How Lamar's Bad Prank Won a Bubba-Sized Trophy (3 page)

If Sergio can have a fine girl, I can, too. I'll do anything to get a honey. If girls want superstars, smoothies, or bad boys, I'll be the most athletic, smoothest, baddest dude in Coffin.

W
e're about to start our second game when Sergio clears the score and rubs his head.

“I'm getting a headache.”

I give him my most serious face. “Do you have a penny?”

He reaches in his pocket and pulls one out. “Why?”

“I hear there's something in copper that heals head pain. But the copper has to be, uh…warm. Give me that penny. I'll warm it and bring it back.”

Sergio hands me his coin and I detour to the front desk. I ask for a pencil. After looking over my shoulder to be sure Sergio's not watching, I
scribble heavy pencil lead across the edge of the penny. I hurry back to Sergio and hope my face doesn't give anything away.

“Does it still hurt?”

He winces. “Yeah, a little.”

“Here, this should help.”

I roll the coin across his forehead, from one ear to the other, back and forth, three times, leaving lines of dark pencil marking as I roll. When I finish, Sergio's forehead resembles blank sheet music.

“Feeling better yet?”

He nods. “Yeah, I do. Wow. Copper. Who knew? Thanks, bro.”

I've got a glob of laugh-out-loud hiding in my throat. “Sure. No problem.”

I'm ready to whip his butt for the twelfth time in a row when Billy Jenks drops his bag in a seat on the lane to the right of us. Two teenage dudes carrying bowling bags follow him. Billy's arguing with them, and judging by the cursing and the glares, I figure someone's going to throw a punch soon. I've got ringside seats and refuse to budge. Sergio pulls up next to me and we listen to one of those chumps go off on Billy.

“I don't care about the guy who backed out, Billy. You promised us a two-on-two match. My brother won't be back to pick me up for an hour.
You need to find somebody to roll with you or I'm going to act a fool up in here.”

I'm ready to watch them duke it out until three fine girls from school step into the bowlers' area to the left. I nudge my boy, and since Tasha's not here, we check out the honeys together. Sergio thinks I don't have game, but I do, and now is the perfect time to prove it. I rub my chin like I've got hair growing on it and wink at them.

“You girls going to bowl?”

Sergio chuckles and whispers, “Why else would they be wearing bowling shoes? That sure made you look stupid.”

I glance at the pencil lines across his forehead. He's pimpin' a whole new level of dork and doesn't even know it. I declare myself Prince of Prank and celebrate by nodding my head to the music.

Even though I keep talking to those fine females, they don't answer me.

“If you ladies need any help, let me know.”

Nothing.

How can I make them see the real Lamar? I'm not about jokes all the time. I can be serious.

Oh no.

I cut my eyes to Sergio and wonder if the honeys watched me draw lines on his forehead. They probably did. Way to act like a serious guy, Lamar.

I shuffle over to a seat in the bowlers' area and
park. I'm so invisible to girls. This may be a long, lonely summer if I don't figure out how to switch things up. I bend to retie my shoes, but Billy's angry voice startles me.

“I understand! Just give me a minute!”

I've known Billy Jenks since kindergarten. He's tall on attitude but short in stature. Billy's so low to the ground, I bet his hair and feet smell the same. I'd never seen a person with a square face until I saw his. It's all smashed in, like he got clocked with a can of Spam.

But every kid in Coffin knows Billy Jenks equals trouble. Rumors say he's a gold-card member of juvenile detention. I know he's done time in three boot camps and he's only fourteen. Other than seeing each other at Striker's or at school, we don't mix.

He glances toward the door, shakes his head, and calls off the game. One of the dudes cups his hand to his mouth and blasts, “Coffin bowlers are chumps.”

It's one thing to talk about the dude who didn't show up. But this punk has just called out our whole town. I shove my hands into my pockets, step closer, and speak before I even realize I've done it.

“What's going on, Jenks?”

Billy turns, and I lock in on the iciest blue eyes
in the universe. “Hey, Washington. These guys are trying to chump Coffin bowlers. Can you believe it?”

I snatch my inhaler, shake it, and press the canister until I hear the swish. As the spray goes down my throat, I shove my inhaler back into my pocket like it's a high-powered weapon. “You need a bowler?”

Billy's eyebrows jump. “For real? I'll pay for your game if you roll with me.”

I pop my knuckles. Sergio whispers in my ear.

“No. You are
not
for real. Snap out of it! It's Billy Jenks, fool!”

