Dare (14 page)

“All right, guys.” Mr. Fallbrook began erasing the prompt on the board, looking over one shoulder to address the students. “Close your journals and pass them to the right. You know the drill.”

Brynna felt her breath catch as the corner of the first journal was nudged against her arm. She looked down at the blank page in her own journal and back up again, feeling her cheeks redden. A blank journal entry resulted in an automatic zero for the day, regardless of how dazzling a student was in the hour that followed. With Brynna's mind splintering in so many different directions lately, her grade was already suffering.

She printed the prompt on the top of the page and then hastily wrote the words, “I don't remember ever really being afraid.”

It was a flaming lie, of course, but Brynna wasn't ready for the kind of attention “I don't remember the last time I felt safe” would draw. She glanced up at Mr. Fallbrook who raised his eyebrows at her. He was one of the younger teachers on the faculty and certainly one of the most handsome, with an easygoing personality and a quick wit. He was the kind of teacher a student could talk to.

But not Brynna.

She gathered her classmates' journals from her right and shoved hers under the stack. Although the daily writing prompts required far more than she had given, she hoped at the very least Fallbrook would give her partial credit for writing something.

The class passed uneventfully while Brynna held her pen poised, ballpoint tip pressed against her paper. When the bell rang, she looked around with a start as kids around her started gathering up their things. She did the same thing, but the motion was rote, done out of memory rather than necessity.

“Uh, Brynna, wait.”

Mr. Fallbrook shimmied his way through the students to reach Brynna's desk.

She sank back into her seat. “Yeah?”

“Is everything okay with you?”

Cold broke in her chest. “Wha—what do you mean?”

Fallbrook shrugged. “I don't know. You just seem kind of off lately.”

Brynna looked at her hands in her lap. “Oh. That. Just studying a lot. There's so much, you know, homework.”

“And you've been working really hard.”

Brynna pumped her head, sensing a quick getaway. “Transcripts. College and all.”

Mr. Fallbrook pressed a finger against the notebook Brynna was about to leave behind. “These today's notes?”

She felt the heat rise again as she glanced at the notebook, the page completely blank except for the date written in the top left-hand corner. Brynna smacked the notebook shut and stood quickly. “I'm sorry, Mr. Fallbrook. It's just been a rough day. I promise I'll do better tomorrow.” She edged backward down the aisle, bumping her hips and bag as she went.

“If anything's wrong, you can talk—”

But Brynna was out the door and into the hall before he had a chance to finish.

•••

Brynna squinted through the passenger-side window as her father pulled the car up into the school driveway. She opened the door when he stopped, engine idling, and scooched into the front seat.

“What are you doing here?”

Her father's eyebrows went up. “You're not happy to see me?”

“It's not that. It's just that Mom usually picks me up. Did you get back early or something?”

“Yeah.” He pushed the car into drive, and they made the right onto Blackwood Highway. “I finished up earlier than expected and hopped the first flight out.”

Brynna's hackles went up. Her father was too casual in his explanation, too buttoned-up to jump an earlier flight. He wasn't the “surprise” kind of father who showed up at swim meets or soccer games, and even if he was changing, was ready to pay attention to his family, he wasn't the car-pooler type.

“Your mother actually had an errand to run, so I volunteered to pick you up. Besides, don't you think it's about time your old dad saw his kid's new school?”

Brynna glanced back over her shoulder, feeling her lip snarling. “And how did you find the Hawthorne High parking lot, Dad?”

He shot her an icy look. “I'm trying, Bryn.”

They drove the rest of the way in awkward silence, her father cutting glances at her every few miles or so, Brynna with her arms crossed in front of her chest, consumed by fury. When they crossed through the heavy wrought-iron gates of Blackwood Hills, she turned to him.

“Why now, Dad? Why are you ‘trying' now?”

He was silent until they pulled into the driveway of their house, and Brynna was sure he wasn't going to answer her. Then he let out a low sigh as if he were the one being haunted. “Can we talk about this inside, Bryn? Your mother is in there. We should talk as a family.”

