Page 35 of Right Up His Alley

The floor of the bowling alley gleams from what I assume is consistent janitorial care and upkeep. My shoes glide smoothly against it as I make my way to the concession counter. The rich aroma of hot oil and buttered popcorn fills the air, blending perfectly with the nostalgic scent of lane polish. My stomach growls, and I press my palm against it like that might quiet it down. It’s been a long day with the drive, and all I want right now is a soda and a basket of carbs. My body is craving something salty, greasy, and completely and utterly satisfying.

I lean an elbow on the counter. “Large cola, loaded fries, please.”

The teenager working the register nods without looking up and pokes at the screen. After I tap my credit card on the reader, he hands me a buzzer and tells me my food will be ready when it vibrates.

I drum my fingers against the counter as I wait, looking back at the lanes. The pins crashing and the hum of conversation bring a sense of comfort to me. That is until I see my dad standing near Lane 9, his arms crossed, watching someone’s form with such critical, narrowed eyes. I just know he’s picking apart their technique, mentally cataloging every little flaw and hoping they’re my competition this evening. He does this every time.

The buzzer vibrates, and the teenager slides my tray across the counter. A mountain of fries, drowning in melted cheese, hot chili, crumbled bacon, and a drizzle of ranch, takes over the entire plate. The condensation on my soda cup beads up against my palm as I wrap my hand around it, bringing it to my lips for the first sip.

I turn, ready to make my way back to Lane 9, when I see my dad walking toward me, clearing his throat. My stomach twists before he even opens his mouth.

“You going to eat all that, son?” The response he wants is obvious, which means he’s about to say something I really am not going to like or something he knows will piss me off.

I glance at him, then at my tray, like maybe I need to double-check if I accidentally have someone else’s tray. I remember Ezra’s surprise when hearing how my dad makes comments about my eating habits. “Yeah. I haven’t eaten anything since we left Pflugerville. What’s the issue?”

His mouth twitches like he’s holding back something sharper. “Just saying, the tournament is tomorrow. You need a good night’s sleep. You might want to think about what you’re putting in your body.”

There it is.

I exhale slowly through my nose, begging myself not to react. I can’t believe I haven’t picked up on how much he focuses on what I eat. When Ezra questioned it, I didn’t think too much at first. But now, my dad’s opinions about my eating habits are louder than anything. His comments and little jabs about my body, my performances, and the goddamn food on my plate have all been disguised as casual observations. Through his eyes, I’ve always felt damaged—never good enough—and I couldn’t figure out why. I thought it was just because of bowling and a little family competition, but it’s more. It always has been.

“It’s one meal, Dad.” I glance down. All of a sudden, my plate looks like it’s overflowing, like there’s too much food and not enough space to hold it. I know the illusion isn’t real, but I can’t help how this mix of guilt and doubt forces me to see it this way. Not just an image of a crowded plate, but an image of myself, so negative. All because of… him.

“Sure. But one meal turns into a habit, and habits affect performance.” He nods toward the tray. “Loaded fries aren’t exactly fuel for a champion.”

The words hit their mark, like a dart landing dead center on the target. My fingers curl into my palm, one by one, slow and deliberate. I draw in a deep breath, then let it out just as slowly, giving myself time to decide what to say next. Counting to ten—dragging out each Mississippi in my head—I grab a fry from my tray, hoping my father notices just how irritated he’s made me, and shove it in my mouth.

I want to say a clever retort or even curse him out, but I do what I always do when it comes to Brett Thorne. I shove my frustration down to the depths of my soul. I’m not in the mood to argue with him because it’s not worth it. Unfortunately, Brett Thorne will always win. No matter what happens.

For now, though, I simply shrug and lift another one of my searing-hot fries to my mouth and chew like it’s the first bite to my last supper. “Guess we’ll have to see.”

His eyes linger on me for a second, like he’s debating whether to keep pushing or leave it alone. “So be it.” He exhales sharply through his nose, shakes his head, and turns back to the lanes. “Don’t come crying when you feel sluggish throwing balls down the lane tonight.”

I roll my eyes, hoping Dad sees the passive-aggressive whites of my eyes before he walks back to our lane. I follow along, even though my desire to run out of this bowling alley at full speed is strong.

I put my food down and step up on the approach, grabbing the beautiful green and blue reactive ball I brought with me from the return table. It’s heavy but perfect for the wide hook I’ve become pretty famous for over the years. I wind up, swing the ball behind me, and follow through with a forceful thrust, sending the ball down the lane, past the arrow zone, toward the back end. The ball crashes into the pins, knocking down all ten with a thunderous clang.

I grab another ball, fingers sliding into the holes like second nature, and step up to the lane without hesitation. I wait for the pinsetter to set the pins back to their original placements. The last strike is still echoing in my bones, but I don’t stop to celebrate. I don’t need to. With Dad present, it’s easy to take strikes for granted. It’s easy to take anything for granted when you’re the one who doesn’t want it in the first place.

I swing my arm back, roll forward on the balls of my feet, and release again. The ball glides over the shiny wood, a perfect curve snapping into the pocket, scattering pins in another violent explosion.

Another strike.

I don’t break stride. The more I push now, the less my father will make a big deal about me not practicing enough. I grab another ball, send down another roll, and there is yet another explosion of white. My rhythm is unshakable, my movements robotic. The sound of crashing pins blends into one continuous roar as I send ball after ball down the lane, each one a perfect shot, each one obliterating the ten pins without mercy.

What more does Brett Thorne want? Maybe the six to eight French fries from my tray I’ve seen him scarf down when he doesn’t realize I’m watching. God, he’s such a hypocrite.

After a complete game of consistent strikes, I take a seat next to my father and the half-eaten basket of fries. I take a few moments to breathe before expressing to Dad that I’m taking a break until the actual competition. He grumbles at first, but waves his hand as if he’s dismissing me from a service. I take it and don’t wait for him to change his mind.

Making my way around the alley, I scan the lanes out of habit. Near the far end, a little kid fumbles with a ball, his small hands struggling to keep control before he sends it wobbling down the lane, only for it to veer straight into the gutter. He throws himself down on the lane and slaps the floor in frustration.

Behind him, his mom juggles a fussy baby boy who’s busy smearing something yellow… and liquid… all over the front of his outfit. She looks exhausted, barely able to keep up with the mess. But yet she calls out, “You got this, baby. Don’t give up, okay?”

The kid tries again. Another gutter ball. Frustration twists his face even more, and before he can give up completely, I step over. “Hey there,” I say, glancing at his mom. “Mind if I help him out a little?”

She looks up, surprised, then nods with a grateful smile. “Oh wow, Truett Thorne. I can’t believe it—hi.” Her face reddens the moment she recognizes me. “We—my oldest, rather, the one over there” —she points to the boy— “watches you compete in all the televised matches. Yes… yes, of course. I haven’t perfected the art of teaching bowling with a baby attached to me.” She nods to her little one squirming around in the carrier hanging from her chest. “This one right here won’t let me go long enough to practice with Gavin.”

I smile, then head over to the boy’s lane. He turns to look at me, eyes glazed, like he’s seen his favorite athlete. A feeling I’ll never get over.