He's right. I fake a concerned look at my watch, and just as I fix my mouth to say “My bad, I lost track of time,” a honey made of the finest brown sugar sashays by. With a gym bag on her shoulder, she wipes her face with a towel and glides into the lane on the left with those other three girls.

Her tight, ocean blue soccer shirt has me sea-sick. Black shorts, blue socks, and black-and-blue Nikes show me the girl's got style. She's got braids swishing on her shoulders and my neck sways with them. Only one word can describe this goddess from the island of sexy soccer.

“Dang.”

I keep looking and swaying. Suddenly, she looks at me. My neck locks. Holy crackers and
cream cheese! I'm stuck in stupid. Jenks snaps his fingers and I flinch.

“What's the verdict, Washington? Are you Coffin proud or what?”

As my eyes ping-pong from Jenks to the soccer princess, Sergio grabs my arm.

“Can I talk to you a minute? Alone?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, but it will have to wait. You've got something on your forehead, bro. You better go check it out in the men's room.” I turn to Billy. “Let's roll.”

While Billy pays for my game, another quick glance confirms that the soccer princess is watching. I pimp my walk just to prove confidence is not an issue with me. Near the ball return, a sparkle makes me look. I'm mesmerized by the shiniest green Bubba Sanders Pro Thunder I've ever seen.

“Who's rolling with that?”

Billy steps back into the bowler's area. “I am.”

I get close and see
BILLY J
. engraved above the finger holes. I sure hope he doesn't disgrace Bubba and roll gutter balls.

I sneak another peek at the soccer princess. She looks my way. I nod at her. She doesn't nod back. I lift my hand to wave, but Billy stands in front of me and short-circuits my love connection.

“Lamar, this is Jesse Ray and Robert Earl from Scottsburg.”

I've seen these guys at the mall. Jesse's got a Peyton Manning jersey on. He blows a monster bubble, and I want to pop it all over his face.

Robert Earl has braces, a mop of red hair, and a face full of freckles. He's sporting green high-cut girly shorts with green Converse Chuck Taylors and a green-and-white shirt. All that red and green reminds me of a big bag of holiday M&Ms.

I turn to Billy. “Let's rock and bowl.”

Billy rolls first. I watch his form. He obviously hasn't read Bubba's book. He gets six pins on the first ball, two on the second. Jesse Ray's next.

Jesse takes his time, pulls his weapon from the ball return, and faces the pins. Still and patient as a king cobra, he waits. The bowlers' area is quiet. I'm nervous. This guy has skills.

He takes a step, then another. His ball swings behind him, high in the air, and shifts forward as he releases it before the foul line. It rolls close to the edge of the gutter and I'm ready to laugh until it takes a wicked cut to the left. It's the nastiest curve I've seen in a long time.

POW!

He turns, pops another big bubble, and stares at me with a half grin. I've got something for you, bubblehead boy. I snatch my house ball and ease up to the approach line.

I won't even look at the pins. It's not time. My
shoes touch as I position myself to roll something filthy. My fingers grip inside the holes and I lift the ball to my side. I close my eyes and enter the zone.
Now
it's time.

My eyelids lift slowly and zero in on my real opponent. Sixty feet away ten pin-shaped soldiers double dare me to take them down. They stand at attention in a tight triangle, but I'm not intimidated. My right foot leads the charge.

As my left foot follows, both hands push the ball away. My left hand lets go, leaving two fingers and a thumb on my right hand to take care of business. I find my rhythm, swing that ball back, then throw a Coffin-sized stink bomb down the lane.

I turn around and strut back to my seat before my ball reaches the pins.

BLAM!

Billy makes an X with his arms. I make an X, too, then turn to Jesse.

“This Coffin bowling chump is going to whip your bubble-blowing rump.”

I take a seat and steal another look at my goddess of soccer. She's laughing and bowling. Our eyes meet. I get bold and smile. She doesn't smile back. But at least she sees me.

Billy cleans the left gutter on his next turn. I'm ready to call the bowling police. It should be against the law what he's doing to his Bubba's Pro
Thunder. Robert Earl gets five pins on both rolls. He bowls more like the green M&M than the red one. Jesse tries to keep up with me, but I'm rolling with a bigger purpose. This is my house, my bowling alley, and I want that message on the scorer's sheet.

By the seventh frame, I take on Jesse Ray as if Bubba had invaded my body. I shut that fool up and sit him down with a score of 186 to his 159. Billy scores a 147 to Robert Earl's 112.

I lift my hands in the air and put their butts on blast.

“From Coffin to grave, baby, from Coffin to grave!”

