Chapter 4 – “A Six. That’s Bad. Really Bad.”
Blake
Something cold rested on my bare chest. I propped myself up on my elbows and my camera tumbled off my chest and into my lap. Naturally, I picked it up and went through my photos. Every single snapshot of Holly was deleted… except for the one with her on my back, her head resting against mine. There were two new pictures too. One was of Holly, smiling her seductive smile, and the other was of a sheet of paper that affirmed in flowing cursive, ‘I don’t give up that easily.’
Damn, she was good.
At that thought, she flounced into the room with a, “Good morning, Blake.”
When she saw I was topless, she shot out of the room faster than a scared mouse that saw a hungry cat with rabies.
I threw my head back and laughed. I wanted to love her, I really did, but I couldn’t. Not when she was going to be ripped out of my arms at any given moment.
I pulled a plain black tee over my head and announced, “Holly, I’m… decent?” My words sounded more like a question than a statement.
“Let’s try this again. Good morning, Blake.”
“Why, hello, dear Holly. Would you like some crumpets and tea for breakfast to celebrate this fine morning?”
She took a seat next to me on the couch and poked my stomach, “You’re funny.”
“Aren’t all hot guys funny?”
“Sure, sure,” she said rising from the sofa, “Do you have any fruit? I think I ate the last of your strawberries yesterday.”
“Really? I had expected you to eat the waffles.”
She grunted.
“Um, how ‘bout cereal?”
As we munched on our milk-soaked, Honey Nut Cheerios, I asked, “Since Sundays are my day off from work, what do you want to do today?”
“Hmm…,” she tapped her chin with her forefinger, “Anything, but sightseeing.”
“Well, that still leaves a lot of stuff. We could… go to the beach, have a picnic in Central Park, watch a movie, go bowling—”
“Bowling?”
“Yeah, bowling. You’ve been bowling, right?”
“Uh….”
I brought my fist down on the counter causing the milk in our bowls to quiver, “That’s it. We’re going bowling.”
Holly
There were about twenty or so bowling lanes, half of them occupied by focused bowlers. The polished floors shone with ten white bowling pins standing at the ends, waiting to be knocked down. We retrieved our bowling shoes and Blake revealed his own bowling ball. It was a sparkling, swirly blue with the number fourteen etched into it.
“Hmm, we need to find what weight is good for you….”
I tried an eight-pounder, but it was difficult to remove my fingers from the holes and it felt too light anyways. The nine-pounders had the same problem, so I finally settled on a ten-pounder. Blake let me go first to see how I bowled.
I shuffled up to the line and swung the ball with all my might.
Gutter ball.
I trudged back to Blake sulkily.
“Oh, you have another turn. You always get two tries, unless you get a strike.”
I rolled another ball down the lane and….
Gutter ball.
“Watch me.”
He took three confident steps, and with well-practiced form, the ball sped down the lane like a tornado.
Strike.
He gave me a satisfied expression as he handed me my ball. Gutter ball came after gutter ball and my hope of ever knocking down one pin vanished. My score was zero. Blake, on the other hand, had a perfect game.
He landed in the seat next to me, “That, my friend, is called a—”
“—rigged game,” I huffed.
He cooed, “Aw, someone’s a sore loser.”
“And someone’s an egotistical, fraudulent manipulator.”
He removed himself from the plastic chair, “Up.”
“We’re going?”
“Psh, of course not! I’m going to teach you how to bowl.”
“Ha! Me? The sore loser?”
“Yes, you, the sore loser.”
He entered only my name for the next game.
“At least three steps, keep your arm straight the whole time, and don’t let it go too soon or too late.”
It was working! It was going to be a strike! Then it curved. Right. In. Front. Of. The. Damn. Pins.
I pointed an accusing finger at them, “They’re mocking me!”
I felt his chest brush against my back and his brawny arms around mine. The ten-pounder was placed in my hand and Blake led my swing.
Strike.
Finally.
But it wasn’t mine.
“Let me try."
In the next one, half of the pins went down. My second try, the rest of them went down. Spare.
I finished the game with a score of one-hundred-twenty-eight. I cheered as I pranced toward Blake.
Blake
Huh. One-hundred-twenty-eight. A good score for a beginner. I was happy for her.
Before I could comprehend what she was doing, her arms wrapped around me in a grateful hug. I sucked in a breath; I shouldn’t get too close to her. But it just felt so right.
“Thank you,” she mouthed and then released me.
“Do you want to play another game, or do something else?”
“Practice makes perfect.”
And so we practiced. Well, she practiced. I couldn’t really get any better.
After about ten games or so, our shoulders were sore from swinging. We sat in comfortable silence stretching out our exhausted arms.
She spoke, “Why aren’t you like, a professional bowler?”
“I… don’t really like bowling. I mean, I like it, but it’s not something I would want to do for the rest of my life.”
“But you could make loads of money!”
“And not have fun doing it.”
“So you’re having fun being a cabbie and pastry server?”
“Way more than being a pro bowler. Being a cabbie and a pastry server, I get to meet so many cool people. When I’m a pro bowler, I would only meet other bowlers that I want to beat at bowling. Or weird fans.”
“Huh. I never thought of it that way.”
“Plus, if I was a pro bowler I would’ve never met you.”
She smiled brilliantly and my heart was pounding. Her smile was so amazing.
“Well, then I guess I’m glad you’re not a pro bowler.”
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Holly
Shabby markets lined the streets, Chinese store-owners called out prices in heavy accents, and potential customers wandered about prodding at vegetables and such.
“Wow, I never knew NYC had a Chinatown! Natalie and Wesley would only take me and Adrian to like, the Empire State Building and stuff.”
