“Cute couple,” he says, returning the bowling shoes to their cubbies and producing my Docs and Amber’s sandals. “Wouldn’t say they were a nice couple,” he says with a snort, “but they came every week for a while and stayed glued to each other’s faces every time. Maybe they broke up.” The redhead calls from another corner of the alley with a question, and Mustache yells back before returning his attention to us. “She was so little, I thought she was maybe twelve at first. But they had their high school IDs, tried to use them to get discounts, which we don’t offer.”

“A cute couple with a girl who looks twelve?” Amber mumbles, and I can practically see her brain whirring through her hair. “Were they freshmen?”

“I don’t think so. He had a varsity jacket.”

I watch as Amber racks her brain, then shakes her head. “There aren’t any couples I’d describe like that. The only girl on the team who looks that young is Cara, but she definitely hasn’t dated anyone.”

“No, that’s it. Cara.” He scratches his mustache. “I knew I’d know it if I heard it.”

Amber blinks slowly. “Are you telling me Cara Whelan came here every week with a guy, and I had no idea? We’re talking four-foot-eleven, reddish-brown hair, freckles, always wears a gold cross around her neck?”

“I don’t know about the necklace, but the rest sounds right.”

“With a varsity player? Any idea what sport?”

The guy squints at her. “I may have overstated my investment here. I really didn’t take notes, and I don’t follow sports other than…” He gestures at the bowling lanes.

“Right.” Amber tries to smile, but it comes out shaky. I don’t understand her friendship with Cara, who’s been nothing but cold to me, but I do know it goes way back and it’s clear Amber doesn’t know her nearly as well as she thought she did. “Well, sorry I don’t know what happened to them, then, but yeah, I guess they broke up.”

“It’s a shame,” he says, dusting off the counter. “They were really into each other. She even did a cheer for him.” A look of understanding dawns over his face. “Ah, your cartwheel. Guessing you’re on some sort of squad together.” He looks at me. “And I guess she wasn’t cheering for either of the fellas,” he adds, jerking a thumb at Amber.

My skin prickles as I wait for a comment that’s lewd, homophobic, or both to hit my ears, but nothing comes. I guess you can’t run a place that looks like Liza Minnelli’s dressing room without expecting some queer presence. “Nope, sir. I kicked all their asses tonight.”