Dare You To (6 page)

He’s going to come for me. A shimmer of hope breaks through the emptiness and I fall into the safety of Isaiah’s protective arms, our bodies pressed tight to one another.

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IN THE BACK FIELD that borders three farms, a field party rages without me, Logan, and Chris.

Parties are great. They have girls, girls who drink beer, dancing, girls who like dancing, and guys who hate dancing but do it anyway in the hope of laying the girls who drink beer.

Lacy’s in the mood to dance, Chris is in the mood to avoid dancing, I’m still burnt from Skater Girl last night, and Logan’s always game for the stupid and insane. Ten minutes into the party, Lacy was dancing and the three of us took on a dare. Actually, I took on a dare.

I lost last night and I don’t lose. Chris and Logan are along for the ride.

“You can’t pull this one off.” Chris walks beside me as we head toward the cars parked neatly in a line. The full moon gives the field a silver glow and the scent of bonfire smoke
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hangs in the air.

“That’s because you have no imagination.”

Thankfully, I have plenty and I know a few guys who get a kick out of screwing with

friends.

“This is going to be sweet,” Logan says

when I change course and head toward a group of defensive linemen enjoying their own

private party.

Tim Richardson owns a mammoth-size,

ozone-killing truck, which is good, because the four guys sitting on lawn chairs on the back of it easily weigh 275 pounds each. Tim liberates a can of beer from his cooler and tosses it to me. “What’s going on, Ry?”

“Nothing.” I put the cold can on the tailgate.

No drinking for me. I’ve got business to take care of. “Not in the mood for the party?”

His truck is one of the few that can make it over the hill into the back field. “A girl over there is pissed at me,” Tim mutters. “Anytime I go near her, she won’t keep her mouth shut.”

Logan snorts and Chris smacks him on the

back of the head.
Pissed
would be an understatement. Rumor at school said Tim’s ex-girl caught him making out with her twin
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sister. Tim throws a warning glare at Logan before focusing on me. “How’s your brother?

The team’s ticked at him. He promised he’d help with summer practice while he was home from college.”

Hating these kinds of questions, I shift my stance and shove my hands in my pockets. Dad made it clear that we tell no one what

happened with Mark. “He’s been busy.” Before Tim has a chance to probe further, I switch to the problem at hand. “How would you guys

like to help me with a…situation?”

Tim leans forward as his fellow linemen

snicker. “What dare did you sign up for this time?”

I bob my head back and forth like what I’m preparing to ask isn’t a big deal. “Nothing fancy. Rick dared me to move his car.”

Tim shrugs because it doesn’t sound like a big deal.

“Without the keys,” says Chris.

Tim lowers his head, and deep chuckles

resonate from his chest. “You three are the definition of insane. You know that, right?”

“Says the guy that tackles other dudes for fun,” I say. “Are you in or out?”

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Tim’s lawn chair moves with him as he

stands. As he reaches his full height, the chair plunges onto the bed of the truck with a loud clank. “In.”

CURLED FINGERS MISERABLY clutch metal

and my back and thighs burn with pain. Seven guys, one 2,400-pound car, and one more inch to go.

“On three,” I say through clenched teeth.

“One…”

“Three,” yells Logan and I barely unwedge my fingers from the bumper of the two-door Chevy Aveo when the six other guys drop the car to the ground. The frame of the blue car bounces like a Slinky before coming to a rest.

“Sweet shocks,” says Logan.

Sweat soaks my shirt. Gasping for air, I bend over and place my hands on my knees. The

rush of the win races through my veins and I laugh out loud.

Logan admires our handiwork. “Six feet

over and nicely parallel parked between two trees.”
Nicely
meaning the front and rear bumpers currently kiss bark.

Tim’s chest heaves as if he’s experiencing a heart attack. “You’re a crazy son-of-a-bitch,
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Ry.” Pant. “How the hell is Rick going to move this piece of shit?”

“Chris, Logan, and I will stick around. Once he gets done freaking, we’ll lift the back end and move it so he can wedge out.”

