Dare You To (2 page)

Authors: Katie McGarry

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Beth

THERE’S NOTHING BETTER than the feeling of floating. Weightless in warmth. Comforter out of the dryer warmth. The warmth of a strong hand against my face, running through my hair.

If only life could be like this…forever.

I could do forever here, in the basement of my aunt’s house. All walls. No windows. The outside kept outside. The people I love inside.

Noah—his hair hiding his eyes, keeping the world from seeing his soul.

Isaiah—a sleeve of beautiful tattoos that frightens the normal and entices the free.

Me—the poet in my mind when I’m high.

I came to this house for safety. They came because the foster care system ran out of homes. We stayed because we were stray

pieces of other puzzles, tired of never fitting.

One year ago, Isaiah and Noah bought the

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couch, the king-size mattress, and the TV

from the Goodwill. Shit thrown away by

somebody else. By yanking it down a flight of stairs into the depths of the earth, they made us a home. They gave me a family.

“I wore ribbons,” I say. My own voice

sounds bizarre. Echoing. Far away. And I

speak again so I can hear the strangeness.

“Lots of them.”

“I love it when she does this,” Isaiah says to Noah. The three of us relax on the bed.

Finishing another beer, Noah sits at the end with his back propped against the wall. Isaiah and I touch. We only touch when we’re high or drunk or both. We can because it doesn’t count then. Nothing counts when you feel weightless.

Isaiah runs his hand through my hair again.

The gentle tug urges me to close my eyes and sleep forever. Bliss. This is bliss.

“What colors?” The normal rough edges of

Isaiah’s tone disappear, leaving smooth

deepness.

“Pink.”

“And?”

“Dresses. I loved dresses.”

It feels as if I’m turning my head through
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sand in order to look at him. My head rests on his stomach and I smile when the heat of his skin radiates past his T-shirt onto my cheek. Or maybe I’m smiling because it’s Isaiah and only he can make me smile.

I love his dark hair, shaved close to his scalp. I love his kind gray eyes. I love the earrings in both ears. I love…that he’s hot. Hot when he’s high. I giggle. He’s tragically hot when he’s sober. I should write that down.

“Do you want a dress, Beth?” Isaiah asks.

He never teases me when I remember my

childhood. In fact, it’s one of the few times he asks endless questions.

“Would you buy me one?” I don’t know

why, but the thought lightens my heart. The teeny sober part of my brain reminds me I don’t wear dresses, that I spurned ribbons. The rest of my mind, lost in a haze of pot, enjoys the game—the prospect of a life with dresses and ribbons and someone willing to make my wildest dreams come true.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitating.

The muscles around my mouth become

heavy and the rest of my body, including my heart, follows suit. No. I’m not ready for the
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comedown. I close my eyes and will it to go away.

“She’s baked.” Noah’s not baked and part of me resents him for it. He quit pot and being carefree when he graduated, and he’s taking Isaiah with him. “We waited too long.”

“No, it’s perfect.” Isaiah moves and places my head on something soft and fluffy. He gave me a pillow. Isaiah always takes care of me.

“Beth?” His warm breath drifts near my ear.

“Yes.” It’s a groggy whisper.

“Move in with us.”

Last spring, Noah graduated from high

school and the foster system. He’s moving out and Isaiah’s going with him, even though

Isaiah can’t officially leave foster care until he graduates next year and turns eighteen. My aunt doesn’t care where Isaiah lives as long as she keeps receiving the checks from the state.

I try to shake my head no, but it doesn’t work too well in sand.

“The two of us talked and you can have a

bedroom and we’ll share the other one.”

They’ve been at this for weeks, trying to convince me to leave with them. But ha! Even stoned I can foil their plans. I flutter my eyes
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open. “Won’t work. You need privacy for

sex.”

Noah chuckles. “We have a couch.”

“I’m still in high school.”

“So’s Isaiah. In case you didn’t notice,

you’re both seniors this year.”

