The Prom Queen's Date

Chapter Nine

A bowling alley was a poor man's country club. Well . . . that's what it looked like from where I was standing. Men, men and more men ranging from new parents to grandparents, took up residence in each of the lanes. Without the rest of their families, of course.

They drank from the bar and kicked back in the lanes because there was a special; buy two drinks and earn yourself a free game. Not only was the place overflowing with men, but they were also drunk men who kept on buying drinks and kept their lanes for game after game. This was our fault for going on a Wednesday night which was clearly dedicated to folks like them.

The first thing Maisie did when she sat into the booth was to place her phone face down on the table. That could mean one of two things; one, that she wanted to focus on me and not be disturbed by the notifications on her phone, which was respectful or two, she had something to hide. But according to her twitter, she didn't hide much, so she got a point for good behaviour.

We got a basket of fries to share in the booth while waiting for our turn to pounce for a lane. All of Anna's advice didn't set me up for a simple eat opposite each other chat. Prolonged eye contact? I didn't have any other choice but to look into Maisie's eyes. If I did look away, it would've seemed like I was wholly disinterested in our conversation.

The only way to initiate any form of physical contact was beneath the table by foot. And feet . . . feet were pretty gross. Especially rented shoes. Shoes that hundreds of other people have worn before us.

Thinking about our feet touching made me almost miss the question she asked.

"Hmm. Music? Anything that's on the radio, I'm not too fussy. Put on Phil Collins and I'm chilled out for ages," I told her and then proceeded to panic as she squirted tomato sauce all over the fries. "You didn't just do that, did you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, you don't like tomato sauce?" Maisie put the bottle down and winced.

"I do, but I like to dip . . . only once per fry from a separate container. Huh. I think it's a habit I picked up from Anna."

"Haha, good one, Sam."

"No . . ." I wasn't joking, but what was the point in taking back a 'joke' that made her laugh. The consequences? I'd have to live with this lie for the rest of my life. Or around her anyway. That was it. Trapped by this lie forever. "Yes. I was very clearly joking. Anyway, music, what type do you like?"

"Stuff like Nirvana, nothing you'd know."

"I would never have guessed," I joked and nodded to her top with Nirvana spelt backwards and ignoring the fact she thought I didn't know who Nirvana was. Everyone knew about them.

"Okay, we need to get into the juicy questions."

"Sure." I grabbed my drink. "Personally, I like orange."

"What?"

"Orange juice . . . bad joke. Okay, juicy questions. Shoot."

"What made you realise that you liked girls?"

Record scratch.

Five years ago.

Mrs. Jenkins made us promise that after watching the Prisoner of Azkaban that we would go to bed. We intended to keep the promise, but magically The Half-Blood Prince was on the screen, and it was three o'clock in the morning. It was Valentine's Day. A holiday! It wasn't like we had school the next day. Saturdays weren't meant to be lived. They were meant for sleep. We'd gotten this far, and if we had to stay up twenty hours straight to watch until the end, then that's what we were going to do. We agreed to that silently.