on, spin in a circle, and—with my sisters’ voices in my ears—march forward.

Hesitating, I pull open the door, and now “Run Rudolph Run” blares along with chatter and laughter from inside.

Should I take that as a sign?

To be fair, the Fish Bowl, as locals call it, is a family-type establishment until nine p.m. Thankfully, it’s only seven. After that, it’s the place to watch hockey games, drink beer, and toss peanut shells on the floor with abandon. If an errant popcorn kernel goes up instead of down, hitting the wrong guy at the same time as an opposing team makes a play, fists fly. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.

I square my shoulders and enter. It’s somehow bright and dim at the same time. Colorful Christmas lights line the ceiling around a messy mishmash of hockey memorabilia, including signed jerseys and helmets, hence the name “Fish Bowl.”

Foil starbursts, bells, and pom poms that I’ve seen in the background of old photos of my parents taken during their childhood Christmases hang from the domed stained glass lights that hover over the tables. They twist and gleam when the servers bustle by.

A jukebox glows in the corner. The bar is full and groups of people gather in circles, laughing loudly. Others sit closely huddled together over tables and chatter at a lower decibel. The smell of fried everything fills the air along with the buttery scent of popcorn.

Toward the back, some people play pool and others throw darts.

I don’t see a guy seated solo at a table as if waiting for his blind date, and I’m not sure of the etiquette. Do I seat myself?Wait for a hostess? Or throw a dart and see where it lands? Maybe not that.

A couple of girls come in on a gust of cold, perfumed air and waltz past a table full of guys whose gazes trail them to an empty booth.

Toward the back, there’s a vacant table for two near a pair of middle-aged men with a large group of children who’re in various stages of making paper airplanes with their coloring menus. I’m guessing it’s a youth hockey team. This location should be safe-ish.

A waitress, wearing a tight green T-shirt withO’Neelyacross the back, nearly gets run over by a group of teens. On the front of the shirt is a guy wearing hockey gear inside of a fish bowl. She greets me with a distracted smile, likely worried about being impaled by a paper airplane. Like everyone else here, I get a fish bowl filled with free popcorn.

I order a water, keeping my eye on the door and hoping I don’t get hit in the back of the head with an errant billiards ball . . . or worse. Those kids look like they have good aim.

When ten minutes elapse, and there’s no sign of Richard, my phone beeps. It’s Anna, checking in. I inform her that I had a last-minute shower and wardrobe change with no thanks to the sunroof.

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