The Dare (2 page)

Everyone was laughing. Margaret and me too. It was such a riot.

“Stop it right now! I'll call the cops! I really will!”

The clerk's angry shout made everyone stop laughing. I turned and saw that his face was nearly as purple as the Slurpy slush, and the veins were bulging at the sides of his neck. It looked like his head was going to explode. Really.

At the back of the store, Lanny had climbed to his feet. But Zack was still sprawled on the floor. The Slurpy machine was running. The purple slush poured out in a thick stream onto the linoleum.

Dennis tried to help Zack up, but Zack only pulled him to the floor. And everyone started laughing all over again.

“You kids think you can do whatever you like!” the red-faced clerk was shrieking. He burst out from behind the counter, shaking his fist at them.

Oh, no, I thought, glancing warily at Margaret. Is he going to
fight
them?

This was getting intense.

Margaret grabbed my arm. I don't think she even realized she was holding on to me.

The store clerk lumbered over to the five kids, his
stomach heaving as he walked. He was breathing really hard and still shaking his fist angrily. “I'm calling the cops! I'm calling them right now!”

Dennis and Zack climbed to their feet. Melody and Caitlin suddenly had frightened looks on their faces.

“No, you're not,” Dennis said quietly.

“Huh? What did you say?” the clerk screamed furiously.

“I said you're not calling the cops,” Dennis replied calmly.

And then I saw the gun in Dennis's hand.

Margaret must have seen it too, because her grip tightened on my arm.

I didn't have time to cry out or anything.

“You're not calling anyone,” Dennis told the clerk coldly.

And then he pulled the trigger.

A
stream of water sprayed from the gun. It splashed onto the front of the store clerk's green shirt.

The kids all went bananas, laughing wildly and slapping each other high-fives.

“Dennis, you're the man!” Lanny cried gleefully. “You're the man!”

The store clerk was so angry, I thought I could see steam rising up from his bald head.

Margaret and I were still huddled together in the front of the store. We were laughing pretty hard too.

There was a pay phone against the back wall. The clerk angrily grabbed the receiver. He pulled it so hard, I thought he was going to jerk the phone off the wall.

“I'm calling the cops,” he said in an angry growl.

But then Zack reached for his wallet. I saw him take some bills from it, and he stuffed them into the clerk's shirt pocket. “This should pay for the Slurpys,” he said. “And the mess.”

And then the five kids paraded past us, big, pleased grins on their faces, and headed out the glass door to the parking lot.

“Just because they're rich, they think they can get away with anything,” the store clerk muttered. He was looking down at the big puddles of purple slush.

“Is he talking to us or to himself?” Margaret whispered.

I shrugged.

They went by so fast, I wasn't sure if the Shadyside kids had seen Margaret and me. But I glanced out the front window—and caught Dennis Arthur staring in at me.

That's weird, I thought, feeling my face grow hot.

Why is he staring at me with that weird grin on his face?

I was trying to decide whether to wave to him or not. But before I could decide, his girlfriend, Caitlin, pulled him away.

Mr. Northwood, my history teacher, is tall and very lean. He kind of stoops his head and his shoulders all the time, as if he doesn't really want to be as tall as he is. He has thick, wavy hair. I think it used to be brown, but now it's mostly gray. He has watery blue eyes and a craggy face with lots of deep lines running down his cheeks.

He sort of looks like a beardless Abe Lincoln or maybe Clint Eastwood on a really bad day.

He's a weird guy.

For one thing, he always wears turtlenecks. Never any other kind of shirt or sweater. It's not the most flattering style for him because he has a big, bulging Adam's apple that always bobs up and down right where the turtleneck ends.

Another weird thing about Mr. Northwood is that he tape-records everything. Really. Everything. He has this little silvery mini-recorder that he carries in his pocket.

When class begins, he sets the recorder on the desk and clicks it on. When he's ready to dismiss the class, he clicks off the recorder, removes the tiny cassette, and slips it back into his pocket.

Weird, huh?

The other weird thing about having Mr. Northwood as a teacher is that he's also my next-door neighbor. On Fear Street. But let's not get into that now.

