Chapter 11: Mystery Shot Bowling
It was a good thing I had a day to rest and recharge because I needed my whole reserve of patience, humility, and self-control to survive the week. From the get-go, my friends and boyfriend started their campaign of whispered conversations that halted when I came into view. Although I might be paranoid, I also think there were probably a few secret meetings. It was no coincidence that my friends had resorted to stealth mode just before my birthday week. They were now at the DUA as much if not more than I was. Dr. A had them each working on “other projects.” Meanwhile, our volunteer group and the PTA were going like gangbusters on the Sports and Spa Giveaway. It seemed like practically every parent in our whole school had some sports seats or spa gift cards that they were willing to donate.
We had set up a whole class competition for what the administration called a field day that was really a skip day for the entire class. The senior class traditionally tended to win these type of competitions, but this year’s senior class was a lot lazier than my junior class of over-achieving, competitive zealots. In my class of around 200, we had more than 20 students still with 4.0 trying to stay in the hunt for Valedictorian. I was still slightly bitter that the events that unfolded this week pretty much knocked me completely out of the running for that post—all because of bowling.
When it came to sports, I was a fairly decent athlete in most sports—just not good enough to make any varsity teams. However, our gym teacher, Mr. Brown, assigned two sports and one activity that I sucked in for three weeks in a row. The first was tennis. I have played volleyball and softball too long to make up for the fact that whenever a ball comes at me waist level, I wanted to hit it out of the park, and when the ball comes at me high, I wanted to spike it directly down. The next sport designed to torture me was golf. Mr. Brown was an avid golfer. I only grudgingly considered this a sport. At the professional level, it was a sport where you spend 30 seconds hitting a ball then you walk to it while someone else carries your equipment. According to Mr. Brown, I tended to swing too fast and keep my eye on the ball too little. The only reason that I might consider it a sport was that I was always sore after we played.
The last recreational activity that I do not consider a sport was bowling. Mr. Brown loved bowling. He played in two bowling leagues per week. He had an average over 230 and had bowled 4 perfect games in his lifetime. I thought it was his secret dream to be a professional bowler. He was also the most politically correct, Ned Flanders (The Simpsons) look-a-like that I had ever met. One week out of the year, our school transported us to a local bowling alley much to the insistence of Mr. Brown. We had to wear the nasty shoes that thousand of other strangers had worn (I always wear two pairs of socks) and bowl with a ball that has had countless strangers hands all over it (I always bring my anti-bacterial vanilla lotion—which may have caused The Incident). Since I had very little hands, there were no bowling balls that were even remotely acceptable. Mr. Brown had once tried to show me a way to bowl without putting my hands in the ball, but it only ended up landing on my foot, which caused me to swear loudly and unfairly earn demerits. Mr. Brown, who probably never uttered a four-letter in his life, had brought two of his own custom-made balls in his special wheeled bowling bag. He also brought his own shoes, his own towel—with his name on it, and my personal favorite—his bowling glove. I mean, come on, how much ammunition could you give a teenager. For the most part, I tried to treat everyone how I would like to be treated, but sometimes the obvious wealth of material and the fact that I had to wear these disgusting bowling shoes took control of my better self for a couple minutes.
How to Flunk Bowling—Also known as The Incident
1.Put on anti-bacterial lotion on your hands right before you bowl;
2.Make sure your little hands are way to small for the average bowling ball holes;
3.Mock the recreational activity of bowling within earshot of Mr. Brown;
4.Fail to notice that Mr. Brown has decided to correct your misconceptions and has chosen to stand behind you as you bowl;
5.Decide this time you are going to finally get a strike and with all your strength throw back your arm in the down swing;
6.Lose ball in your back swing;
7.Hear crunching noise and high-pitch scream;
8.Turn around and realize Mr. Brown’s leg is in a position that is not normally physically possible, and
9.Rush to his side with my apologies sputtering from my mouth.
I yelled to Jazz to call 911 and get an ambulance here ASAP. I told Key to call the school to let Principal Wakefield know what happened. I might be a bowling loser, but I was pretty good in a crisis. Rafe was on Mr. Brown’s other side and had given him something to bite down on to help with the pain. I continued with the heartfelt apologies until Rafe finally motioned me to zip it. Mr. Brown finally spoke and told me to get everyone ready to leave. As I looked at my classmates, I noticed three general reactions to the dreadful accident: shock and disgust at the appearance of Mr. Brown’s leg, fascination with Mr. Brown’s leg, and amusement at what a total bowling tool I am.
