Genuine Sweet by Faith Harkey Page A

looked a little less dreary. “I am, too. Ma told me about your wish fetching. I always suspected you was a little magical.”
    â€œThat makes one of us,” I said. “But life does surprise sometimes.”
    He nodded. “Sure does. I didn’t think you were gonna come today.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I asked, glancing at the door.
    â€œI was pretty sure you hated me.”
    â€œNot
hate,
” I replied.
    â€œBut my ma said, ‘What can it hurt, just to ask her?’ The chocolate was her idea. Did you like it? I don’t eat much candy myself.”
    I froze. “I’m sorry. What?”
    â€œCandy. Chocolate and butterscotch and such. This one Easter, though—”
    â€œAre you telling me that chocolate was from
you?
” My voice shook.
    â€œShore.”
    â€œ
You
invited me bowling today?”
    â€œWho’d you think?” He smiled a little sideways.
    I moaned. “Sonny Wentz!”
    His smile vanished.
    â€œI should have known.” He took a deep, sort-of ragged breath and spoke through gritted teeth. “Will you excuse me for a minute, Genuine?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before he disappeared into the men’s room.
    Travis Tromp! I was on a date with Mister Blackpants Blackshirt Blackington! My gut wrenched. My cheeks burned. How could I have been such a fool as to think Sonny Wentz would ask out bucktoothed, freckle-faced Genuine Sweet? The daughter of Dangerous Dale! I was so embarrassed, I considered very seriously crawling down into a pin sweep at the end of the lanes and letting it brush me into whatever dusty cubby lay beyond.
    â€œSurely no one would find me there,” I muttered.
    Nearby, Travis cleared his throat. “Genuine.”
    â€œWhat?” I said it rudely, I admit.
    â€œI think it’s fair to say we’re both disappointed,” he said, still measuring his words. “But why don’t we make the best of it? Let’s at least play a game or two. As friends.”
    I looked at the floppy hair hanging into his eyes, his oversized ears, the weird boot chain around the ankle of his Converse shoe—and I couldn’t help thinking of Jura saying how she was like him.
    I sighed. “Yeah. All right.”
    He gave a sharp, almost dignified nod. “All right, then. What size shoe you wear? It’s on me.”
    Â 
    It was curious that a game of tenpins would inspire Travis so, but jokes started rolling off that boy’s tongue like comedy was his calling. He laughed. He capered. Once he even spun me in a two-step! Plus, he said “Thank you”—and
smiled
—when Miz B., the alley owner, came to clear out our yapped-up ball return. Outside of school, the boy was, well, downright likable.
    By the end of the first round, I was losing badly but enjoying myself all the same. “You may have won the battle, but I”—I thumped my chest—“I shall win the war!”
    Travis laughed. “Best two out of three?”
    â€œThink you’re man enough?” I teased.
    â€œThink you’re woman enough?” he retorted, raising an eyebrow.
    â€œJust watch me.” I sashayed up to the lane and rolled my ball—right into the gutter. Twice.
    Travis hefted his bowling ball. “What did you say right then? Something about winning the war?”
    â€œYou’ll see! I’m lying in wait. Crouched in the underbrush, fixin’ to spring,” I assured him.
    And then I lost so soundly—not once, but three whole times—that Miz B. came and took the ball right out of my hand.
    â€œThis ain’t your game, Genuine,” she said gently.
    â€œIt ain’t that bad,” Travis defended me.
    â€œIt wounds me just to watch her!” said Miz B. “Y’all come have some fries on the house, then get out of here. Leagues are coming in at four.”
    It was hard to argue with free fries, so we sat ourselves down