The afternoon after the 7-Eleven incident, I was sitting near the back of my history class, half listening to Mr. Northwood, half daydreaming. I kept glancing at the clock above Mr. Northwood's head. The school day was almost over.

Outside the windows the sky was gray and growing darker. I wondered if it was cold enough to snow. I hoped not. I remembered that I had lost my red wool gloves somewhere, and I didn't have any money to buy another pair.

When Mr. Northwood clicked off his little tape recorder and slid it into his pocket, I sat up straight
and began shoving my Trapper Keeper into my backpack.

“Dismissed,” Mr. Northwood said in his reedy, thin voice.

I jumped to my feet, straightening the bottom of my white cotton sweater, pulling it down over my faded denims. I left my backpack on the floor, told Margaret I'd meet her in the hall, and started to the front of the room.

I had to ask Mr. Northwood a question about the paper I was writing about Charles Lindbergh. I didn't know if he wanted me just to write about Lindbergh's career, or did I have to write about the kidnapping of his baby too?

I had started to the front when I saw that Dennis Arthur had gotten there first. Mr. Northwood said something to him, and Dennis reacted angrily.

I stopped short as they started to argue.

The room had emptied out. I took a step back, then another, lingering against the wall.

“I
told
you why I can't take the midterm exam!” Dennis cried shrilly. He was gesturing excitedly with his hands. Even from the back of the room, I could see his green eyes flash excitedly. I could tell Dennis was really upset.

“My family always goes to the Bahamas in February,” Dennis said, crossing his arms in front of his navy blue sweatshirt. “What am I supposed to do, Mr. Northwood—stay home so I can take your exam?”

Mr. Northwood shook his head. The lines in his
face seemed to grow deeper. “Have a good trip,” he said dryly. “Send me a postcard, Dennis.”

“Well, I don't see why you can't give me a makeup test when I get back,” Dennis insisted, leaning over the teacher's desk, challenging him. “Or give me a test I can take along with me.”

Mr. Northwood shook his head, his colorless lips forming the word
no.

“Why not?” Dennis demanded.

“It would be unfair to your classmates,” the teacher replied softly, stooping his head, as always, as he gathered his books and papers together.

I was starting to feel embarrassed listening to this. I mean, I didn't want Dennis to think I was deliberately eavesdropping or anything.

But I don't think Dennis even knew I was in the room. And I really did want to ask Mr. Northwood my question.

So I stayed, leaning against the wall, thinking about how great-looking Dennis is, imagining what it would be like to be Caitlin, his girlfriend, and listening as the argument grew really intense.

“If I get an F, do you know what will happen to me?” Dennis cried. He didn't wait for Mr. Northwood to answer. “I'll lose my eligibility on the track team.”

“I feel bad about that,” Mr. Northwood replied. As Dennis got louder, the teacher's voice became softer. “I really do, Dennis.”

“But all my other teachers are giving me a break!” Dennis exclaimed. “They know I'm going to be all-state
this year. They know I could get an Olympics tryout. I could be a national star, Mr. Northwood. I really could.”

“I hope so,” Mr. Northwood replied, turning his head to glance up at the clock.

“Great! Then give me a makeup test. Give me a break, okay?” Dennis pleaded, staring hard into the teacher's watery eyes.

“In my opinion, you get too many breaks,” the teacher replied quietly. He began shoving books into his worn leather briefcase. After a few moments he stopped and raised his eyes to Dennis. “Give me one good reason why I should give you special treatment.”

“Because I
asked
you to!” Dennis replied without hesitating.

The room suddenly grew darker as the storm clouds lowered over the sky. One of the overhead fluorescent lights near the door buzzed and flickered.

“Our discussion is over. I'm really sorry,” Mr. Northwood told Dennis. He clicked his briefcase shut.

Dennis just gaped at him. His mouth dropped open, but he didn't say anything. Then Dennis threw up his hands in a gesture of total exasperation. “I—I don't believe this!” Dennis screamed, losing his temper.

Suddenly I realized someone was calling my name.