Tim laughs while shaking his head. “I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Anytime. Let’s go, guys. I need a beer.”

I sag to the ground and lean against the tree near the bumper. Chris slides against the passenger door until his butt hits the dirt. We both stare at Logan, waiting for him to join us, but he’s busy studying the two oak trees

pinning in our third baseman’s car.

In any circle that doesn’t involve me, Chris, and Lacy, Logan is known for silence and his constant state of boredom. At the moment, so-called silent, bored boy’s mind is spinning like a toddler on a sugar high. It’s ironic: at school, people think I’m the adrenaline junkie because I admire a good dare. Hell, I’m not looking for a high—I just like to win. Logan, on the other hand, thrives on the edge. Gotta love a guy like that.

I’m not the only one who’s noticed Logan’s
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insane infatuation with the tree. Chris eyes him warily. “What the hell are you doing, Junior?”

Logan winks at me. “Be back in a second,

boss man.” He scrambles up the old oak tree.

Small dead limbs that can’t hold his weight fall through the branches and onto the ground.

Chris grows restless. He won’t admit it, but heights scare the shit out of him and Logan’s fear of nothing scares the shit out of him more.

“Get your ass back down here.”

“Okay,” calls Logan from somewhere high

in the tree.

I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

From above, tree limbs crackle and snap and leaves whoosh as if a strong breeze rushes through them. It’s not wind. It’s Logan, and one of these days he’s going to get himself killed. A swirl of dirt accompanies the thud on the ground. Logan’s body presses against my foot. On his back, with his black hair full of torn leaves, Logan convulses with laughter.

Obviously this isn’t the night he was meant to die. He turns his head to look at Chris. “Here.”

I kick Logan hard when I remove my foot

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from under his ass. “You’re the crazy son-of-a-bitch, not me.”

“Crazy?” Logan rolls over to sit up. “I’m not the one following a psycho chick into a

parking lot for a phone number. Those guys could have kicked your ass.”

Damn. I hoped they had forgotten. “I could have taken them.” They would have eventually handed my ass to me, but I would have given them some bruises as payback. Two versus one are bad odds.

“Not the point,” says Logan.

“Since you mentioned it.” Chris takes his baseball cap off and holds it over his heart.

“I’m going to take this moment and remind everyone of the following—I won.”

“I won tonight. So we’re even again.”

Chris shoves his hat back on. “Doesn’t

count.”

He’s right. It doesn’t. The only dares we keep track of are the ones we give to one another. “Enjoy the brief taste of victory. I’ll be winning next time.”

We lapse into silence, which is fine. Our silences are never uncomfortable. Unlike girls, guys don’t have to talk. Every now and then,
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we hear laughter or shouting from the party.

Every now and then, Chris and Lacy text. He likes to give her space, but doesn’t trust drunk guys near his girl.

Logan fiddles with a long branch that fell to the ground. “Dad and I headed into Lexington this morning to check out U of K.”

I hold my breath, hoping that the

conversation doesn’t turn to where I think it’s heading. Logan’s had this visit scheduled for weeks. He’s a damn genius and will have every college knocking on his door next year,

including the University of Kentucky. “How’d it go?”

“I saw Mark.”

I rub the back of my head and try to ignore the nagging ache inside. “How is he?”

“Fine. He asked about you. Your mom.” He

pauses. “Your dad.”

“He’s fine. That’s it?”

“No offense, but it was weird. I’m cool that he’s your brother and that he’s made his

choices, but I’m not sticking around to play head shrink over your family problems,

especially when he had an audience.”

“An audience?” I echo.

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“Yeah,” says Logan. “His boyfriend, I

guess.”

The twisting pressure usually only reserved for games pummels my stomach. I pull my

knees up and lower my head. “How do you

know it was his boyfriend?”

Logan’s face scrunches. “I dunno. He was

standing next to another dude.”

“It could have been a friend,” says Chris.

“Did the guy look gay?”

