Page 12 of Right Up His Alley

“Your father always talked about holding a big tournament at Spare Time,” she says into my chest, hiding her tears from me. I know she hates crying in front of me, thinking she needs to be the rock of the family, but she doesn’t. That’s my job now, and it will always be my job to protect and care for her.

It’s why I’ve stayed at home and agreed to run the bowling alley. I’d do anything for my mother.

“He spoke about how fun that would be for the community, and how he wanted to expose more people to his favorite sport. No, Mijo, I had no idea he did this, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Wouldn’t this be good for the alley? It sounds like something he’d do,” she admits.

“Do we go through with it? Do we make Spare Time a contender?”

My mother’s not oblivious. She knows sales and the appearance of the alley have gone downhill in the past year. Unlike me, she sees the potential in the alley and believes one day we’ll be able to pick up the pieces Dad left behind, and Spare Time will thrive again.

But he was the heart of it. That can’t ever be replaced. At least not by me.

My mom considers my words for a moment longer before finally replying, “There’s no harm in trying. Your father thought Spare Time stood a chance. It only feels right we see it through.”

Her answer doesn’t surprise me. It’s what I expected her to say, but I can’t help but feel it’s another shackle keeping me at the alley and away from pursuing tattooing one day.

“I can help in any way I can,” she continues when I stay quiet for a beat too long. “I can make some calls to the bank to see if there are any small business loans available.”

“A little extra money wouldn’t hurt. But that’s all I want you to do. I’ll handle the rest.”

I know I said the right thing when she pulls away from me, smiling brighter than I have seen her do in a long time. She reaches up and places a hand on my cheek, her warmth a comfort I can’t help but lean into.

“You make me so proud, Ezra. Your father was so proud of you too.” She beams at me with pride I don’t deserve. “Whatever you need, I’ll do my best to help.”

“Between trying for a loan and making delicious food, I’d say we’re even.” I keep my tone light. It’s the opposite of what I’m feeling.

My mom’s hand falls from my face, and her gaze shifts back down to the application she’s still clutching. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course.” It’s just paper, but it means so much. If it brings her comfort, I’ll gladly hand it over.

“Good. Eat before it gets cold. I’m going to lie down. It’s been a long day.” With that, she presses a kiss to my shoulder before leaving with my father’s last note to us.

I eat dinner alone in my room after my mother retreats to hers for the night. She needs time to process everything I’ve told her, and I need the quiet just as much, so I carry my plate upstairs to my childhood bedroom and shut the door behind me.

At twenty-three, I’m more than capable of living on my own. I’ve even managed to put aside a small savings—enough for a modest apartment if I stretched it. Or enough to buy my own tattooing supplies. But leaving would mean leaving her. Maybe it would be different if my dad were still here, if I knew she had someone to rely on. Instead, the thought of her alone in this house, with no one to help if something goes wrong, settles heavy in my chest. She needs me, even if she won’t admit it. But try telling that to a Mexican mom. It would be easier to convince a concrete wall to speak.

So, you know, impossible.

But I can take time for myself, hiding away in my room with the largest bowl of carne guisada I balance precariously on my lap.

The events of the day have been at the forefront of my mind, long after Truett and the men from the USBC left. Having a surprise visit from the bowling congress was unexpected enough, but Truett threw me for a loop. All six-plus feet of him and his golden retriever energy. I don’t know how to feel about him, but his smiling, better-than-average-looking face has been replaying in my mind.

Honestly, it’s exhausting.

Between bites of dinner, I scroll on my phone to escape my thoughts. I click on Google, telling myself it’s completely normal to search a person you just met. It’s simply to feed my curiosity and nothing else.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I type “Truett and bowling” into the search engine. I leave out his last name because adding it makes me feel like a complete stalker. It doesn’t take long for hundreds of hits to pull up with Truett’s face front and center, plastered across my screen. After a quick scan, I click on the second link.

It pulls up an article from several years ago from a local newspaper entitled, “Local Boy Turns Bowling Superstar.” That’s a bit overdramatic, but maybe it was a slow news day. I scroll down and see a large picture of a younger Truett with two other people. The caption reads, “Truett Thorne with his mother and father.”

Even though Truett’s smiling, I can’t help but notice how he stands closer to his mother. His father has his hand on Truett’s shoulder, but the more I look, the more I think the smile is a wince. He’s tense, even if he’s trying to hide it. Quickly, I scan the article.

Local teen wows college coaches with his near perfect score. Seventeen-year-old Truett Thorne is not your regular Pflugerville resident. He attends a prestigious boarding school a few hours away and has practiced bowling ever since he could walk. It’s no secret Truett is the son of the legendary bowler, Brett Thorne. When asked about his rise to success, Truett let us in on all his secrets.

“It’s a lot of practice,” he admits. “But practice is an important part of any skill. That and discipline. I’ve been around bowling my entire life, but I’ve never stopped learning, and I think that’s the most important thing. I’ve learned a lot from my father, but I’ve also learned a lot from Spare Time’s owner, Arsenio Jiménez. I owe my success to both of these men.”

For the second time today, I see my father’s name on something I don’t expect. This time, I can’t help but smile. My father always wanted to make a difference, and it’s evident he did. I wonder if he ever got the chance to read this article. If he did, I doubt he would have stopped talking about it. Before I can get any sappier, I read on.

When asked about being the son of Brett Thorne, Truett had this to say: