“Have you ever done this before?”

“No.”

“It’s not hard. You just have to have eyes on the back of your head, and never let yourself get distracted. Set up the pins as quickly as you can. The customers like fast games.”

I ask him the question I forgot to ask the manager.

“How much does it pay?”

“Depends on the day. Ten cents a game, plus tips. But Rosaire, that’s the manager, controls the tips. Once he takes his cut, there’s not much left. That’s the price we pay to work. On a good week, it’s about twenty bucks.”

Twenty dollars a week! In four weeks I’ll have enough to buy a brand new CCM bike.

I learn quickly. I’m motivated. I set every evening except Friday. Before long I am so fast that I can do two lanes at the same time, jumping from one to another like a deer.

19

ON FRIDAY I arrive at Millette’s apartment with my two beers hidden under the old winter coat that I’ve inherited from Uncle Méo. It has a useful inner pocket.

I’m feeling good, because it’s December, and I love winter.

Millette’s waiting for me. He’s excited.

“What’s happening?”

“Come and see!”

He pulls me into the room by the arm. He bends over and pulls a small case of beer out from under his bed.

“Wow! Did you steal it?”

“One of my uncles left this morning in a real hurry. He left this on the kitchen table, and I hid it under my bed. I’ve been waiting for you ever since.”

Millette can swallow three or four beers without flinching. I’m reeling after just two, but I feel like celebrating. Tonight, on the way back to Aunt Mona’s, I’m going to pick up my first pay. Two weeks — that’s thirty or forty dollars!

I feel like a millionaire.

• • •

I hang on to the railing as I go down the stairs to the bowling alley. I feel dizzy. The smell of sweaty feet sticks in my throat. I can hear the rumble of the bowling balls. I feel as if I’m going to throw up. I stop and take a deep breath.

My first pay.

Rosaire has been watching me ever since I set foot in the place. He has a mean look in his eye. The balls are rolling, the pins are crashing.

I turn toward the counter. I see myself in the mirror, scruffy-looking, my skin gleaming. I’m hot. Rosaire is standing in his usual spot.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Guess.”

“Don’t play games with me…”

“I’ve come for my pay.”

“Come another night. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“But tonight’s pay day. I want my money just like the others.”

“I’m not the one who pays you.” He’s turning red with anger. His fists are closed on the counter.

“If it isn’t you, then who is it?”

The customers have realized that something is going on at the counter. Fewer balls are being thrown. Rosaire is getting edgy.