They don't appreciate my humor, and Jesse lets me know it.

“You need to shut up, Washington. Or we can take this outside,” he says.

Doesn't he know I've got a girl watching me? So I push him. I'm about to break my fist off in his eye when Jenks steps between us.

“You got a problem, Jesse?”

Jesse backs away. “No, Billy. I'm just ready to get out of here.”

“Fine. Be gone.” Billy turns to me. “I'll be back. Don't leave.”

They shuffle through the exit doors. Jesse gives me one more look. I nod at him, hit my chest
twice with my fist, and shoot him a peace sign.

“Don't let the doorknob hit you where my house ball bit you!”

The soccer goddess moves to a table behind us to remove her bowling shoes. Her friends leave but promise to call her later. She looks my way again, and I'm about to wink at her when I see Sergio walking my way. He plops down beside me. His face smells like soap.

“I can't believe I fell for that. My forehead looked like school paper. But I have to admit it was funny.”

I burst into laughter, but Sergio calms me down with a hand on my shoulder.

“That girl's checking you out. It's time to make a move.”

I push his hand away. “What are you? Crazy?”

He puts his hand back on my shoulder. “I double dare you with cheese to talk to her.”

Sergio backs me into a corner with the double dare. After beating Jesse Ray and Robert Earl, instead of feeling invisible, I feel invincible. So I take the challenge.

“She's mine. Stand back and watch the master at work.”

M
y feet switch to autowalk. I'm halfway there when I realize Mom never got a chance to talk to me about girls before she died. Dad has never showed me how to bust a move. X tells me I'll never get a girl because I'm swamp scum. I'm probably about to get my face slappa-lappa-jacked by the finest honey I've ever seen, and it's all Sergio's fault for daring me.

I slow my pace and look over my shoulder. Sergio's still watching. I can't detour to the men's room. I shouldn't have taken that dare. She won't talk to me. This girl is grade-A, high-quality fine, like queens and supermodels. I'm inching toward
her. She's watching me. Dang.

I've made my way to her table. She looks scared. I grab the top of the empty chair.

“Uh, hi. Is this seat taken? I mean…can I sit here?”

She looks at all the empty tables and chairs in the snack bar, then back at me. I feel a neck roll coming, followed by two finger snaps and a verbal beat-down. Please don't crack my face in front of Sergio.

But she shrugs. “It's a free country.”

I slide the chair back and sit but don't scoot in, just in case I need to dash. Okay, round one is in the books. The score is Lamar—one; superfine girl—zero.

Round two is my specialty. It's time to give her a glimpse of the L-Train.

“Uh, wow, your braids are bangin'. I've never seen them that thin before. They look like…uh…like a thousand baby snakes.”

She scoots her chair back. Oh no! She's going to bounce! I scramble for a correction.

“Not poisonous ones! Snakes rock! Hey, don't leave. Okay, I take it back.”

That was a bad round. I'm going to give her a point for staying. Now for the final round. Come on, Lamar, you can do it. Stop all of this jabbing and go for the knockout.

I lean back in my chair. “So, do you love bowling?”

She leans forward. “Why are you talking to me, Lamar?”

Holy guacamole, she sucker punched me! How'd she know my name? I've never even seen her before. No way I would have forgotten those gorgeous light brown eyes.

I Google my memory, but it returns the message
Your search did not match any documents.
Great. I'm clueless. It must show in my face, because she gives me a tiny hint.

“We've gone to the same schools since day care,” she says.

I send that piece of info to my memory and try again. It Scrabbles up, down, and across, but it won't spell out her name. And how am I supposed to remember who I went to day care with?

She crosses her arms. “Makeda? Makeda Phillips? Dang, Lamar.”

I lean forward for a closer look and freak. “Fivehead Makeda?”

Everybody knows Makeda Phillips has the tallest forehead in the galaxy. There must be a full five inches of naked skin from her eyebrows to her hairline. She definitely has a fivehead, not a forehead like the rest of us.

I've never noticed anything but her temple of
dome in the past. But her bangs hide that fivehead pretty good. I enjoy the view until it dawns on me she's still not smiling.

“I didn't mean to call you, well, you know. You look so…”

Her eyebrows rise and disappear under her bangs. “Different?”

I smile. “Exactly. In a really good way.”

“Thank you, but you still haven't answered my question. Why are you talking to me?”

Why do girls ask hard questions? I'm struggling to answer when she shocks me.

“I know you've got some prank in the making. You and Sergio always do.” She starts to get up. “But I'm not falling for them anymore. See you later.”

