“I’m really happy to see you,” he says.
“Me too,” I say. I feel like we should hug or something, but neither of us makes a move to do it.
He holds the door open for me. “So, pool, huh?”
“Well, I figured you’d be good at it. What else is there to do in Lake Elizabeth?”
“Wow,” he says with pretend outrage. “Big-city snob.”
I grin at him. But it’s true that I can’t imagine living anywhere but a big, diverse city.
Once we’re inside, I head straight for the checkin counter. Julio, the sixtyish manager, spots me right away. “Se?orita Evie,” he sings out. “Long time no see.” He leans over the bar counter for a double-cheek kiss and then looks out over my shoulder. “But where is your papa?”
“No dad today,” I say, tugging on my backpack straps. “Just me and my friend X.”
He and X exchange “hey, mans” and shake hands.
Julio looks back and forth between us, like he’s trying to figure out if we’re friends or friends. I can’t tell what he decides. “Careful with this one,” he tells X. “She’s a shark.”
“I’m getting that feeling,” X says, tapping my pool-cue case where it sticks out of my backpack.
“Table seventeen,” Julio says. He hands me the tray of balls and chalk. Table seventeen is the one Dad and I used to play on. It’s out of the way, in the back right corner next to the dartboards that no one ever uses.
But I don’t need more Dad reminders right now. Since I told him I’m not going to his wedding, he’s texted me three separate times. The first was a photo of a Taco Night banner hanging from a lamppost on Wilshire Ave. The next was a list of all the food trucks that are going to be there. The third was a picture of us at Taco Night two years ago. We’re both biting into chicken chimichangas （a deep-fried burrito made with rice, cheese, beans, shredded chicken and joy）。 Our eyes are closed and we are blissed out. I suppose I could always go with Mom or Martin or any of my other friends, but I know I won’t. No one else is a connoisseur like Dad. No one else will appreciate all the different types of salsa and what makes one better than the other.
I ask Julio for one of the tables on the left-hand side near the pinball machines instead.
Wilshire Billiards is not one of those dark, dingy pool halls you always see in movies. It’s a big, clean space with pristine tables, polished cues and dark-wood mounted racks. The main lights are kept low, but every table has its own overhead light. I’ve always liked the way it looks—large areas of cool dark splashed by pools of yellow light.
It’s late afternoon on Wednesday, so most of the tables are empty, except for the few up front that the old-timers use. They’re mostly grizzled, grumpy old white guys, but they’re excellent pool players. A couple of them recognize me and nod hello.
We get to our table and I take my cue from my backpack. Nice pool cues come in two pieces. I feel X’s eyes on me as I unzip my case and screw the pieces together.
“What?” I ask.
“Is Julio right about you being a pool shark?”
“I’m okay,” I say, downplaying my skills.
“Nah, you’re a shark,” he says, laughing. He picks a cue from the rack. “All right, teach me your ways, big-city snob,” he says.
So I do.
I show him how to make sure a cue is straight by laying it flat on the table and rolling it. If it doesn’t wobble, then it’s straight. I show him how to rack the balls and how to apply chalk to the stick and powder to the area just between your thumb and forefinger, where the cue slides. Finally, I explain the rules: One person sinks the solid balls （solids）， except the eight ball, and the other person sinks the striped balls （stripes）。 Whoever sinks all their balls first has to sink the eight ball.
“Let me show you how to break.” I line up to the table and hit the white cue ball into the rack. The balls scatter across the table.
I reset the rack for him. “Now your turn,” I say.
He lines up to the table. And it’s hard to imagine him doing more things wrong than he does. He holds the cue way too far up, rests it on the wrong two fingers and doesn’t line his head up with the shot. When he breaks, his stick glances off the cue ball so it only travels a few inches before stopping.
He grins at me. “Maybe I should try that again,” he says.
I laugh. “That was tragic.” I shake my head. But secretly, I’m kind of thrilled to have an excuse to get closer to him and fix his form.