Rooster by Don Trembath

I’m trying to figure out.”
    â€œAre you calling me a cheater?”
    â€œI might have to. I’ll have to see.”
    Behind them all, standing with his arms crossed and a slightly frightened look on his face, was Rooster. The start of the night had gone reasonably well for him: he’d helped them with their bowling shoes and gotten them settled in the proper lane. He came up with the idea of picking numbers between one and twenty to determine their order on the score card.
    â€œEleven,” said Roseann, after thinking for some time.
    â€œEight,” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne.
    â€œEleven,” said Tim.
    â€œYou can’t pick eleven,” said Rooster. “Roseann took eleven already. You have to pick something else.”
    â€œOkay, okay. How about eight?”
    â€œYou can’t take eight. Dorothy-Jane-Anne took eight.”
    â€œOh, I see. I see. I get it now. Okay then. I can’t take eleven and I can’t take eight. How about … one. Can I take one?”
    â€œYou can take one. That’s a good number.”
    â€œSeventeen!” shrieked Percival.
    The number he had thought of was five, making the order Dorothy-Jane-Anne first, followed by Tim, Roseann and Percival.
    â€œYippee!” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne. “I get to go first!”
    â€œNo fair,” said Roseann.
    The first few rounds of bowling went smoothly. The bumper pads were in place along the gutters. Tim announced that he would take care of the scoring. In hindsight, that was probably the first decision Rooster wished he hadn’t agreed with.
    â€œYou got fourteen. Then you got eleven. Then you got six. Then you got three. Then you got eight.” Tim reviewed Roseann’s scores with her.
    â€œSo? What’s wrong with that?”
    â€œNothing. Nothing’s wrong with it. Nothing’s wrong with it at all. I just don’t think it adds up to ninety-three.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI don’t think it does.”
    â€œIt has to.”
    â€œWhy does it have to?”
    â€œIt says so right there. Ninety-three.”
    â€œI know that. But I don’t think that’s right.”
    â€œWhy would it say ninety-three if that wasn’t the right answer?”
    â€œI don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
    Roseann stared at him for a moment. She did not look impressed with being accused of cheating. “Who died and made you the president?”
    Tim began to rock back and forth in his chair. Confrontations were not his specialty, especially with someone as intense as Roseann. “I’m not saying I am the president.”
    â€œWell, who are you then? The Queen of England? Princess Diana? Prince Charles?”
    â€œI’m not saying I’m any of those people, especially Princess Diana. She’s dead. I’m just saying I think you might be cheating.”
    â€œWho are you, Perry Mason?”
    â€œI don’t even know who that is.”
    â€œHe’s a lawyer on television. On the old-shows channel.”
    â€œNo, I’m not him either.”
    Dorothy-Jane-Anne threw her third ball and turned to Tim to tell him her score.
    â€œIt’s your turn,” she said. “I got fourteen.”
    Tim stood up and handed her the scorer’s pencil. He had a very flustered look on his face.
    â€œUh-oh,” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne, who recognized the look. “Is Roseann cheating again?”
    â€œNo. I’m not,” said Roseann, sounding hurt.
    â€œI think she is,” said Tim. “I think she is cheating again. She says her scores add up to ninety-three, but I don’t think they do.”
    â€œDo you want me to add them?”
    â€œYes, I do,” said Tim. “I think that would be good. She’s calling me the president, but I’m not trying to be the president. I’m just trying to count, but I can’t because she keeps talking to me.”
    â€œDo you