I show her my hands. “No pranks, I swear. I just want to talk to you. Please don't leave. Hey, isn't Makeda the name of a famous queen?”

A slight half grin forms as she sits back down. “Yeah. My parents named me after the queen of Sheba. I didn't think anybody knew her real name was Makeda.”

I exhale. Whoa. That was close. What a save! I put one hand in my pocket and strike a pose.

“You look a whole lot better than the queen of Sheba. She's all ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Deader than disco, know what I mean?”

Judging by the look on Makeda's face, I've just slid from Mac Daddy to Whack Dudley. If I could get my foot up high enough, I'd kick my own butt. I pull my hand out of my pocket, and the five dollars Sergio gave me falls to the carpet. I glance back at her.

“Let me buy you a Coke or something from the snack bar, as an apology. I was stupid. Come on. You gotta give me a second chance.”

She tilts her head. “Is this apology for putting a tack in my chair in science lab, for high-fiving my forehead in the cafeteria, or for all the rude things you've ever said to me?”

Wow. Better make that a large Coke. I bite my lip, scrunch my eyebrows, and rub my face searching for a really good answer. When I glance across the table, she's grinning.

“I guess I'm a little thirsty. I'll wait for a few minutes, but I'm not going to let you pull that old ‘waiting forever' prank on me again.”

Holy crackers and cream cheese, that was a classic! My teeth clamp to stop the big glob of laugh-out-loud creeping up my throat. It happened back at the beginning of seventh grade. Sergio told Makeda I had a crush on her and wanted to hook up after school. When the bell rang, me and Sergio rushed outside, hid behind some bushes, and timed her. She waited thirty
whole minutes. I laughed for days.

I mentally check back in and glance at Makeda across the table. She's blinking and thinking, staring at her fingers with a sad, sad face.
Hmm.
Didn't she think it was funny? I never thought about how she felt about that prank. Now it's not so funny.

I get up and cross my heart with my pointer. “I swear. No more pranks. Just don't leave.”

She checks her watch. “Then you better hurry.”

I rush to the snack bar and order two Cokes plus a bag of popcorn. Sergio pulls up.

“Way to go, Romeo. What's her name? She's new, isn't she?”

I break the news. “Dude, it's Makeda Phillips.”

Sergio's eyes widen. “Fivehead? Quit playing.”

We both take a slow look over our shoulders before turning back around.

“Dang, Lamar, she sure disguised herself with that new hairstyle. That's kind of scary. Good thing you didn't promise her anything.”

I look at Sergio again. He rolls his eyes.

“What did you promise her?”

I shrug. “Just a Coke.”

The snack bar guy rings me up. “Six dollars.”

I turn to Sergio. “I'm a buck short. Can I borrow one more from you?”

He frowns. “Dude, step away from the snack
bar. It's Fivehead. Hey, I've got an idea. Leave her sitting there. That'll be hilarious.”

“I promised her, no more pranks. And I can't just dump her.”

Sergio gives the snack bar guy another buck, then turns to me.

“I didn't know you were
that
desperate. I'm taking Tasha to the movies. I'll call you tonight, and hopefully you'll tell me she's history.”

I grab the Cokes and popcorn. “Later, bro. Thanks for the cash.”

Sergio's words sting. I'm not desperate. I'm handling my business. Bump him. A superfine girl is talking to me, and I don't care what she
used
to look like.

I strut back to the table and she's still there.

“Here's your Coke. I got popcorn, too.”

“Thanks.”

I hold up my drink. “Let's toast to a new start, okay?”

Our cups touch, but her expression worries me. I don't think she buys this whole “no more pranks” thing.

Makeda takes a sip of her Coke and I chuck a few pieces of popcorn in my mouth. What can I ask her? What can I tell her? Man, this conversation thing is tough, so I say the first thing that comes to my mind.

“Do you just bowl to hang out with your friends?”

She takes a sip of her drink. “No. I love bowling. I'm here almost every day. “

I almost choke on my popcorn. “No way! I bowl every day, too. Why haven't I seen you?”

I know the answer and wish I hadn't asked her to remind me how much of a jerk I've been. Lucky for me, she stays quiet, so I change the subject.

“Did you get a bowling pass?”

I offer her popcorn. She takes some and admits, “Yeah, I got one.”

“You got your pass with you right now?”

She stops chewing and stands. I rewind what I just asked, searching for clues of stupidity. She blinks hard at me. With both hands on her hips, she rolls her neck from side to side and I wonder if she has any bones in that thing.

“Oh, I get it. You want my free games, right? I should have seen that coming. Use up Makeda's free games and then laugh at her.”

