Emily Ann Jenkins

Written by Sophie Cornwell

The simple fact of the matter is we were not supposed to go bowling that night. I hate bowling. I’ll never understand why some people are perfectly comfortable sticking their fingers into grubby little holes that, if we’re honest, are never properly cleaned by the teenage staff. It’s generous to assume they’re ever even cleaned at all. Oh, and what type of food is primarily served at bowling allies? Nachos. Pizza. French fries. Mozzarella sticks. Finger food. A bowling alley is basically a petri dish of contagions, and that’s why we were never supposed to be anywhere near that damn bowling alley. What we should have been doing is sitting in my truck bed, folded together in a nest of picnic blankets, watching “The Last Air Bender” on the big projection screen at the drive-in. I parked near the back where we’d be concealed in the dark. Where no one would see us. But it was painfully obvious twenty minutes in that M. Night Shyamalan butchered the story beyond forgiveness, and I’m pretty sure we both would have combusted if we sat through that entire mockery. So, we left.

And that’s how Emily Ann Jenkins and I ended up at the bowling alley. She suggested the change, and since my suggestion of the movie was an epic, insulting failure, I couldn’t exactly object. My ethos was already blown. It really wasn’t so bad at first. I swallowed the fear that there was a roach waiting inside the dark abyss of the holes as their rough edges scraped against my fingers. I really should’ve used the nine pound ball, but it was such a horrific shade of green that it made my stomach hurt, and the next best thing in our lane was a blue eleven pounder. I’ve been playing softball since I was seven. I’m not a weak person, but I’m also not exactly used to swinging an eleven pound ball over and over again, either. After my first gutter ball, it was literally painfully obvious that my shoulder would be aching the next day. Now, I’m really not afraid of looking weak. I’m really not. But something about the thought of Emily Ann Jenkins seeing me switch to that 2002-Nickelodeon-slime-green-nine-pound-ball made me want to crawl inside the gutter myself. So, I used the eleven pound ball and watched it roll into the gutter, time and time again.

But, Emily Ann Jenkins’ never once made fun of me. Not even when we ordered french fries to share, and I stabbed into them with a plastic fork rather than eating them with my hands. I learned that she wasn’t much of a ketchup person, instead eating each fry one at a time, dunking them into honey barbecue. I learned her favorite season was autumn because it was cool enough to wear her favorite sweaters, but warm enough to walk to her favorite coffee shop. I also learned that she preferred to call it autumn, not fall. I learned she wanted a tattoo of a goose, her favorite animal, when she turned eighteen, but she was afraid of needles. I learned that she wanted to go to community college after graduation so save money on tuition, but her mom wanted her to go straight into a state school. I learned that her favorite color, yellow, like dandelions. I learned that when she smiled at me like that, my heart constricted in my chest and I suddenly found it very, very hard to breathe. I learned that, like mine, her parents didn’t know she was gay. And if they ever found out… well. She didn’t want them to find out.

Once, she even picked up the ball for me and plopped it in my hands, her fingers brushing against my knuckles before pulling away, and I swear, sometimes, I still feel them there. Invisible, fleeting, but real.

And then who showed up? Tyler freaking Eastwood and his big, stupid, pimply lacrosse playing friends. Okay, they weren’t really that pimply, but they were big and stupid. And right along with them were Emily’s friends. It took all of six seconds for Emily and I to puzzle the pieces together. One lacrosse player for every one of Emily’s friends. They were all on one big group date. And there was Emily and I. Together. Alone. And from the sideways glances from them, it was obvious that Emily didn’t tell anyone she was out with me tonight.

And why would she? I didn’t either. We couldn’t tell anyone. That, too, simple fact of the matter. We were not supposed to be together. But neither of us expected them to be here, either. If I didn't know any better, I’d think it was a scripted ambush planned by our local youth pastor.

Here’s the thing. Emily never explicitly mentioned being religious. And neither did I. It’s not the kind of thing that comes up organically in second period calculus. And I’m necessarily religious in the go-to-church-every-Sunday-type way, but I am religious in the pray-to-whoever-is-listening-when-life-gets-loud-type way. But when it was clear to me that Emily Ann Jenkins didn’t tell her friends she’d be out with me tonight, I wondered which type of religious she was. If I should’ve asked. Not that it makes a difference anymore.

Because Tyler freaking Eastwood did the worst possible thing he could’ve. He said they’d join us. All of them. In our lane. And I know, I just know, that if I were a boy he never would’ve done that. But the thought of Emily Ann Jenkins being on a date with a girl, let alone me, was so outlandish, so impossible to Tyler’s pea brain, that it didn’t even cross his mind as an option.

And Emily Ann Jenkins never handed me a ball again. She barely even talked to me the rest of the night. Hardly even looked at me. We were too preoccupied with being jostled by the guys every time they almost got a strike, plastering on encouraging smiles that made my cheeks hurt with the force of faking joy. Finally, with an arm strewn around Emily Ann Jenkin’s shoulders, one of the guys finally asked the question they were all thinking.

“What are you guys doing here together, anyway?”

Her eyes met mine with such a sincere concern, concern that I felt every holiday when my grandmother asked me if there were any boys I liked, that I knew there was no way a single person besides me knew about her. I had exactly one friend that knew I was gay. And while the secret still cracked against my skull like a hammer every time a boy asked me out on a date, every time my family pressured me about my lack of love-life, at least I had someone who knew. Someone who was safe.

Emily had no one.

It didn’t matter that I wasn’t out to anyone else. That didn’t stop the rumors from flying. You can only turn down so many boys before everyone in school decides you’re gay, whether you are or not. And any rumors, even the true ones, are impossible to deal with in high school. I’d learned to deal with it. But Emily hadn’t yet.

And I wasn’t going to force that upon her.

“I just love bowling,” I finally said, knowing the guys were too dumb to ask any follow-up questions, and that Emily Ann Jenkin’s friends would protect her, for now, but warn her to stay away from me later.

And that’s exactly what they did. Emily Ann Jenkins never sat next to me in calculus again. She never texted me. Not even when the pilot episode of “The Legend of Korra” first aired. The small warmth we had fizzled before it could even spark.

It’s been years since we weren’t supposed to go bowling. I know it’s ridiculous, but whenever I see a yellow dandelion and I feel that invisible tingle of her fingertips against my knuckles, even now, I blame M. Night Shyamalan for not directing a movie worth staying for.

It’s just easier to place the guilt on him. Any other option is just too big. Too unfixable for me at seventeen. But, still. I hope that wherever Emily Ann Jenkins is now, she’s learned that she’s worth staying for, too. If I’d been braver at seventeen, I would’ve made sure she knew that she didn’t have to hide any part of who she was in the shadows of my truck bed.

I would’ve told myself that, too.