I started making people go back to their lanes, put their balls back, and clean up their stuff. The ambulance got to the bowling alley in under 10 minutes, and they gave Mr. Brown something for the pain before they had to move his leg. He was still in the same position because Rafe would not let him move. They put an inflatable cast on to stabilize his leg, then gently moved him to the stretcher while the whole class gawked and shuddered at his moans of pain. I moved back to his side with a stream of my apologies again and before they took him away he addressed the class in the following classic, Mr. Brown way:
“I want you all to learn one main lesson from this unfortunate event,” Mr. Brown announced through clenched teeth.
Some class member yelled out, “Never stand behind Calli when she bowls!”
Mr. Brown cleared his throat to make the laughter die down, “Well two lessons, then. Never stand in the lanes behind someone, and there is no excuse for foul language even if you are in a tremendous amount of pain. Good manners cost nothing!” Most of my class managed to smother their smirks or laughs at this statement, but the EMTs had to cover their mouths to avoid offending Mr. Brown. Luckily, our bus driver arrived just as the ambulance pulled away, and we were able to make a hasty retreat. Key put her arm around me and Jazz tried to cheer me by saying “Maybe this means no more bowling!”
Rafe just shook his head and said, “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I really don’t see professional bowling in your future, Calli.”
On the ride home, I heard the phrase “Good manners cost nothing,” at least 10 times in the short trip. Unfortunately, I think that is probably going to be the new buzz phrase for our junior class, and it was true good manners do cost nothing. Thrace was waiting inside the entrance to the school along with various other students milling around. They all seemed to have heard the news but were waiting for more details or to make fun of me—which I totally deserved.
As Jazz, Key, Rafe, and I walked in, Thrace threw his arm around me and announced, “Calliope Edonides, I knew you were lethal. I never expected it to be with a bowling ball.”
Jazz and Key rolled their eyes. I mumbled back at Thrace something to the effect that he wouldn’t think it was funny if he had seen Mr. Brown’s leg. As I pulled away from Thrace, I saw Rafe’s shocked expression.
I gave Rafe a questioning look as he quietly asked me, “Your name is Calliope, not Calli?”
He got a round of weird looks from all of us then. He had become a part of our group so quickly that we had forgotten that he was not privy to all our life histories. I studied Rafe for a minute trying to figure out why the answer to this question was so important to him. “No one calls me Calliope except my parents or Thrace when I have done something bad. I have always been Calli, why?”
He looked shaken for a moment but quickly realized his reaction to my real name was odd. “Did your dad specifically
want you named after the head Muse in Greek Mythology?”
“No, my dad is not that Greek. He is more like a Christmas and Easter Greek than a My Big Fat Greek Wedding Greek. No Greek school for me, no 100 Greek first cousins. Just church and the Greek fest every year.”
Thrace piped in at that moment to further make fun of me today. “Her mom got to name Calliope after her favorite trashy romance novel heroine.”
I snarked back at Thrace, “We can’t all be named after kings and countries that were part of Greece like you were.”
My snarking seemed to be the cue for everyone to get back to normal. I let Jazz and Key fill everyone in as I headed off to class. The rest of my day was spent in razzing and humiliation. The next day I heard that Mr. Brown was going to have knee replacement surgery, and he wouldn’t be back for at least a month. I had hoped that maybe he had bad knees to begin with, and he would have had the surgery eventually. He was in his 40s. His knees might have been shot anyway—maybe. Another day of classmates razzing me, and “Good manners cost nothing” made my karate class come in handy. Maybe my classmates would finally let up next week because: 1) it was my birthday, and 2) the substitute gym teachers we have had so far (both a male and a female) have far exceeded Mr. Brown in looks and ability in real sports.
Hermes Field Log: September 2007
Now it all makes sense. Calliope is a Muse. And Apollo is trying to both hide and protect her from Ares. I can’t say I blame him based on his last time around with those two in Vienna, but the tables are turned now and Ares controls the city. Why did Apollo let me think she was an ordinary human? Why did he not let me protect myself from falling under her spell because it is really too late now? Of course, just because Apollo found her first does not mean that she is his. My connection to her is real. I can feel it. But if I act on it, I would be betraying the trust Apollo has in me. Yet, we have no idea whose Muse she is until she is an adult. If I have learned one thing in my existence, it is that happiness is fleeting. When you find it, you hold on to it for however long it lasts. Yet, your honor is the core of being a protector. My relationship with Calliope has been mere seconds compared to my relationship with my brother. Yet, I want to choose my Juliet. One thing is clear. In the words of Shakespeare’s Romeo, “O, I am fortune's fool!”