I spill popcorn all over the table as I hold both hands toward her. “No, that's not what I meant. I just thought we could bowl a game together or something, because I've got my pass, too. See? I've still got one game left. Honest.”

She checks out my pass and shakes her head. “I have to go.”

I stand, too. “Will you be here tomorrow?”

She lifts her soccer bag. “I don't know, maybe. Bye, Lamar. Thanks for the Coke.”

I watch her leave. Dang it! I didn't get her phone number. It's not too late. I take a step from the table and bump into Billy Jenks.

“Washington, can I talk to you a minute?”

I shake him off. “Not now, Billy.”

Two crisp twenties brush across my wrist and land on the table. My eyes bulge, and I turn back to him. He crosses his arms.

“They're yours. You want 'em or what?”

I hesitate to touch the money. “What's the catch?”

“There's no catch in my game, Washington. Forty bucks is chump change to me. It should be to you, too. If you're interested in making some serious cash, grab a seat.”

I look toward the door. She's gone. I glance at the twenties and then at Billy. He plops into the chair Makeda has just emptied.

“Let's talk business, Washington.”

I ease back down and keep my eyes on Billy. He's grinning at me.

“Wow, talk about impressive. You really
are
the King of Striker's.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm serious. I mean, at school you're geek of
the week or something, no offense. But here, I don't know, you're awesome.”

“Yeah, well, I gotta bounce.”

I get up and Billy rubs his hands together.

“I just ordered a pepperoni pizza for us. You down? It's just my way of saying thanks. You saved my butt today.”

I quick sit. Striker's pizza is off the chain.

“Yeah, I guess I can stay a minute.”

He taps on the table. “And by the way, your brother is an awesome basketball player.”

I shrug. “He's a'ight.”

Billy chuckles. “Are you kidding me? He's an all-star. I bet he gets a scholarship.”

I look around Striker's. “Can we talk about something else?”

He leans back in his chair and stares at me. “Sure. No problem. I wish I could talk about
my
brother's basketball skills, but he stinks. And Dad thinks he's the next Larry Bird.”

I bring my focus back to Billy. He shrugs and keeps talking.

“Yeah, Dad's all into Scooter's basketball career, so I've got my own thing going on. When I need new gear, I go buy it myself. Has your dad ever bought you bowling gear?”

My eyes lower. “No.”

“Hey, have you ever noticed how our dads sit
together at the basketball games? Seems like they've got a lot in common. What do you think?”

I don't answer. Where's that pizza? I glance over my shoulder and see a round flat pan coming our way. Once it's on the table, Billy and I dig in. I've got a mouth full of pizza when he starts talking crazy.

“I saw you checking out my Pro Thunder. Sweet, isn't it? Want one?”

I nod toward the posters. “Bubba's giving four of 'em away. One has my name on it, hands down, no questions asked. I'm his number one and my essay will be off the chain.”

Billy grabs another slice. “You need to man up, Washington. How many essays do you think Bubba's going to get?”

“I don't know, maybe a few hundred.”

“At least. So think about it. The odds are against you. Do the math.”

I cross my arms. “I don't see anything wrong with writing an essay, Billy.”

“You know, Washington, with your bowling skills, you should have butt-kickin' bowling gear and a fat roll of cash in your wallet. I'm not nearly as good as you are and I keep a stash.”

I shake my head. “I don't bowl for money.”

“Oh, I forgot. You're counting on an essay
miracle. If you ever want better odds, holler at me. I could use you on my team. How does fifty bucks a game sound to you?”

My eyes bulge again as my jaws stop chewing. “You mean real cash?”

He opens his wallet to show a layer of green. “Does this look like Monopoly money?”

I raise one eyebrow. “How'd you get that?”

He snaps his wallet closed and stuffs it in his back pocket. “I work the lanes. There's always somebody ready to bet on a game.”

I choose my words carefully. “No offense, Billy, but you're not that good.”

He chuckles. “I sandbagged. Jesse Ray and Robert Earl—they didn't need to see my best stuff. When you rolled that first strike, I decided to roll gutter balls. The next time we bowl against them, they'll look for you and I'll roll fire. You gotta know how to play the game.”

I lean back. “Don't you ever play for fun? I mean, you know, for free?”

He looks right at me. “I don't do anything for free. I'm a businessman, Washington. Don't ever forget that. Everything I do is about banking. That's why you got paid. I had money on that game, and you came through for me.”

Both of my eyebrows rise. “There's something
illegal about this, isn't there?”