grins.
âHowâs your fish?â
âCrunchy. Hey, can you think of anything that rhymes with Makeda ?â
âWow, thatâs a tough one. Not offhand. Did youdo your breathing exercises today?â
âYes, sir. I also stopped by Dr. Averyâs office and made an appointment for tomorrow. Will you call and tell them itâs okay for you to not be there?â
Dad raises an eyebrow. âI can be there. What time? Is something wrong?â
âNo, sir, nothing. Iâm thirteen now and itâs just going to be the same old âBreathe in, breathe outâ routine. You know Dr. Avery never flips the script.â
Dad winks at me. âI get it. Youâre almost a man now. Can handle your own business.â
Xavier opens his big mouth. âYou should take him, Dad. Lamarâs a baby. His breath still smells like Gerber.â
âShut up, X! Dad, itâs time. Youâre absolutely right. Iâm old enough.â
He reaches into his wallet and hands me a twenty. âThis is for the insurance co-pay. Iâll call tomorrow and give my consent.â
I stuff the cash in my pocket. âThanks, Dad. Did I tell you Iâve beat Sergio in eleven straight games of bowling?â
Dad chuckles. âNo kidding?â
âHe canât handle me, Dad. Iâm the bowling king at Strikerâs.â
He nods as he chews, then gets this oh-I-meant-to-tell-you look on his face.
âI did some research on that bowlingscholarship thing we were talking about a few days ago. Nada. Zilch. Couldnât find one school willing to fork over a bowling scholarship. I guess things havenât changed.â
If Xavierâs grin gets any bigger, his headâs going to explode.
I scoop a big chunk of potato salad into my mouth. Then, out of nowhere, Dad taps on the table.
âYou know, bowling on a team is one of my happiest high school memories.â
I stop chewing. So does X. Dadâs eyeballs bounce back and forth between us.
Thatâs just as good as pulling the clip on a grenade and dropping it in on Xavierâs head. My mouth opens. Potato salad falls out and splats on my plate. Did I hear what I think I heard?
âDid you say you bowled on a team?â
His head tilts. âI told you that, didnât I?â
Dad keeps chewing and reloads his mouth with steak. â Mm-hmm. Yep, I was nasty good. Bowled cleanup, you know, anchor. My teammates called me Clutch. Clutch Washington. I won a trophy. Itâs somewhere in the closet at home.â
Iâve got clumps of drooled potato salad on top of my catfish. I drape my napkin across my plate. The catfish was good, but not nearly as good as this bit of news.
âI knew you bowled, but I thought it was just for fun,â I say.
He gobbles more steak. âBoy, I loved to bowl as much as you do now. Itâs too bad they donât have bowling teams in schools anymore.â
âYeah, that would be way cool. Iâd roll lights out for my school.â
Dad chuckles again. Xavier tries to break in, but Iâm not having it.
âHey Dad, when you find that trophy, I want to see it.â
âReally? Okay, Iâll look for it. Anything exciting happening at Strikerâs?â
I quickly glance at Xavier. He thinks the conversation is over, but itâs not.
âBubba Sanders is coming on the Fourth of July.â
Dadâs fork stops halfway between his plate and his mouth. âIs he really?â
âAnd heâs giving away four of his brand-new Pro Thunders with the matching bags.â
Xavier breaks in. âWhatâs he going to do, chuck the bowling balls out in the crowd and whoever doesnât get knocked out gets to keep âem?â
Dad laughs at that one but then gets serious. âReally, whatâs the catch?â
âYou have to write a five-hundred-word essay to Bubba by June thirtieth, explaining why youshould be one of the four