Sophia Goes Bowling at 3 a.m.
- Nov 21, 2023
- 7 min read
by Marilyn Duarte
During our junior high school year, Sophia sneaks out of her apartment, and goes bowling at 3 a.m.
Before the school day officially begins, we climb the concrete steps leading to the building’s entrance. We notice, but don’t mention, the ease with which the chunky snowflakes’ whirling in the air slip onto the patches of ice in front of us, and melt.
At the top of the steps, we huddle in front of the wooden doors to kick off the slush from our boots, then enter the school before the national anthem and morning announcements begin to play. As we walk down the main hallway, we greet others with nods and smiles and remind each other of upcoming assignments. We should be rushing to first period so we don’t tarnish our perfect attendance record, but we can’t help ourselves. We linger in front of our opened lockers applying mascara and talking about Sophia and her late-night adventures.
We assume that Sophia loves the anonymity, the freedom she has at the Drop ’n’ Roll, a bowling alley so far north that the busy street, the one famous for being the longest in the world, morphs into a highway, leading to wilderness. Sophia says it’s next to a strip of motels that advertise hot tubs in every room, and that its back faces a small lake she doesn’t know the name of. Her stories about hitchhiking to get there, and of ordering a pitcher of Miller Lite without needing ID, sparkle and shine in comparison to ours, which are full of bland evenings finishing homework before lounging on our oversized couches, channel surfing until settling on “Growing Pains,” or “A Different World.”
Sophia hardly ever attends first period Science class, so we’re not surprised when she’s not there. She says she doesn’t need to learn more about friction and gravity than she already knows, although she once admits that she misses getting good grades and having the respect of her teachers.
Between classes, we see Sophia standing at her locker, dabbing pink lip gloss onto her lips, staring at herself in the magnetic mirror, suctioned flat onto the inside of the metal door. As we watch her, we glaze our fingers over our bare lips, then walk towards her, and plead with her to take us bowling in the middle of the night. Sophia laughs and says that teenage girls have no business leaving their warm beds to wander through a smoke-filled bar with peanut shells scattered all over the carpeted floor, listening to ABBA’s “Knowing Me, Knowing You,” playing from the jukebox on repeat.
We assume Sophia prefers to hang out with much more interesting people, who are older than us, and definitely cooler. We point out that maybe Sophia and her older, fascinating friends are embarrassed about being broke, and this might be when a discount is offered, making it the only time they can afford to bowl. Why else would she run off when it’s pitch-black and freezing cold outside?
Secretly, we wonder about Sophia’s bowling buddies, and imagine who we think they might be: Could there be a beer-bellied guy named Mikey, who wears Metallica T-shirts? We decide that Make-Believe Mikey has a goatee and wears sunglasses indoors. What about a woman named Rosie, who, depending on her mood, likes to be called Rose or Roxanne? In our minds, Imaginary Rosie-Rose-Roxanne wears deep red circles of blush on her cheeks, and chain smokes all night. When Sophia isn’t noticing, we giggle, and pretend not to care that we’re excluded from her fun-filled life.
At the start of second period Phys Ed class, we change into our school’s red, white, and blue gym uniforms and linger in the change room. Sophia yawns, rubs her puffy eyes, and says that a family friend, who lives in apartment 3D, directly below hers, has signed her up for a modeling class. He thinks I’m beautiful, she says. We each take turns telling her that of course she’s beautiful. That she looks like the girls on the covers of Vogue and Cosmopolitan. That we’d love to look like her.
At lunch, we join Sophia, and form a small circle within the large rotunda of our school. We take bites out of our homemade sandwiches, but Sophia doesn’t eat at all. She plays with an empty water bottle and stares off into the distance. Did you go bowling last night? we ask her. I tried, but I couldn’t get away, Sophia says, then briefly mentions that the family friend, who thinks she’s beautiful, joined her and her mother for dinner, then stayed late into the night.
Sophia glides alongside us into third period, Classical Civilization, where we’ve begun to study The Iliad. She sets her notes, highlighted in pink, and her thick textbook, on the desk in front of her. During the white-haired teacher’s lecture, she raises her hand and asks if, like Achilles, our lives are dictated by fate or if we actually have free will? No one knows for sure, the teacher says. But I need to know, Sophia says, and the class erupts into laughter.