Smart-ass. I glare at Noah. He merely sips his beer.

Isaiah continues, “How else are you going to get to school? You gonna ride the bus?”

Hell no. “You’re going to get your sorry ass up early to pick me up.”

“You know I will,” he murmurs, and I find a hint of my bliss again.

“Why won’t you move in with us?” Noah

asks.

His direct question sobers me up.
Because,
I scream in my mind. I flip onto my side and curl into a ball. Seconds later something soft covers my body. The blanket tucked right

underneath my chin.

“Now, she’s done,” says Isaiah.

MY ASS VIBRATES. I stretch before reaching into my back pocket for my cell.

For a second, I wonder if pretty boy from Taco Bell somehow managed to score my

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number. I dreamed of him—Taco Bell Boy.

He stood close to me, looking all arrogant and gorgeous with his mop of sandy-blond hair and light brown eyes. This time he wasn’t trying to play me by getting my number. He was smiling at me like I actually mattered.

As I said—just a dream.

The image fades when I check the time and the caller ID on my cell: 3:00 a.m. and The Last Stop bar. Fuck. Wishing I never sobered up, I accept the call. “Hold on.”

Isaiah’s asleep beside me, his arm

haphazardly thrown over my stomach. Gently lifting it, I squeeze out from underneath.

Noah’s passed out on the couch, with his

girlfriend, Echo, pulled tight against him. Shit, when did she get back in town?

Quietly, I climb the stairs, enter the kitchen, and shut the door to the basement. “Yeah.”

“Your mother’s causing problems again,”

says a pissed-off male voice. Unfortunately, I know this voice: Denny. Bartender/owner of The Last Stop.

“Have you cut her off?”

“I can’t stop guys from buying her drinks.

Look, kid, you pay me to call you before I call
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the police or bounce her out to the curb.

You’ve got fifteen minutes to drag her ass out.”

He hangs up. Denny really needs to work on his conversational skills.

I walk the two blocks to the strip mall,

which boasts all the conveniences white trash can desire: a Laundromat, Dollar Store, liquor store, piss-ass market that accepts WIC and food stamps and sells stale bread and week-old meat, cigarette store, pawn shop, and biker bar.

Oh, and a dilapidated lawyer’s office in case you get caught shoplifting or holding up any of the above.

The other stores closed hours ago, placing the bars over their windows. Groups of men and women huddle around the scores of

motorcycles that fill the parking lot. The stale stench of cigarettes and the sweet scent of cloves and pot mingle together in the hot summer air.

Denny and I both know he won’t call the

cops, but I can’t risk it. Mom’s been arrested twice and is on probation. And even if he doesn’t call the cops, he’ll kick her out. A burst of male laughter reminds me why that’s not a good thing. It’s not happy laughter or joyous or
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even sane. It’s mean, has an edge, and craves someone’s pain.

Mom thrives on sick men. I don’t get it.

Don’t have to. I just clean up the mess.

The dull bulbs hanging over the pool tables, the running red-neon lights over the bar, and the two televisions hanging on the wall create the bar’s only light. The sign on the door states two things: no one under the age of twenty-one and no gang colors. Even in the dimness, I can see neither rule applies. Most of the men wear jackets with their motorcycle gang emblem clearly in sight, and half the girls hanging on those men are underage.

I push between two men to where Denny

serves drinks at the bar. “Where is she?”

Denny, in his typical red flannel, has his back to me and pours vodka into shot glasses.

He won’t talk and pour at the same time—at least to me.

I force my body to stay stoically still when a hand squeezes my ass and a guy reeking with BO leans into me. “Wanna drink?”

“Fuck off, dickhead.”

He laughs and squeezes again. I focus on the rainbow of liquor bottles lined up behind the
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bar, pretending I’m someplace else.

Someone else. “Hand off my ass or I’ll rip off your balls.”

