insisted on going first. Twenty-seven strokes later, her ball was in the cup. There were nine more of us to play. The people behind us, a man and a woman, began to look impatient.
"Mind if we play through?" asked the man. "There are just the two of us. It'll only take a few minutes."
"No," cried Margo. "It's my turn! I want to go next!"
"Margo — " I said.
"That's all right," the man said to her. "You go on."
After Margo had tried eleven times to get her ball through the windmill, I thought the man would turn purple. Jordan told her she could pick it up and carry it to the other side.
"You go on through — sir," I said when Margo was finished.
"Thanks," he said with relief. He and the woman sped through expertly.
The older kids were somewhat better players. Mallory actually got her ball in the cup in the suggested four strokes. Even Mary Anne and I couldn't do that.
"Hey, you're good!" I said to Mallory.
"It was beginner's luck," muttered Byron, who'd taken twelve strokes.
The second hole looked a little easier. At the top of a short green ramp sat a clown's face with a blinking red nose. You were supposed to hit your ball into the clown's mouth, and it would come out of one of three holes on the other side. If it came out of the middle hole, you could get a hole in one — which is just what Nicky got.
"A hole in one! A hole in one!" he shrieked. "I did it! I never got a hole in one before."
Several people nearby smiled at him.
Adam had just scored an embarrassing ten on the clown hole. Nevertheless, he punched Nicky affectionately on the shoulder. "Good going, little bro," he said.
Nicky beamed.
The people behind us — a family, now — were beginning to get that look that the man and woman had had earlier. I called Mary Anne and Mallory over to me. "I think," I said, glancing nervously at the impatient family, "that we better split into three groups and play separately. Otherwise, we're likely to get killed." After much discussion, Mallory agreed to play with the triplets, Mary Anne took Nicky and Vanessa, and I took Claire and Margo.
We lined up at the third hole, which had a
royal theme and was called "Old King Cole Hole." Mallory and the triplets played through first, and went on to the fourth hole. A half hour later, they were waiting in line for the eighth hole, Mary Anne's group was playing the sixth hole, and Claire was taking her thirty-seventh stroke at "Old King Cole."
"Claire . . . dear," I said as sweetly as I knew how.
"What, Stacey-silly-billy-goo-goo?"
But before I could finish (and I hadn't even been sure what I was going to say), Margo interrupted.
"You know what I think?" she said. "I think we should make a limit. You can't hit the ball more than twenty times. Twenty is it. If you get to twenty, your turn is over."
I raised my eyebrows. Great suggestion!
But Claire was frowning. "What if my ball isn't in the cup yet?" she asked.
"Twenty would be a better score," I told her. "Remember, you don't want a lot of points. The person with the fewest points is the winner."
"Well, okay," said Claire.
The twenty-stroke limit made a big difference. Even so, by the time Mallory and the triplets were finished, we were only on the tenth hole, and Mary Anne was on the thir-
teenth. We let the older kids leave to look in stores, if they promised to stay nearby and not cross the busy main drag. When Mary Anne and Nicky and Vanessa finished, they joined the others.
Then it was just me, Margo, Claire, and the putt-putt course. We were on the fourteenth hole. There were four more to go — five if you counted the "nineteenth" hole, which was really just a fancy way to return your ball to the rental shop.
On the fifteenth hole, Claire dropped her putt-putt club on the green. "I'm tired of this, Stacey. I don't wanna play anymore." (She had just found out that her score was over two hundred.)
On the sixteenth hole, Margo did the same thing.
I didn't care. I was very tired of miniature golf,
"Mind if we play through?" asked the man. "There are just the two of us. It'll only take a few minutes."
"No," cried Margo. "It's my turn! I want to go next!"
"Margo — " I said.
"That's all right," the man said to her. "You go on."
After Margo had tried eleven times to get her ball through the windmill, I thought the man would turn purple. Jordan told her she could pick it up and carry it to the other side.
"You go on through — sir," I said when Margo was finished.
"Thanks," he said with relief. He and the woman sped through expertly.
The older kids were somewhat better players. Mallory actually got her ball in the cup in the suggested four strokes. Even Mary Anne and I couldn't do that.
"Hey, you're good!" I said to Mallory.
"It was beginner's luck," muttered Byron, who'd taken twelve strokes.
The second hole looked a little easier. At the top of a short green ramp sat a clown's face with a blinking red nose. You were supposed to hit your ball into the clown's mouth, and it would come out of one of three holes on the other side. If it came out of the middle hole, you could get a hole in one — which is just what Nicky got.
"A hole in one! A hole in one!" he shrieked. "I did it! I never got a hole in one before."
Several people nearby smiled at him.
Adam had just scored an embarrassing ten on the clown hole. Nevertheless, he punched Nicky affectionately on the shoulder. "Good going, little bro," he said.
Nicky beamed.
The people behind us — a family, now — were beginning to get that look that the man and woman had had earlier. I called Mary Anne and Mallory over to me. "I think," I said, glancing nervously at the impatient family, "that we better split into three groups and play separately. Otherwise, we're likely to get killed." After much discussion, Mallory agreed to play with the triplets, Mary Anne took Nicky and Vanessa, and I took Claire and Margo.
We lined up at the third hole, which had a
royal theme and was called "Old King Cole Hole." Mallory and the triplets played through first, and went on to the fourth hole. A half hour later, they were waiting in line for the eighth hole, Mary Anne's group was playing the sixth hole, and Claire was taking her thirty-seventh stroke at "Old King Cole."
"Claire . . . dear," I said as sweetly as I knew how.
"What, Stacey-silly-billy-goo-goo?"
But before I could finish (and I hadn't even been sure what I was going to say), Margo interrupted.
"You know what I think?" she said. "I think we should make a limit. You can't hit the ball more than twenty times. Twenty is it. If you get to twenty, your turn is over."
I raised my eyebrows. Great suggestion!
But Claire was frowning. "What if my ball isn't in the cup yet?" she asked.
"Twenty would be a better score," I told her. "Remember, you don't want a lot of points. The person with the fewest points is the winner."
"Well, okay," said Claire.
The twenty-stroke limit made a big difference. Even so, by the time Mallory and the triplets were finished, we were only on the tenth hole, and Mary Anne was on the thir-
teenth. We let the older kids leave to look in stores, if they promised to stay nearby and not cross the busy main drag. When Mary Anne and Nicky and Vanessa finished, they joined the others.
Then it was just me, Margo, Claire, and the putt-putt course. We were on the fourteenth hole. There were four more to go — five if you counted the "nineteenth" hole, which was really just a fancy way to return your ball to the rental shop.
On the fifteenth hole, Claire dropped her putt-putt club on the green. "I'm tired of this, Stacey. I don't wanna play anymore." (She had just found out that her score was over two hundred.)
On the sixteenth hole, Margo did the same thing.
I didn't care. I was very tired of miniature golf,
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