I turned to the door and saw Margaret motioning to me.

As I made my way to Margaret, I could hear Dennis shouting furiously at Mr. Northwood.

“Margaret—what is it?” I whispered, stepping into the doorway.

And then I heard a loud
thud.

I heard Mr. Northwood let out a cry.

A heavy feeling of dread shot through my body.

Without looking, I knew that Dennis had slugged him.

M
y breath caught in my throat. I turned back to the front of the room.

I was relieved to see that Dennis hadn't hit Mr. Northwood. He had angrily slammed a heavy textbook to the floor instead.

Mr. Northwood had been calm and soft-spoken, but now he really lost his cool. He went all white and pointed a shaky finger at Dennis and started sputtering at him about respect for school property.

Dennis looked totally stunned. I think he was really upset that he lost his temper like that. He was breathing hard, glaring at Mr. Northwood, balling and unballing his fists as the teacher laced into him.

“What's going on?” Margaret whispered, peeking in timidly from the hall.

“World War Three,” I whispered back, picking up my backpack and edging out of the room.

“Who's winning?” Margaret asked as I joined her in the hall.

“Mr. Northwood, I think,” I replied, crossing the empty hall to my locker.

I could hear Dennis and Mr. Northwood arguing loudly back in the classroom. I realized my knees were kind of shaky. Why am
I
upset? I wondered. It isn't
my
argument.

No one has offered to take
me
to the Bahamas this February, I thought bitterly. Why should I care if Dennis gets a makeup test or not?

“I'm late for my job,” Margaret said, shifting her backpack over her red down jacket. Margaret waitresses at Alma's Coffeeshop for a few hours after school every day. “I just wanted to ask if you want to come to dinner tonight.”

“I guess,” I said, twirling the combination lock on my locker and pulling the door open. “My mom won't be home till after nine. Thanks, Margaret.”

“Later,” she called, hurrying down the hall, her red hair bouncing as she ran.

I bent down and started pulling books from my locker and stuffing them into my backpack. A few seconds later, I glanced up to see Dennis angrily stomping out of Mr. Northwood's room.

He crossed the hall, shaking his head, muttering to himself. “I could kill that guy,” he said breathlessly to me. “I really could.”

I laughed. I didn't know what else to do.

My heart started pounding. I mean, Dennis's locker was two down from mine. But he had never said a word to me before.

I stood up and tried to flash him an encouraging smile. I don't think he noticed. He slammed his fist into his locker door. The
clang
echoed down the hall.

“Ow,” I said. “Didn't that hurt?”

“Yeah,” Dennis replied. He grinned at me and shook his hand. “It hurt a lot. Stupid, huh?”

“Well …” I couldn't think of a good reply. My mouth had gone all dry. Dennis was just so good-looking. I guess I'd had kind of a crush on him for a long time. But I never really allowed myself to think about it.

“I just hate that guy,” Dennis grumbled, flexing his hand.

“He isn't being very fair,” I said.

“He's a jerk,” Dennis replied angrily. “A total jerk.” His green eyes locked on my face. It was as though he were seeing me for the first time.

“I could kill him. Really,” Dennis repeated. He turned away from me and started fiddling with his combination lock. “You know how?”

“How?” I asked a little too eagerly.

“I don't know,” Dennis said, scowling.

“Well, let's see,” I replied, thinking hard. “You could glue that little tape recorder to his ear and make him listen to all the classes he records. That would
bore
him to death.” I snickered.

Dennis didn't smile. “Not painful enough,” he grumbled. He tugged at the locker door, but it wouldn't open. He let out a frustrated groan and started furiously twirling the lock again.

Suddenly he stopped and turned to me. “I'd like to stuff him into that briefcase he always carries,” he said. “And lock it shut. And toss it in the trash.”

“He's too tall,” I replied. “He wouldn't fit.”

“I'd fold him up,” Dennis said. “That would be the fun part. Folding him.”

“Yuck!” I made a disgusted face. “You're really sick.”

“No. Just angry” Dennis sighed. “He's going to mess up my life. He really is.”