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that they let me go first, so I let it ride just for that fact.
    I pick up the greasy ball, looking down the finger holes first to make sure they are at least clear, and huck it aimlessly down the alley. It barely snags the pin on the end. I turn around to find Trevor laughing at me.
    “What? You think you can do better?” I ask cynically.
    He shrugs and walks up to his own alley, picks up his Darth Vader ball, lines himself up, and throws a hard, fast, perfect curve ball, knocking all the pins down.
    “Show-off,” I mutter.
    “Let me show you a trick,” he says as I pick up my ball again. I don’t really care to learn how to bowl, but I have his full attention, which is bothering both his mom and—for some reason—the cheerleader.
    He stands behind me and wraps his arms around me, placing his hands on mine.
    “Turn your hand like this,” he says, manipulating my hand. “Stand here”—he walks me a little to the left—“and don’t look at the pins.”
    “If I don’t look at the pins, how am I going to hit them?” My tone indicates what I think of the lack of intelligence behind his words.
    “See those arrows about halfway down the alley?” He reaches forward and points. I can feel the hard line of muscle in his arm pressing against my shoulder. This is another revelation, one that causes a little burn in the pit of my belly. Get a grip, Jen, I plead with myself more desperately.
    “Aim for right between the middle arrow and the one to the right side of it. Take four steps, lean down on the last step and throw. But make sure you keep your thumb pointing forward.”
    He steps back and, oddly, I kind of miss the feel of him behind me. Sheesh, cool it!
    “You know, Trev, you know way too much about this. Maybe you need to get a life.”
    He grins, bringing the dimples out, and suddenly I want to show him that I can do this, I can do what he taught me. I turn back toward the alley and do everything he said, to the best of my limited ability. I knock down most of the pins. I am stupidly happy, and I turn with a laugh.
    “Good job,” Trevor says, high-fiving me.
    “Nothing to it,” I throw over my shoulder as I strut off the alley.
    Now it’s the cheerleader’s turn. She’s actually a fairly good bowler, but she gets up there and throws a gutter ball, turning back with a pout on her face.
    “I’m terrible ,” she moans dramatically.
    “Don’t worry, honey. You’ll get it this time,” her dad tells her.
    She shakes her head mournfully and turns puppy-dog eyes on Trevor.
    “Can you show me what you showed her?” she pleads.
    “Sure,” the nerd says, oblivious to her obvious game. He looks a little dazed, and I’m sure he’s bedazzled by her. She is beautiful, I guess, if you like that blonde-haired, blue-eyed, all-American, wholesome girl-next-door look—which apparently Trevor does.
    I glance at Trevor’s mom, and she seems a little more relaxed at Trevor’s attention on the cheerleader than on me.
    Trevor follows her up, this girl who is far more his type than I am, but instead of putting his arms around her as he did me, he stands next to her and gives her the same instruction he did me. I know this is just because he’s more comfortable around me, and she dazzles him, but it makes me happy nonetheless. It also makes her un happy—always a good thing.
    Even better when Trevor asks if I want a diet Coke, showing the cheerleader that he knows me well enough to know what I like to drink. But then in true geek fashion, he also offers to get everyone else a drink.
    I watch with dread as Todd has his turn, sure he will embarrass himself. He walks right up to the foul line, ball dangling by his side. He proceeds to swing his arm backward and forward, and I fear for those sitting behind him. He releases the ball on his forward swing, and it heads down the center, knocking all of the pins down.
    He turns with a cheer and a laugh to be greeted by cheers from his own family—and by my fosters