Denny blocks my view of the bottles and

slides a beer to the guy seconds away from losing his manhood. “Jailbait.”

Dickhead wanders from the bar as Denny

nods toward the back. “Where she’s always at.”

“Thanks.”

I draw stares and snickers as I walk past.

Most of the laughter belongs to regulars. They know why I’m here. I see the judgment in their eyes. The amusement. The pity. Damn

hypocrites.

I walk with my head high, shoulders

squared. I’m better than them. No matter the whispers and taunts they throw out. Fuck them.

Fuck them all.

Most everyone in the back room hovers over a poker game near the front, leaving the rest of the room empty. The door to the alley hangs wide open. I can see Mom’s apartment

complex and her front door from here.

Convenient.

Mom sits at a small round table in the

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corner. Two bottles of whiskey and a shot glass sit beside her. She rubs her cheek, then pulls her hand away. Inside of me, anger

erupts.

He hit her. Again. Her cheek is red. Blotchy.

The skin underneath the eye already swelling.

This is the reason why I can’t move in with Noah and Isaiah. The reason I can’t leave. I need to be two blocks from Mom.

“Elisabeth.” Mom slurs the
s
and drunkenly waves me over. She picks up a whiskey bottle and tips it over the general area of the shot glass, but nothing comes out. Which is good because she’d miss the glass by an inch.

I go to her, take the bottle, and set it on the table beside us. “It’s empty.”

“Oh.” She blinks her hollow blue eyes. “Be a good girl and go get me another.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Then get you something too.”

“Let’s go, Mom.”

Mom smoothes her blond hair with a shaky

hand and glances around as if she just woke from a dream. “He hit me.”

“I know.”

“I hit him back.”

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Don’t doubt she hit him first. “We’ve

gotta go.”

“I don’t blame you.”

That statement hits me in ways a man can’t.

I release a long breath and search for a way to ease the sting of her words, but I fail. I pick up the other bottle, grateful for the pitiful amount remaining, pour a shot, and swig it down. Then pour another, pushing it toward her. “Yes, you do.”

Mom stares at the drink before letting her middle-aged fingers trace the rim of the shot glass. Her nails are bitten to the quick. The cuticles grown over. The skin surrounding the nails is dry and cracked. I wonder if my mom was ever pretty.

She throws her head back as she drinks.

“You’re right. I do. Your father would never have left if it wasn’t for you.”

“I know.” The burn from the whiskey

suppresses the pain of the memory. “Let’s go.”

“He loved me.”

“I know.”

“What you did…it forced him to leave.”

“I know.”

“You ruined my life.”

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“I know.”

She begins to cry. It’s the drunk cry. The type where it all comes out—the tears, the snot, the spit, the horrible truth you should never tell another soul. “I hate you.”

I flinch. Swallow. And remind myself to

inhale. “I know.”

Mom grabs my hand. I don’t pull away. I

don’t grab her in return. I let her do what she must. We’ve been down this road several

times.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Mom wipes her nose with the bare skin of her forearm. “I didn’t mean it.

I love you. You know I do. Don’t leave me alone. Okay?”

“Okay.” What else can I say? She’s my

mom. My mom.

Her fingers draw circles on the back of my hand and she refuses eye contact. “Stay with me tonight?”

This is where Isaiah drew the line. Actually, he drew the line further back, forcing me to promise I’d stay away from her altogether after her boyfriend beat the shit out of me. I’ve kind of kept the promise by moving in with my

aunt. But someone has to take care of my

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mom—make sure she eats, has food, pays

her bills. It is, after all, my fault Dad left.

“Let’s get you home.”

Mom smiles, not noticing I haven’t

answered. Sometimes, at night, I dream of her smiling. She was happy when Dad lived with us. Then I ruined her happiness.

Her knees wobble when she stands, but

Mom can walk. It’s a good night.

“Where are you going?” I ask when she

steps in the direction of the bar.

“To pay my tab.”