He got out of the car, and Brynna followed. Her stomach twisted, and the few bites of lunch she had managed expanded in her belly, shooting a heavy wave of nausea through her. “We really don't need a family meeting for you to tell me you're getting a divorce.”

Brynna's father snapped around so quickly she ran into him. His eyes were glittering pinpoints, and from their close proximity, she could smell the faint odor of scotch on his breath. It made her stomach tighten even more. He glared at her for a beat but then closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes, there was true sadness in them, and something inside Brynna's chest broke. This was her family; these were her parents. Her life was already fragmented and upended, and her parents' divorce would only guarantee more of the same. She felt a lump grow in her throat, sudden dread growing in her belly. Her eyes went around her father to the closed interior door where Brynna knew her mother was sitting beyond. She didn't want to go inside. She wanted to get back in the car and reverse all the way back to Point Lobos, to before the dare, even before she'd ever met Erica. This was all her fault. A simmering anger swallowed up the cancerous guilt, and she felt vaguely relieved, having someone to be mad at. If it weren't for Erica, Brynna's parents might have learned to be happy. Brynna might still be happy.

She followed her father through the door and into the kitchen where her mother was seated at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. She wasn't wearing her painting smock, but Brynna could see chips of paint around her fingernails, a fading white streak down the length of her jaw. She looked as though she had been interrupted while working, and now she sat, stone still, her watery eyes red-lined and unfocused.

Brynna dropped her bag and rushed toward her. “Mom? Are you okay? Is everything okay?”

Her mother made no response, and for a brief moment fear and anger clawed at Brynna's chest. “Mom?”

“Oh, Bryn, you're home. Can I make you some tea?” She smiled thinly, but Brynna could see her blink away tears.

“Have a seat, Bryn.”

Her father pulled out a chair while her mother fiddled around the kitchen, preparing a cup of tea that Brynna hadn't asked for. When she set it in front of Brynna, she looked from her mother to her father and growled, “If you're getting a divorce, just tell me.”

A fat tear rolled down her mother's cheek, and her father wouldn't look at her. “This isn't about your mother and me, hon.”

Brynna felt her mother's hand on her own, squeezing with almost no strength. “It's about Erica, honey.”

Everything in front of Brynna went black. Her tongue went heavy in her mouth, and her jaw went slack, every muscle, every vein, every cell turning into lead weight. “You know?” Her own voice was unrecognizable. “You know what she's been doing to me?”

All at once, every image shot in front of Brynna's eyes, like heinous snapshots, horror after horror:
Remember
me?
, the eyeglasses, the dark form in the water, the nightmares, that night on the pier. She felt her bare feet itch as they left the splintered, salt-water-licked wood; she felt the lightness as her body vaulted through the air; she felt the tug of Erica's arm as their fingers laced together. Then the black chill of the water as it swallowed them both up, feet-knees-hips-shoulders-head, the darkness settling over them like a death mask until there was only calm.

Brynna was crying, hiccupping, her breath locked in her chest. “Ever since we got here, Erica has been watching me and following me and leaving me things. She blames me; she hates me! The day in the coffee shop, that was her, wasn't it?”

Her parents exchanged startled glances, and her mother started to cry harder. “No, honey, no.” She shook her head, her auburn hair swirling.

Her father took her hand, his grip firm and comforting. “Erica is dead, Brynna—”

“No!” Brynna was on her feet so fast that the chair she was sitting in went clattering to the hardwood floor behind her. “I told you, she's here! I've seen her!”

“No, honey. They found her.” Brynna's mother's soft voice hitched. “They were able to identify her remains. Erica is really gone, honey.”

Color and sound exploded all around Brynna. It would have been loud, overwhelming, if her head hadn't been filled with cotton or the rushing sound of her own blood, or whatever it was that was stifling every sound, vaulting her further and further away from her parents, from her warm kitchen and her lukewarm cup of tea.

