July in National City meant the bowling alley was the coldest place within a five-mile radius—the air conditioning cranked so high you forgot it was ninety outside. Johnny McHale leaned against the wall near the snack bar, watching his little brother Jimmy lace up rental shoes that looked like they'd survived a war.
"You're just gonna stand there?" Jimmy said, not looking up.
"I'm supervising."
"You're brooding."
"Same thing."
Their dad Mitchell appeared from around the counter, a cup of coffee in each hand. He was built solid, the kind of man who'd played high school ball twenty years ago and still carried the shoulders. He handed Johnny a cup. "Your mom wants to know if we're coming home for dinner or grabbing something here."
"Here's fine."
"Figured." Mitchell took a sip. "You meet the team yet? Jimmy's got two girls on his squad."
Johnny shrugged. He'd seen them—two thirteen-year-olds hovering near lane seven, giggling about something. One was tall, blonde, all legs and braces. The other was smaller, curvier, with wild chestnut curls that bounced when she laughed. He hadn't gotten a good look at her face yet. Hadn't needed to. Something about the way she moved had already snagged his attention. "Not really."
"They're coming over." Mitchell's voice had that edge—the one that meant he was watching Johnny watch something.
Johnny straightened, pushed off the wall. The blonde was walking toward them, the shorter girl trailing half a step behind. Up close, she was—
He lost the thought.
She was pretty. No, pretty was the wrong word. Pretty was what you called a girl in your chemistry class. This girl was something else. Italian, maybe. Dark eyes, full lips, a spray of freckles across her nose that she probably hated but that made her look like she'd just stepped out of a movie. She was wearing a tight pink tank top and shorts that showed off her legs—compact, toned, the kind of legs you noticed when you weren't planning to notice anything. She was thirteen. He knew she was thirteen. But she didn't look thirteen. She looked like she'd been poured into her skin and hadn't quite finished growing into it yet.
"You must be Johnny," the blonde said. "I'm Marla. This is Paige."
"Hey." His voice came out rougher than he meant.
Paige smiled. Not a friendly smile. A knowing one. "Jimmy said you were tall. He didn't say you were *that* tall."
"I'm not that tall."
"You're taller than me." She tilted her head, looking him up and down in a way that felt deliberate. "Way taller."
Mitchell cleared his throat. "Jimmy, you need to get your ball drilled. Come on." He grabbed Jimmy by the shoulder and steered him toward the pro shop, leaving Johnny alone with the two girls.
Silence hung for a beat. Marla's eyes flicked between them, a smile playing at her lips.
"So," Paige said, stepping closer. "You bowl?"
"I'm in the league. So. Yeah."
"I meant are you any good."
"Decent."
"Decent," she repeated, like she was tasting the word. "That's what people say when they're okay but don't want to brag."
Johnny felt his ears go warm. "Maybe I don't want to jinx it."
"Smart." She was still smiling. "I like smart."
That first conversation stayed with him. Not the words, exactly—but the way she'd looked at him. Like she was seeing something she'd already decided she wanted.
He told himself he was imagining it. She was thirteen. He was sixteen. That was a line you didn't cross. A line he *wouldn't* cross. But three weeks into the league, he'd started noticing patterns he couldn't unsee.
She always found a reason to be near him. During practice, when the younger kids were running drills, she'd drift over to the bench where he was sitting, ask him to spot her form, ask him to demonstrate a release, ask him if he wanted to share her fries. Little things. Nothing that would look like anything to anyone else. But the way she'd brush against his arm when she reached past him for a napkin. The way she'd hold his gaze half a beat longer than necessary before looking away.
She wore tight clothes. Really tight. Tank tops that showed the curve of her chest. Shorts that rode up when she sat down. She knew what she was doing—he could see it in the way she caught him looking, the tiny smirk that crossed her face before she pretended not to notice.
His dad noticed too.
They were sitting in the bleachers one night, watching Jimmy's team warm up. Paige was on the lane, bending over to set up her shot, and Johnny's eyes tracked the line of her back, the way the fabric of her shorts pulled tight across—
"Son."
Johnny snapped his head forward. "What?"
Mitchell took a slow drag of his coffee. "You're staring."
"I'm watching the game."