Once fourth period English class is over, the end of day bell rings, and we rush out, and descend the wide steps. On the sidewalk, we stand around Sophia and stomp our boots free of snow and fidget with our knapsacks and complain that it’s too cold and that our books are too heavy. Sophia removes a small white and gold package from her purse, slides its lid open, and hands us cigarettes. Light, inhale, exhale, flick. We have never done this before but pretend we have. We inhale on the tightly rolled sticks, wince, then cough out explosions of smoke that float around our faces. Sophia laughs so hard that she snorts, then says that since her family friend bought her a carton of Marlboro Lights, she’ll give us our own packs to practice.
#
One afternoon, when we’re rushing to the courtyard and barely listening, Sophia says that she used to enjoy learning French and was proud of herself for having been accepted into the French Immersion stream the previous year. So why not go back to taking French? we ask. It’s too late for that, she says, and walks ahead of us. Before we part ways for the day, she mentions that she wishes she could make it on time in the morning, but she’s always so damn tired.
We assume Sophia shares cigarettes with Imaginary Rosie, while she cheers on other bowling alley patrons. It is easy to picture her, when it’s her turn, lifting the bowling ball, which has a blue-sky vortex design. We imagine that she maneuvers her two fingers and thumb into its three inserts before propelling her arm back then forward, releasing the splash of sky, watching it spin down the lane.
When we ask Sophia to tell us about her adventures, she says that whenever she gets a strike, she claps for herself and jumps up high, but when she misses the shot, she runs down the lane, drops onto her hip to slide until her feet knock down the triangle of pins. We assume that whenever Sophia pretends to win that Make-Believe Mikey grows amused and claps, while Imaginary Rosie remains indifferent, and stares straight ahead while holding an ash-filled cigarette in her right hand that threatens to tip over at any moment.
Don’t you think it’s a little strange? That she sneaks out alone? That her mother doesn’t notice? That she goes so far away to bowl? Words spoken through phone receivers, notes passed in classes, whispers echoed through hallways.
Sophia blushes whenever the captain of the swim team walks by her, but then he starts holding hands with the student council president and takes a different staircase to get to his classes. I bet she’s a virgin, Sophia says, rolling her eyes. And we begin to think there’s something wrong with us because we’re virgins too. Now we know for sure that Sophia thinks we’re unsophisticated, immature, and boring.
Tell us, tell us, we urge Sophia, tell us what it’s like. Does it hurt? Who’d you do it with? Who? Who? Who?
Sophia lowers her eyes, peers into the distance, and says, it’s a secret.
#
As usual, the next Monday, Sophia misses first period. The next day, she also skips second period. By mid-week, she still doesn’t show up to morning classes, nor does she meet us for lunch. On Friday, she is absent all day.
Maybe she’s bowling, we jokingly say, then laugh because it’s easier than admitting that we are jealous. Jealous that Sophia can do whatever she wants. Jealous that she is so confident. Jealous that she is free.
One month later, the rippling flag in front of our school is lowered to half-mast. By mid-semester, the new boy with freckles sits in Sophia’s old seat. Every day at lunch, we sit on creaky stools in the cafeteria talking about Sophia.
The following year, we learn why Sophia had been escaping to the bowling alley. A parent will tell a parent who will tell another parent and the details will drift to find us. We will listen, and fall silent, when we learn that the man in apartment 3D has been arrested.
Rumors will swirl that a woman with permed hair and hunched shoulders had been at the police station, saying that the man who people were calling a monster had been her long-time friend. He’d been kind to her and to her family, so she’d had no reason to suspect him. How could I have known? she’d said. How could I have known?
We never saw Sophia clapping with excitement when she knocked down all ten bowling pins. We didn’t see her jumping in the air. We didn’t hear her singing along with ABBA, “This is where the story ends/This is goodbye.” We didn’t see Sophia exit the Drop ’n’ Roll through the back door. We didn’t see Sophia, in her thin jacket, shiver from the gust of wind blowing snow over her. We didn’t see Sophia take her final steps towards the lake’s edge. We didn’t see Sophia jump into the flowing ice water.
We didn’t see Sophia.
Marilyn Duarte holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Tampa. Her writing has appeared in various print and online journals including Longleaf Review, Emerge Literary Journal, and Barren Magazine. Her work has also been nominated for The Best of the Net. Visit her at www.marilynduartewriter.com.
