Blow My House Down

Chapter 35

"Yeah," he said. "That's how I felt my dad died. All the light in the world went out."

"Yeah," I repeated softly.

Micky nudged me and led me inside. My mother had already locked herself in the den. I sighed and pulled Micky by the hand upstairs to my room. We dropped our bags and I looked around. The only place of comfort for me wasn't much of a relief anymore. The pictures on my wall taunted me with their beautiful smiles.

"Always wanted to look like Rita Hayworth," I said, taking off my coat and staring at the picture of her plastered on my wall.

"Well, you got the red hair, KitKat," Micky said, gently tugging on a piece of my hair.

I gave him a sad smile and gently traced Rita Hayworth's figure. "When I was 14, I was told the only way someone would have sex with me was if I was raped. And of course, that's not -- that's not what rape is, it's not sex, it's everything but... sex. And he called me a whore right after he said it... so, it kinda defeated his point. But, um, it really affected my self-esteem."

"You didn't have very nice friends," he commented.

I snorted. "I wouldn't call him a friend, but you're right."

Micky traipsed over to my bookshelf, scanning the shelf, and said, "I've always thought you were beautiful."

I looked over my shoulder at him, but he was reading a page of one of the novels. I smiled to myself and put my coat back on.

"Well," I said, going to stand next to him. He looked up, lips inches away from mine. "I've been told it's my bubbly wit and girlish charm."

Micky grinned and tapped my nose. I scrunched my nose.

"What's with the coat?" he asked.

"You any good at bowling?"

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We went to the local bowling alley, River Run Lanes. For it being the holiday season, the bowling alley was dead. Only a couple and a random soul were bowling.

Micky was just like a child as he quickly slipped into his bowling shoes and bounced up, immediately starting the game before I could tie my first shoe.

"Thanks for waiting!" I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

"Pshaw, my good lady!" he exclaimed, bounding back to me to wait for his bowling ball to come back to him. "The very idea of waiting is what keeps us waiting."

I started blankly at him. "I failed philosophy twice."

"Alright, Socrates, get in line," he grumbled.

Micky went back to the lane, staring down the two pins left. They were on opposite sides. I knew he would lose this one with ease: no one could ever hit both those pins.

However, I forgot Micky was enigma that continuously proved me wrong, so I watched in amazement as he flung his ball so hard it bounced off the polished wood, hit one pin, and made that pin ricochet into the other pin. He finished the round with a spare.

I was in awe. I was also envious of his skill. I spent a good portion of my youth at the bowling alley and still couldn't bowl for shit.

Micky did an Italian Chef Finger Kiss and said in a horrible Italian accent, "Magnifico!"

"How the hell did you do that?" I questioned, staring at the bowling pins replacing themselves.

He smirked. "Ask again and I'll show you, dollface."