"You're staring at Paige."
Johnny's ears burned. "I'm not."
"You are. And that's fine. She's a pretty girl." Mitchell set the coffee down, turned to face him. "But she's thirteen, Johnny. You know that, right?”, his mom Karen chimed in.
"Of course I know that."
"Okay. Just checking." Mitchell's voice was calm, not accusing. "Because I've seen the way she looks at you. And I've seen the way you look at her when you think no one's watching."
Johnny didn't answer. Couldn't. His throat had gone tight.
"I'm not gonna lecture you," Mitchell said. "You're a good kid. You've got a good head on your shoulders. But I need you to be careful. She's young. She doesn't know what she wants yet."
"She seems to know." The words came out before Johnny could stop them.
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"
Johnny shook his head. "Nothing. Forget it."
But he didn't forget it. He couldn't. Because that was the thing—Paige *did* seem to know. She knew exactly what she was doing. Every time she laughed at something he said, touched his arm, leaned into his space, it felt deliberate. Not innocent. Not accidental.
He'd seen her try to ask out the guy at the counter. The nineteen-year-old with the sleeves of tattoos. She'd walked up to him, all confidence and big eyes, and he'd shut her down so gently it almost hurt to watch. She'd walked away with her chin up, like it didn't matter, but Johnny had seen her shoulders drop when she thought no one was looking.
She wanted older. She wanted someone who wasn't a thirteen-year-old boy who still thought cooties were a real thing. She wanted *him*.
And Johnny wanted her too. That was the part he couldn't say out loud.
He wanted her in ways that made him feel like a creep. Wanted to know what her waist felt like under his hands, what her mouth tasted like, what sound she'd make if he kissed her just right. He lay awake some nights staring at his ceiling, imagining her voice saying his name in a different tone, and hating himself for it.
She was thirteen. She was a kid.
But she didn't move like a kid. Didn't look at him like a kid. When she pressed her body against his while reaching for a bowling ball on the rack above him, that wasn't kid behavior. That was a line being tested.
It was a Thursday night, late August. The AC had broken, so the alley was warm and thick with the smell of popcorn and sweat. Johnny was sitting at a table near the back, nursing a soda, when Paige appeared beside him.
"You're not bowling," she said.
"My round's over. Fifteen minutes."
"You wanna share some nachos?"
He looked up at her. She was wearing denim shorts and a white top with thin straps, her curls pulled back in a ponytail. A thin sheen of sweat glowed on her collarbone. "You're not gonna eat a whole order of nachos by yourself?"
"I'm a growing girl." She slid into the seat across from him, close enough that her knee brushed his under the table. "And you look like you could use some cheese."
"I look like I need cheese?"
"You look like you're thinking too hard. Cheese helps."
He laughed. Couldn't help it. "That's not a thing."
"It's a thing. Trust me." She flagged down a passing worker, ordered nachos, then turned her full attention back to him. "So. What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"Fine." He leaned back, trying to put space between them. "I was thinking about school. Starts in two weeks."
"Boring."
"You asked."
"I asked what you were *really* thinking about." She put her chin in her hand, watching him. "And I don't think it was school."
The nachos arrived. Johnny reached for one, mostly to have something to do with his hands. "What do you think I was thinking about, then?"
Paige picked up a chip, dragged it through the cheese, and bit into it slowly. She chewed, swallowed, then said: "You were wondering why I keep hanging around you."
He went still.
Thankfully at that point Johnny’s dad called him over, and he was able to escape an awkward conversation. Before he left he turned to Paige and told her, “It's ok I don't mind you hanging around”. He smiles. Nothing too flirty, but just enough to keep her interested.
The tournament was at some place in El Cajon called Bowl-A-Rama, a name that sounded made up even by bowling alley standards. Johnny had ridden in the back of his dad's truck with Jimmy, the whole drive listening to his brother talk about his average and his splits and his goddamn spare percentage. Paige had shown up with Marla's mom, climbing out of a minivan that wasn't the McHales' but made Johnny's chest tight anyway.
They sat in the bleachers near the back, close enough to watch the lanes but far enough that no one would notice them not watching. Paige had her knees pulled up, her arms wrapped around them, wearing those same denim shorts from the other night and a black tank top that showed the small dip of her collarbone.
