Truth or Dare (7 page)

     “She’s not your friend.”  Her mother shook her head slightly.  “She’s nothing but trouble, and you’re forbidden to see her.”

     “Try and stop me,” Rivka shouted at them as she jumped up and ran from the room.

Mary had the SAT application form all filled out—carefully, in case it would have some effect on her score, although she knew it wouldn’t. 

     What she didn’t have was the fee.  But didn’t schools have funds for things like that?  She’d explain that her mother needed the money for her medication—she didn’t have to tell them they were psycho drugs—and they would dip into some handy pot they kept around for kids like her who had loser parents and no money.

     Belinda Byrne was at the counter when Mary got to the office, talking earnestly with Mrs. Patchett, the secretary.  Probably explaining that she needed a bigger locker to accommodate her pompoms or something.  Mary watched her from behind.  Belinda had a way of tilting her head that Mary suspected she thought was not only cute, but persuasive.  It seemed to be working.  Mrs. Hatchet, as she was known, was actually smiling and nodding.  Fine.  Maybe that meant she’d be in a good mood when she talked to Mary.

     Finally, Belinda bounced off, her pony tail swinging back and forth, and Mary approached the counter.

     Mrs. Patchett frowned as Mary pushed the application toward her. 

     “Check?”  She turned the form over and scanned the back without looking at Mary.  “Well?” She glanced up and raised her eyebrows.  They were dark and bristly with white hairs poking out between the darker ones.

     “I don’t have it…isn’t there something—“

     “You can’t take the SATs without the check.  Those are the rules.”  Mrs. Patchett pushed the application back across the counter toward Mary.

     Mary let it sit there between them, not wanting to touch it in case that would make things final.

     “But—“

     “There is no ‘but’.  You have to pay—“

     “Isn’t there some kind of fund or something?”  Mary felt her insides twist with embarrassment.  

     “Fund?”  Mrs. Patchett laughed. 

     “Fine.”  Mary grabbed the application so fast the pages fluttered like bird’s wings. 

Tears burned behind her eyelids, but she made sure to slam the door on her way out.

Chapter 8

“You missed a great party,” Pamela peeked slyly from under her lashes at Deirdre.  “You won’t believe what happened.”

     “Sorry I didn’t go.  I didn’t feel well.”  Deirdre mumbled and looked away.  She glanced around the room.  “Where’s Becky?”

     “Probably grounded.”  Mary slumped against Pamela’s bed, plucking at the silk fringe on the coverlet.

     “Grounded?  Why?  What happened?”

     “Not telling.  You should have been there.”  Pamela flicked her lighter and held it to the tip of her cigarette.

     Deirdre turned pleading eyes on Mary. 

     Mary looked away.  She wasn’t in the mood for this bullshit.  She had to figure out how to get enough money to take her SATs. By Friday.

     Deirdre turned back toward Pamela.  She waved her hand in front of her face.  “Do you have to smoke?  It’s making me feel sick.  Must be my allergies or something.”

     Pamela looked at her with one eyebrow raised.  “And you’re still not admitting you’re pregnant?”  She blew a smoke ring in Deirdre’s direction.

     “Why are you being so mean?”  Deirdre sniffled.

     “All right.”  Mary got to her feet.  She couldn’t take Pamela’s bullying any more.  She didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to stand it.  It had been different when they were kids, but then something happened.  Pamela changed.  “I’ll tell you what happened.  Rivka got drunk and fell in the pool.  Lance took her home.  The end.”

     Pamela glared at Mary and frowned. “Lance took her home?”

     Mary nodded.  “Now, can we talk about something else?”

     “What’s stuck up your butt today?”  Pamela ground her cigarette out and scowled at Mary.

     “It’s not anything you’d understand, okay?  I need to take the SATs Friday, but I don’t have the money so Mrs. Hatchet-face won’t let me.”

     Pamela began flipping through a magazine, and Deirdre became engrossed in her cuticles.

     “I know,” Pamela flung the magazine down and jumped up. “Truth or dare?”  She turned toward Mary with a challenge.

     Mary groaned.  “Not that stupid game, c’mon, Pamela.  I am so not in the mood.”

     “Pick dare,” Pamela commanded.

     “Okay, dare,” Mary said.  “Dare, dare, dare, dare.”  She beat her hand against the side of the bed with each repetition of the word.