“Mark didn’t look gay, asswipe.” Logan

snaps. “Who would have guessed the damn

defensive lineman had it for the home team.

And sure, the other dude could’ve been

straight. But how the hell should I know?”

Listening to them discuss my gay brother’s possible gay boyfriend is just as comfortable as convincing my mom over and over again that I prefer girls and their girl parts. Nothing makes you think you might need years of therapy like having to say the word
breasts
in front of your mother. “Can we end this conversation?”

I consider walking back to Tim’s truck and collecting that beer. I’ve only been shit-faced drunk twice in my life. Once when Mark told the family he was gay. The second time when
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Dad kicked him out for that announcement.

Both incidents happened in the span of three days. Lessons learned: don’t tell Dad you’re gay, and getting drunk doesn’t make anything untrue. It just makes your head hurt in the morning.

With a loud crack, Logan breaks the twig in his hand. He’s looking for courage, which means I’m going to hate the words coming out of his mouth. “Mark was all cryptic, but he said you’d know what he meant. He said he can’t come and he hoped you’d understand

why.”

The muscles in my neck tighten. My brother didn’t even have the balls to tell me himself. I texted him last week. I outright defied my parents and texted him. I asked him to come home for dinner tomorrow night and he never texted back. Instead, he took the coward’s way out and used Logan.

Earlier this summer, Dad gave the

ultimatum: as long as Mark chooses guys, he’s no longer a part of our family. Mark walked out, knowing what leaving meant: leaving

Mom…leaving me. He never considered trying to stay home and fight to keep our family
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together. “He made his choice.”

Logan lowers his voice. “He misses you.”

“And he left,” I snap. I kick the back tire of the car. Angry. Angry at Dad. Angry at Mark.

Angry at me. For three days straight Mark talked. He said the same thing over and over again. He’s still Mark. My brother. Mom’s son.

He told me how he spent years confused

because he wanted to be like me. He wanted to be like Dad.

And when I asked him to stay, when I asked him to stand his ground…he left. He packed up his shit and he left, leaving me and the

destruction of my family behind.

“Screw the serious talk,” says Chris. “We won today. We’ll win fall season and spring.

We’re going to graduate victorious and when we do, Ryan’s going pro.”

“Amen,” says Logan.

From their lips to God’s ears, but sometimes God chooses not to listen. “Don’t get your hopes up. The scout today could be a one-time deal. Next week they could find somebody else to love.” I should know. That happened at the pro tryouts this past spring.

“Bullshit,” says Chris. “Destiny is knocking,
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Ry, and you need to get your ass up to

answer.”

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I FELL ASLEEP. Either that or my dear old uncle Scott drugged me. I’m going with fell asleep.

Scott may be a dick, but he’s a dare-to-keep-kids-off-drugs kind of dick. I should know. He once brought red ribbons and a police mascot to my preschool.

I love irony.

Moonlight streams through white lace

curtains hanging from an artsy brown metal rod. I sit up and a pink crochet blanket falls away. The bedding beneath me is still perfectly made and I’m wearing the same outfit I wore on Friday night. Someone has neatly laid my shoes on the wooden floor next to the bed.

Even sober, I wouldn’t have done that. I don’t do neat.

I lean over and turn on a lamp. The crystals decorating the bottom edge of the shade clink
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together. The dull light draws my focus to the painfully cheery purple paint on the wall.

Closing my eyes, I count the days. Let’s see.

Friday night I went out with Noah and Isaiah and put Taco Bell Boy in his place. Early Saturday, Mom tried to become a felon.

Saturday morning, Scott ruined my life.

I pretended to fall asleep in the car so I wouldn’t have to talk to Scott, but I sucked and actually fell asleep. Scott woke me, I think, and half carried me into the house. Crap. Why don’t I put a sign on my head and announce I’m a loser girl who needs help.

I open my eyes and stare at the ticking clock on the bedside table. Twelve fifteen. Sunday.

This is early Sunday morning.

My stomach growls. I’ve gone a full day

without eating. Wouldn’t be the first time.