The Aqua Net Diaries by Jennifer Niven Page A

dating Tom and started dating Eric Lundquist, and Ned still wouldn’t talk to me. But I got an A in Typing, and that Christmas, my parents bought me a typewriter—smaller than a car, smart and electric and fast. I set it up on my sewing table desk underneath my window and wrote story after story, poems and songs and novellas about life beyond Richmond.

Robert Ignacio and Ned Mitchell in Health class
Our Good Health and Safety
    This hour isn’t just a class—it’s an adventure. Students may be introduced to shuffleboard, archery, and crab-soccer. They also have the chance to skate, but are not required to. Along with fun there has to be safety. One of the big-time happenings in this class is learning CPR. And bandaging each other is really more fun than study.
    â€”1984
Pierian
    When we first moved to Richmond, one of our neighbors tried to make friends with my mother. Mrs. Harper belonged to several bowling leagues and teams and was always inviting my mom to bowl. My mom was not a bowler and would come up with polite excuses as to whyshe could never join her. Until one day, when Mrs. Harper asked again, and Mom said no again—she was working on her book; she and my dad were hosting a party for his work; she was helping me with a school project; she had to clean the house.
    When my mom was done talking, Mrs. Harper shook her head and looked at my mother with a great deal of pity. She said, “You poor thing. You must never get to bowl.”
    The summer before my junior year, I took summer school gym because the session was shorter and we did things like play tennis, which I was at least decent at, and which they didn’t do during the regular school year. I signed up for classes with Joey.
    When it came time for the bowling part of class, we piled onto a school bus and drove to the east side of town, past the mall, to 40 Lanes, which had a pro shop, an arcade, a snack bar, a nursery, and a lounge. I wasn’t one bit interested in bowling. I hated the ugly shoes and the stale smell of the place—a combination of socks and old feet and cigarettes and beer. Tennis was one thing. I was good at tennis. Bowling was another. I had never bowled. I might not be good at it, and I didn’t like to not be good at things. When it was my turn to bowl, I said, “I don’t care if I never bowl in my life. Who wants to bowl for me?”
    Joey was the fastest to volunteer. He grabbed a ball and jammed his fingers inside and went marching toward the pins. He said, “I hope you’re watching this. Because this is how it’s done.” He flung his arm back and let the ball go and at the same time he went flying forward onto his stomach and slid halfway down the lane. Just like in a movie. Theball went right into the gutter. We all clapped and cheered. He did this over and over again. In the end, my total score was a nine and I hadn’t once picked up a ball.
    On the bus ride home, Mr. Fleagle came barreling down the aisle, his face red, and shouted: “Where’s McJunkin?”
    I was sitting next to Joey, laughing and talking. I said, “Here.”
    He shouted, “A
NINE?!
”
    I just blinked at him and shrugged. I didn’t think it was a good idea to mention that I hadn’t done my own bowling. I said, “I don’t seem to be cut out for this sport.”
    He stared at me. I hadn’t seen him this furious since Driver’s Ed. He said, “You can say that again!” He went back down the aisle, back to the front of the bus, sputtering and muttering, shaking his head, talking to himself.
    After the summer of 1984, I never bowled again.
    During our sophomore year, we were forced to take Health. This was where we learned CPR and practiced bandaging each other, which meant we turned ourselves into mummies when our teacher, Mr. Rogers, wasn’t looking.
    Mr. Rogers was very serious. He knew that he had been entrusted with a great responsibility,