“Yeah, this Chinatown is way better than the one in D.C.”
“You’ve been to D.C.?”
“When my parents were still alive, we traveled the world. Rarely did we ever go home to North Dakota.”
“Oh. I’ve never been anywhere except here and Oregon.”
“That’s too bad.”
We traipsed for a bit longer; there was so much going on I could barely keep up with it. Little kids would be throwing hissy fits to get the toy they wanted, Americans were desperately trying to communicate with the foreign shopkeepers, souvenirs and money would be constantly exchanging through hands. It was all so busy and exciting—
Blake suggested, “Do you want bubble tea?”
“What tea?”
“Bubble tea.”
“I don’t really like tea unless it’s ice tea.”
“No, this kind of tea is really good; it’s not hot like normal tea. It’s a sweet milky drink with chewy tapioca pearls.”
“Okay, I’ll try it."
He put his hands on my shoulders and steered me to the right, “It’s right in here.”
A young woman sat behind the counter drumming her fingers on the tabletop. At the sound of the door swinging shut, she straightened her posture, and seemed delighted to see Blake. She gave me a poorly forced smile; the corners of her mouth were twitching upward.
“Hey, Blakey! How’s it goin’?”
As we came closer, I noticed she had bouncy black curls and an unnaturally large chest that was most likely the result of plastic surgery. Her assets were practically spilling over her top; pretty much everything about her screamed slut!
“Oh, hey…” Blake’s eyes searched for a nametag, “Veronica. I didn’t know you worked here. You’re, uh, Josh’s girlfriend, right?"
“Yeah. Is this your,” she glanced at me in disdain, “friend?”
“My best friend,” Blake replied. He flashed a crooked grin at me.
Veronica rolled her eyes and asked, “What do you want to order?”
“Two bubble teas, please.”
“Flavor?”
Blake looked down at me, “They’re all fruit flavors. I usually get honeydew.”
Honeydew sounded good. “Honeydew it is.”
As we slurped our bubble teas, Veronica strutted over and took a seat beside Blake. And sat very close to him. A bit too close, if you ask me. Unexplainable malice was coursing through my veins.
“So,” she began, “what’s your name?”
“Holly.”
“Nice to meet you, Heather.”
“Uh, it’s Holly.”
“What brings you to this lovely city, Hannah?”
“Vacation. And my name is Holly.”
“When are you leaving, Heidi?”
“Right now. Let’s go, Blake.” I stood up, letting the metal chair legs screech against the tile floor. I was sick of her and her purposeful butchering of my name.
“Oh, so soon! Okay, bye, Blakey! Bye, Haley!”
I resisted the urge to say, “Bye, bi’atch,” and instead grabbed Blake’s hand. I knew this would drive her insane.
An almost inaudible hiss floated to my ears, “Give it up, girl, he’s mine.”
Blake
As we were rushing down the sidewalk, hand in hand, Holly pried, “You know her?”
Was there a hint of jealousy in her voice?
“Uh, not really. The first time I saw her was on… Friday. I didn’t even know her name until today.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“What would you like to do now?”
“I want go see Adrian.”
“Why do you always call your dad Adrian?”
“It’s just… the fact that he isn’t my biological father. And we’ve lived alone, together, for the past ten years, so we’re more like companions than father and daughter.”
“Oh, okay. Just wonderin’.”
Ugh, the hospital. My least favorite place in the world. The place where my parents died.
All the walls were an immaculate white, nurses were scurrying this way and that, and the nauseating smell of hand sanitizer occupied every nook and cranny.
We signed in and then found ourselves at the door of Room 127. Holly rapped on the door until a familiar doctor opened the door.
I spat, “Hello, Rick.”
“Please, call me Dr. Johnson.”
“Not happenin’, Rick.”
Rick Johnson was a boy from my childhood. Dylan, Josh, and I had found entertainment in bullying him. He was a weaselly nerd back in the day, and probably still was. I wasn’t surprised when I found out he became a doctor. The same doctor my parents had been put in care of.
He acknowledged Holly and assumed, “Ya here to see Mr. Maxwell?”
Holly held a grim expression as she answered, “Yes, please.”
Rick narrowed his eyes, “Will you be able to control yourself this time?”
“Depends. Insult me again, and I might not be able to,” she made air quotes, “’control myself’”.
The sight of her father caught my breath. He had a breathing mask and was bound to various noisy machines like my father had been. The only thing missing were the burns.
“Daddy,” Holly whispered.
“I know you’re not conscious, but I know you’re listening. Daddy, get better for me. Please. You’re the strongest man I know, I’m positive you’ll make it out of this.”
“Ahem.”
I insinuated quietly to Rick, “You mean, ‘amen’.”
Rick shot me a ‘you’re too stupid for words’ look and then coughed, “Ahem, Holly."
Holly glared at Rick, “Yes?”
Rick pursed his lips, “Your father might not make it.”
Holly
No. Not possible. Not even considerable. I squeezed Adrian’s hand before I stood up. I swore he squeezed back.
I put a hand on my hip, “’Scuse me?
“We have a Glasgow Coma Scale. The scale scores range from three, which is completely unresponsive, to fifteen, which indicates the patient is oriented. The lower the score, the less likely the patient is to survive.”
“What’s my father’s score?”
“A six. That’s bad. Really bad.”
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Note from the Author:
Yay, almost 600 reads! (Yeah, don't make fun of me.) I wasn't actually going to update this, but let's just call it a little (belated) birthday present from me. I had meant to upload yesterday, but I got home late. Well, Vote&Promote!