"You're not gonna cheer?" Johnny asked.
"I'm cheering internally."
"That's not how cheering works."
"It's how I work." She didn't look at him when she said it, but her mouth curled. "Besides, Marla's up. She gets nervous if she sees me watching."
"She gets nervous because you heckle her."
"I *encourage* her. There's a difference."
Jimmy rolled a gutter ball. Paige snorted.
"That's encouragement?"
"That's laughing internally."
Johnny shook his head, but he was smiling. He couldn't help it. Every time she opened her mouth, something in him loosened. It was dangerous, the way she made him feel comfortable. Like he could say anything and she'd just—take it. Take him.
The tournament dragged. Frames stacked on frames. Johnny's dad was down near the scoring table, arms crossed, watching Jimmy like a hawk. Mitchell McHale in his element: a cigarette behind his ear, a scorecard in his hand, the whole world reduced to pins and angles.
"Your dad's intense," Paige said, following his gaze.
"He's just focused."
"He's intense." She shifted, her knee brushing Johnny's thigh. "You're not like him."
"I'm nothing like him."
"Good." She said it softly, like it was a secret, and Johnny felt the word land somewhere in his chest.
The afternoon wore on. The AC in Bowl-A-Rama worked better than the one at their usual alley, but it was still warm, still close. Johnny bought them both sodas from the concession stand, and Paige drank hers with the straw between her lips, watching him over the rim of the cup.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing." She took another sip. "Just looking."
"At what?"
"At you." She set the cup down. "Is that a problem?"
It wasn't a problem. It was the opposite of a problem. It was the thing he thought about when he couldn't sleep, the thing that made him feel like he was twelve years old and thirty years old at the same time. "No," he said. "It's not a problem."
Marla threw a strike. The whole bleacher section erupted, and Paige clapped along with everyone else, but her hand lingered near his on the bench between them. Not touching. Close enough that he could feel the heat of her skin.
He didn't move his hand away. Neither did she.
The tournament ended an hour later. Jimmy's team placed third, which meant a small trophy and a lot of backslapping. Marla's team took second, and she ran over to Paige, bouncing on her heels, talking a mile a minute about the seventh frame and that one split she'd picked up.
"You were great," Paige said, and she meant it. Johnny could hear the sincerity in her voice.
"I know." Marla grinned. "You guys wanna get food? My mom said she'd take us to that place with the curly fries."
"Maybe." Paige glanced at Johnny. "In a minute."
Marla's eyebrows went up, but she didn't say anything. Just nodded and jogged back toward her mom, leaving them alone on the bleachers.
The crowd was thinning. Parents collecting kids, bowlers packing up their bags, the rumble of balls in the return racks settling into silence. Johnny stood, stretching his arms over his head, and Paige stood with him.
"That was boring," she said.
"You said you were cheering internally."
"I lied. I was bored internally too."
He laughed. "Why'd you come, then?"
She looked at him. Straight on, no games. "You know why."
He did. God, he did. The words sat in his throat, thick and warm. He wanted to say something—wanted to reach out and take her hand, pull her close, find out if her mouth tasted like cherry soda. But they were in a bowling alley in El Cajon with his dad twenty feet away and her best friend watching from the parking lot.
"Come on," he said instead. "I'll walk you out."
They moved through the lobby, past the shoe rental counter, past the arcade games that blinked and beeped in the corner. The light was different out here—dimmer, older, the fluorescent bulbs flickering above a row of empty lanes.
One of the lanes was dark. No lights, no scoring display, just the smooth gleam of the wood under the shadow.
"Bet you won't," Johnny said.
Paige stopped. "Bet I won't what?"
He nodded at the dark lane. "Roll a ball down that one."
"That lane's not on."
"That's the point." He was grinning now, the same reckless grin he'd worn when he'd dared her to ask him about sex in the minivan. "Unless you're scared."
"I'm not scared." She looked at the dark lane. Then back at him. "What do I get if I do it?"
He hadn't thought that far. "Bragging rights."
"That's it?"
"What else do you want?"
She held his gaze for a long moment. Her tongue touched her bottom lip. "I'll think of something."
