Page 31 of Home Field Advantage

“Malcolm!” Amber whispers fiercely. “Behave! This is a bowling alley! There are children present!”

“First of all, we’re the youngest people here by at least three decades,” Miguel points out, “and second of all—”

“This place is filled with glittery balls!” Miguel, Malcolm, and I all chorus, and we crack up again.

Then I throw a strike, and the laughter turns into hoots and claps.

“J-A-C-K!” Amber cheers, jumping up from her seat and waving and rolling her arms. “Knock those pins down all the way! Gooooo Jack!”

“Did I just get a personal cheer from future head cheerleader Amber McCloud?” I widen my eyes and flutter my hand over my chest.

“You did!” She flounces over and places a big smack on my cheek, and Miguel and Malcolm cheer as my face undoubtedly goes red. “I am very proud of my star athlete.”

Mystar athlete. Fuck. I am a five-foot-nine puddle on the sticky floor.

When I finish the final frame with a strike followed by a spare, Amber does a full-on cartwheel in the middle of the room, just narrowly missing the decrepit air hockey table. I’m sure someone’s going to yell at us, but instead they just whistleand urge her on. Turns out being an extremely hot girl with long, bendy legs helps you get away with a lot. Who knew?

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell her, but even as I say it I’m pulling her close, an uncharacteristically affectionate tone coming out of my mouth that I don’t think I’ve ever used in my life. This girl is turning me into something different and I don’t hate it. “But I can’t say I mind having my own personal cheerleader.”

“I can’t say I mind having a future pro athlete on my arm either,” she says with a wink, and I laugh even though we both know the future options for female football players are not exactly Tim Tebow possibilities.

Tonight it’s kinda feeling like anything is possible.

We play one more game, and it’s true that Amber hits her stride at some point, though I’m mostly just watching her form. (It is very good form. Especially in that outfit.) Miguel and Malcolm take turns giving each other bowling instructions, like “roll it underhand like you’re three years old” and “do this one with your eyes closed,” and though we obviously won’t be posting them anywhere, we even take a few selfies. I make a mental note to send one to Morgan and Sage later.

With the nachos gone, we get spicy fries—the food is surprisingly decent for a six-lane bowling alley decorated like the home of someone’s grandma on acid—and Malcolm gets fried calamari, which the rest of us refuse to try. “I cannot put squid in my mouth,” says Amber. “I just can’t.”

“That’s what she said,” Miguel and I say together, and I swear to God it almost feels like I’m becoming friends with one of my teammates.

“Et tu, QB?” Malcolm asks, holding out the red plastic basket. “These two are cowards, but I expected more from you.”

“Them’s fightin’ words. Fine, I’ll try the damn thing.” The truth is, it smells amazing, but Malcolm doesn’t need to know that my mouth has been watering and full of regret since I initially squirmed at the idea of eating slices of tentacled sea creatures. I push up my flannel sleeves and watch Amber’s face twist in horror.

“You know, this may threaten your chances at a good-night kiss,” she warns me.

“Ohhhh,” Miguel says as I immediately drop my hand like it’s been burned. “The magic words.”

They sure are. Even though we’ve made out a few times now, somehow the mythical good-night kiss feels like a way bigger step, and I wouldn’t assume it was guaranteed, or even on her mind. But apparently… “Sorry, man,” I say to Malcolm. “I’m happy to be a weenie if that’s what it gets me.”

“Well, I don’t know if I wanna date a weenie.” Amber taps her cheek thoughtfully, and I stick out my tongue at her.

“You’re cruel, Loud McCloud.” Miguel ruffles her hair, and she laughs. “And for the record,” he says to Malcolm, “I will absolutely still kiss you goodnight.”

“Awww,” Malcolm and I chorus, while Amber pretends to vomit. If we were in another town, here’s where the boyswould probably kiss, but they settle for a quick hand squeeze on the table that makes them both smile.

We stick around for a while, finishing our food and playing on the ancient arcade games, until finally Malcolm announces his curfew is approaching, and he and Miguel go return their shoes while I finish letting Amber beat me at air hockey just because she looks so cute when she does a victory dance after each goal.

We don’t leave until almost an hour after the boys do. There’s just too much to play with, too many ridiculous pictures to take, and no parents waiting for us at home—Amber’s mom is on the night shift, and my parents are on another date. They decided to end this one at the Atherton Inn for the night. When you only see each other once a week at best, I guess sharing a small one-bedroom with your daughter sleeping on the other side of the wall isn’t ideal.

I’m trying not to think about it.

“It’s nice to see kids back in here,” the big mustached guy behind the counter says as he takes our bowling shoes. I haven’t seen him before; a skinny redhead, no older than college-age, gave us our shoes earlier. But this guy is maybe fifty, a bunch of salt in the pepper of his hair, and has an air of “I was born in this alley and I will die here.” The manager, maybe, or the owner. “It’s been a few months since we had anyone from the high school.”

A few months? Amber seemed confident no one fromAtherton ever came here. Judging from the look on her face, she’s just as surprised.

“Other Atherton kids came here?” she asks, keeping her voice casual.

“Cute couple,” he says, returning the bowling shoes to their cubbies and producing my Docs and Amber’s sandals. “Wouldn’t say they were anicecouple,” he says with a snort, “but they came every week for a while and stayed glued to each other’s faces every time. Maybe they broke up.” The redhead calls from another corner of the alley with a question, and Mustache yells back before returning his attention to us. “She was so little, I thought she was maybe twelve at first. But they had their high school IDs, tried to use them to get discounts, which we don’t offer.”

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