“What?”

“A coroner the next county over from Point Lobos recovered”— Brynna's father bit his lip, carefully considering his words—“some remains, a few months after Erica drowned. They were classified as a Jane Doe since there was no identification found.”

“Remains?”

Remains
weren't people
, Brynna thought,
and
they
certainly
weren't fifteen-year-old girls.

“You don't want to know the details, honey. They're not important.”

Brynna pressed the pads of her fingers against the cool wood grain of the kitchen table. Connecting with something—anything—made her feel real, even as everything inside of her wanted this moment to be fake.

“I want to know, Dad.” Her heart was a steady drumbeat. “I need to know.”

He cleared his throat and shifted his weight in his chair then tossed a glance at Brynna's mother who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Erica had been in the—”

“Erica's body,” Brynna's mother corrected, her eyes fierce and fixed.

“Right, sorry. Erica's body had been in the water a long time, Brynna. The water, the animals… Honey, they had done a lot of damage to Er—the body. She wasn't found all at once. It took them some time to identify and confirm the remains that they did have.”

Brynna's stomach heaved and she was at the sink, gripping the tiles as she vomited. Her stomach doubled in on itself and then revolted, and tears were sliding down her cheeks as her body convulsed. Vaguely, she could feel her mother stroking her hair and telling her things would be okay. She could hear her father's heavy footfalls as he paced behind her, clearing his throat the way he always did in a weird attempt to convey concern.

When her stomach calmed or there was nothing left inside her, an icy chill shot through Brynna, even as her body broke out in a sweat. Her teeth were chattering, and all her muscles were spent as though she had just run a marathon. She fell back against her mother and let her hold her; she didn't react when her father wrapped his arms around them both. Her mother cried, stifling little mewling sounds while her father cried silently. Brynna just stared at the grain of the hardwood floor, eyes itchy and dry.

•••

Brynna lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows swirl in the dark. Knowing that Erica was found wasn't the relief she thought it was going to be. As long as Erica was
out
there
, she could have been out there, alive. As terrifying as the recent taunts and messages had been, there was a sliver of hope, somewhere deep down, that Erica was responsible. Erica could be mad at Brynna—hell, she could want Brynna dead—but Erica would be alive. And, Brynna believed, if Erica was taking out her anger on Brynna, it was fine because she deserved it.

But now…

Erica was dead. It was that simple and that horrifying. Brynna's best friend was dead, and in a matter of days, they were going to dump her in a box and bury her under six feet of earth. Her fingertips burned, knowing that the last time she touched Erica, as their fingers pulled apart in the cold water, was the last time Erica touched anyone. Brynna didn't push Erica, she didn't hold her under the water, but she was just as guilty as if she had.

Brynna stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, for two full days. When she slept, it was fitful and unsettling, and when she left her room, she was a walking corpse, expressionless, emotionless, dragging her feet toward the refrigerator or the kitchen sink. Her parents gave her a wide berth, but between her restless catnaps, Brynna began to notice that things were missing in her bedroom or bathroom: the nail polish remover that was there yesterday was gone. The three tabs of baby aspirin she was allowed to have, gone. A metal nail file, an ancient jump rope, her Daisy razors. Even the glass was gone from her picture frames.

My
parents
think
I'm going to kill myself,
Brynna thought, pushing her head into her pillow that was already beginning to smell sour and old. The thought brought no great emotion to her; she couldn't decide whether she was angry or intrigued, horrified or warmed. She simply rolled over again and squeezed her eyes shut against the few bars of diffused light that still found their way through the blinds and did her best not to think about Erica.

When she opened her eyes on Sunday morning, she was able to shower and head down the stairs. She was even able to push around her half-mushy cereal and swallow a few bites. Erica's body—
her
remains,
she kept correcting herself—still weighed heavy on her mind, but there was something else there too, something she was missing. She couldn't put her finger on what it was until late in the day when she crawled back in bed and pulled her tablet to her lap.