Page 157 of What We Burn

MILO

We’re losing to a team called the Pen-15 Club, and I have never been more annoyed in my life.

“That cannot be a league-sanctioned name,” Holden says, staring at the scoreboard. “There must be an approval process.”

“Oh, it’s real.” I point across the green at the six men currently high-fiving each other with the aggressive enthusiasm of people who peaked in middle school and refuse to acknowledge the decline.

They’re all wearing matching black shirts with PEN-15 CLUB printed across the back in white block letters.

One of them has a headband.

A headband. At lawn bowls.

“It says penis,” Knox says.

“It does, Knox. Thank you for that contribution.”

“Why would they name their team penis?”

“It’s a joke. Pen-fifteen. You write it on someone’s arm at school and—you know what? Never mind. The point is we’re down by two shots with one end left and our honor is at stake.”

It’s late Sunday afternoon at Glenview Lawn Bowls Club, and after everything we’ve learned over the last couple of days, it’s frankly rude that the world doesn’t look any different. There’s a whole-ass app out there dedicated to grooming and abusing women and the sun is out like nothing happened. The bowls club looks exactly as it did the last time we were here. The same aggressively flat green. The same brick clubhouse. The same honor board filled with the names of people who’ve probably been dead long enough to qualify as archaeological finds.

The bar is still mostly beer.

Reg is still fertilizing the roses.

And the Balls of Fury are still terrible.

We have improved, technically. Our official record stands at six forfeits and two spectacular losses, so being down by only two shots almost counts as progress. Whether losing less dramatically qualifies as improvement is a philosophical question I’m not emotionally prepared to answer.

Micah says we’re here to blow off steam after yesterday’s meeting.

I suggested arson.

He suggested lawn bowls.

Sage said she didn’t care as long as she got to throw something.

So here we are.

She’s wearing flat-soled club shoes two sizes too big because she arrived in her usual boots and the man checking the green took one look at them like she’d threatened to drive a truck over his firstborn. She’s spent the past hour shuffling around like an angry penguin in clown feet.

It hasn’t hurt her game.

If anything, the fury helps.

Since our last match, she’s been practicing in Holden’s backyard with a travel mug as a jack. The lawn now has a series of long grooves running through it, and Holden has started moving the mug slightly between deliveries to “introduce variable conditions.”

Neither of them will admit this means they’ve been practicing together.

“Okay.” I pull out my phone and open the notes app where I’ve been tracking our performance metrics. “Current assessment. Sage has drawn five scoring shots and sent three opposition bowls into the ditch. Knox has executed four successful drives, although Glenview’s secretary has asked him to stop making the ground shake. Micah remains annoyingly competent at everything. Holden is holding steady. I’m playing a complex psychological game that can’t be quantified through conventional statistics.”

“You’ve put six bowls in the ditch,” Holden says.

“Conventional statistics.”

“And one in the next rink.”