She walked to the rack, picked up a lime-green ball, and before Johnny could say anything else, she took three steps and sent it rolling down the dark lane. The sound was strange—hollow, echoing, the ball disappearing into blackness until they heard it hit the pins somewhere far away. A crash. A scatter. She'd actually hit something.
Johnny doubled over. The laugh burst out of him, loud and unguarded, filling the empty lobby. "Holy shit."
Paige was laughing too, her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. "Did I break it?"
"I don't know. Maybe." He wiped his eyes. "That was—"
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The voice cut through the laughter like a blade. Johnny turned. His dad was storming toward them, face red, arms rigid at his sides. Mitchell McHale in full fury, the kind that made the air go thin.
"That lane is off," Mitchell said, his eyes fixed on Paige. "Do you have any idea what you could've done? The pinsetter could've been cycling. You could've damaged the equipment. You could've—"
Paige's face crumpled. The tears came fast, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice small. "I didn't mean—"
"It doesn't matter what you meant. This isn't a playground. This is—"
"Dad."
Mitchell stopped. Turned.
Johnny's heart was hammering, but his voice came out steady. "I dared her. It was me. I'm the one to blame."
The silence stretched. Mitchell's jaw worked. His hands flexed at his sides, and for a second Johnny thought his dad might turn the fury on him. But Mitchell just stood there, breathing hard, the red in his face slowly cooling.
"Get your stuff," Mitchell said finally. "We're leaving."
He walked away. Didn't look back.
Johnny let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He turned to Paige. She was still crying, her hand pressed against her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Her mascara had started to smear, a thin dark line trailing down her cheek.
"Hey." He stepped closer. "Hey. It's okay."
"I'm sorry," she said again, her voice breaking. "I shouldn't have—"
"I dared you. Remember?" He reached out, hesitated, then touched her arm. "It's my fault. Not yours."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were red, her face wet, and she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For him. For all of it."
She shook her head. "You didn't do anything."
"I should've known he'd be watching."
"You stood up for me." Her voice was quiet now, different. The tears were still there, but something else was surfacing behind them. Something she hadn't expected. "No one's ever done that before."
Johnny didn't know what to say to that. He just stood there, his hand on her arm, feeling her skin warm under his fingers.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Sniffed. "I'm a mess."
"You're not a mess."
"I'm crying in a bowling alley."
"Bowling alleys are for crying. It's in the brochure."
She laughed. It was wet and broken, but it was a laugh. "You're an idiot."
"Probably." He smiled. "Feel better?"
She looked at him. Really looked. Her eyes were still wet, but they were clear now, focused, and Johnny felt something shift in the air between them. The laughter was gone. The tears were gone. There was just this—the quiet hum of the vending machines, the distant rumble of someone else's game, and Paige standing close enough that he could see the freckles on her cheeks.
She wanted him to kiss her. He could see it in the way her lips parted, the way her chin tilted up, the way her hand came to rest on his chest. She wanted him to close the distance and find out if her mouth tasted like salt and cherry soda.
And God, he wanted to.
But she was still crying. Not hard, not the way she'd been a minute ago, but her eyes were still red and her cheeks were still wet and she was thirteen years old and he was standing in a bowling alley in El Cajon with his father's anger still ringing in his ears.
He couldn't. Not like this. Not when she was raw and open and he'd be taking something she wasn't ready to give.
So he didn't.
"Come on," he said softly. He dropped his hand from her arm. "Let's find Marla. Those curly fries sound good."
Something flickered in Paige's eyes. Disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. He couldn't tell. She nodded, wiped her face one more time, and followed him toward the exit.
At the door, she stopped.
"Johnny."
He turned.
"Thank you." She said it like it meant more than just the words. Like it carried everything she couldn't say in the lobby with the fluorescent lights flickering above them.
He nodded. "Anytime."
She smiled. Small, fragile, real. And then she walked out into the parking lot, where Marla was waiting by the minivan with a tray of curly fries.
Johnny watched her go. His chest ached with something he couldn't name, something that felt like wanting and waiting and hoping all tangled together. She was too young. He knew she was too young. But standing there in the doorway of Bowl-A-Rama, watching her walk away in those denim shorts, he knew one thing for certain:
He was going to wait. However long it took.
He was going to wait for her.