Access Denied (and other eighth grade error messages) by Denise Vega Page B

to Jilly, and she nodded.
    “He’s just trying to psyche us out,” Bus Boy said, then turned to Blake. “I’m going to beat your sorry bowling butt.”
    “You bowl with your butt?” I asked Blake. “You must be very talented.”
    Blake laughed. I could get used to hearing that laugh. He caught my eye and my heart fluttered. Then he smiled mischievously.
    I looked from him to his ball, then back at him. “Payback for foosball?”
    “You know it, babe.”
    Blake dominated all of us, scoring over 200 every game. My high game was 125, Jilly’s was 110 and Bus Boy’s was 165.
    “Want me to bowl with my butt?” Blake asked Bus Boy. “Make it a little more even?”
    “You got lucky,” Bus Boy said, unlacing his shoes. “Wait till next time.”
    We all laughed and decided to grab some burgers at a restaurant a few blocks away.
    “I’ll tell my mom to pick us up there,” Jilly said, pulling out her cell phone. She and Bus Boy walked several feet ahead
     of us, each with a hand tucked into the other’s back pocket. I marveled at how comfortable Jilly acted with Bus Boy. Sure
     she got jealous and insecure but she could touch him and kiss him in public no problem. I couldn’t see myself ever doing that
     with anyone. I smiled as Bus Boy complained—loudly, over his shoulder—about Blake’s win.
    “Just admit you suck, Lanner,” Blake called.
    “I admit nothing,” Bus Boy said. “Next time, you’re going down.”
    “In bowling history, maybe,” Blake said, and I cracked up.
    “You really are good,” I said. “I wish I could play like that.”
    “You could if you practiced,” Blake said. “You’ve got a natural delivery; you just turn your wrist at the last second. That’s
     why the ball goes off to the side.” He reached for my wrist and held it in both of his hands, flicking it back and forth.
     “See, if you can keep it straight all the way through,” he said, pulling my hand back, “you’ll have a straighter aim at the
     pins.” He carried my hand forward to demonstrate, then brought it down to his side.
    “That makes sense,” I said, waiting for him to let go. He didn’t. He held onto my wrist as we walked and I wondered if it
     looked as weird as it felt to have someone holding your wrist instead of your hand. And then suddenly his hand was around
     mine, squeezing gently. I squeezed back, feeling the sweat between our palms—was it his or mine?
    “Want some gum?” I asked.
    “Sure.” He looked relieved and I wondered if he was feeling as awkward as I was. But how could he? He was a hot blond high
     school boarder boy and I was just a middle school computer geek.
    I handed him a stick of Doublemint before taking one for myself. He told me he had been bowling since he could hold a ball—“like
     you with foosball”—and I told him how I had to learn soccer and basketball to avoid being creamed by my brother.
    Blake laughed. “I see your brother at school sometimes. He seems pretty cool.”
    “He can be,” I said. “If you’re not related to him.”
    We walked a little further, our pace slowing so that the distance between us and Jilly and Bus Boy grew. As we passed a house
     with a lot of overgrown bushes and trees, Blake grabbed my arm and pulled me off the sidewalk and behind a hedge. My heart
     bounced wildly in my chest as he gripped my shoulders, his eyes peering into mine. We stared at each other, our noses and
     lips several inches apart, before Blake closed his eyes and leaned toward me.
    I felt his lips—slightly rough and chapped—against my own. I kissed him back, hesitantly at first, unsure of what I was doing.
     But when he didn’t pull away, and instead wrapped his arms around me, I relaxed. I reached my own arms around his neck and
     kept kissing him, moving my mouth with his. Then our mouths opened at the same time and I smelled his breath, Doublemint fresh
     with just a hint of the candy bar he’d gotten from the vending machine at the bowling