     “Seriously, this is good.”  Pamela rubbed her hands together.  “I dare you to steal the money you need from Mr. Sobeleski!  No, I dare you to steal all the money in the cash drawer.  Tonight.  When you get to work.”  She smiled at Mary and spread her hands wide.  “Mr. Sobeleski trusts you.  He’d never guess.  Just play dumb.  He probably doesn’t need the money anyway.” 

     Mary started to laugh.  “You’ve got to be out of your mind, Pamela.”  She looked at her watch and picked up her backpack. 

“I could never do that.”

But she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She thought about it all the way to work that evening.   

She couldn’t steal from Mr. Sobeleski.  He’d been good to her.  Well, actually, he was a pretty cheap bastard when you thought about it, never paying more than minimum wage.  Mary saw the amount of money that was in the drawer every night—he could afford to toss a few more bucks her way.

Several times that night, as Mary gave out change and took in money, her hand hovered achingly over the cash drawer.  The one dollar bills were stacked so high they were spilling out of their compartment, and there were plenty of fives and tens and a handful of twenties, too.  She straightened one of the twenties in the slot.  She wanted the money so badly she felt like crying. 

She couldn’t take all of the money no matter what Pamela said.  Mr. Sobeleski might not notice if a few twenties went missing, but he’d certainly notice if the drawer were empty!

But that didn’t matter because she couldn’t do it anyway.  She slammed the drawer shut and smiled at a departing customer.

“Is everything all right, Mary?”  Mr. Sobeleski brushed some lint off the sleeve of his ancient cardigan sweater. 

“Yes, Mr. Sobeleski.  Everything’s fine.”  For a moment Mary was tempted to confide her troubles to Mr. Sobeleski, but the moment passed.  She turned away and began tidying up the mints and gum arrayed next to the counter.  She felt strangely depressed—as if the money had been within her reach but had been snatched away again.

“We’re almost out of Life Savers.”  Mary organized a stack of gum into a neat little pyramid.

Mr. Sobeleski snapped his fingers.  I’ve been meaning to fill out my order and fax it over.”  He looked at his watch.  “Can you do me a favor, Mary?”

“Sure.  Whatever.”  Mary got a roll of paper towels and a bottle of cleaner from under the cabinet and began wiping down the glass counter tops.

“Can you count out the drawer and make up the deposit slip for me?  Count the money twice before you fill in the numbers.  I’ll drop it at the bank on my way to the parking lot.  Then I can go fax this order right now.”

“Sure, Mr. Sobeleski.”

Mary watched as he walked to the back of the shop and pushed through the curtain of hanging beads that separated the small office area from the main part of the store.  There was a small microwave back there, and sometimes Mary used it to heat up Ramen noodles or a can of soup for her dinner.    

She waited until Mr. Sobeleski disappeared and then opened the cash drawer.  He didn’t have a modern cash register like most places.  Mary took the money and put it in the drawer—unless people wanted a receipt, and then she had to ring the purchase up.  Her father said Mr. Sobeleski was pretty clever, because that meant he didn’t have to pay taxes on a lot of the money he made.

That made Mary feel better somehow—if Mr. Sobeleski was stealing from the government, then surely he couldn’t complain about her lifting a couple of twenties from the drawer.

Because she had decided she was definitely taking the money.  If fate had sent her this golden opportunity, who was she to pass it up?

Rivka had always liked her room.  Her parents let her choose the color from a bunch of swatches they’d picked up at Home Depot.  She’d opted for a periwinkle that was halfway between blue and purple.  Then they’d gone to Bed, Bath & Beyond for one of those “bed in a bag” kits.  The spread and dust ruffle went beautifully with the color of the walls.  Finally, Bubbeh and Zayde had surprised her with a white, fake fur rug that was heavenly on her bare feet.

All of which meant that she didn’t mind spending time in her room—she spent hours in there each night making sure her homework was done to perfection.  And hours on the weekends reading books and flipping through magazines.  

Rivka’s room had always been her sanctuary.

Until now.

At first, spending time in her room had been her punishment dealt out by her parents—now it was her choice and her way of punishing them for not letting her see Pamela.

Unfortunately she was sick to death of the same four walls day after day after day.  After a week, her parents had tried to lure her downstairs to watch Nova with them on television.  She was going to stay in her room if it killed her.  She’d stay in there until high school graduation if necessary.  Then they'd really be sorry. 

But then one night the phone rang. 

Rivka grabbed it.  They asked for Becky, and Rivka’s heart speeded up—it was a boy's voice, and it sounded familiar.

“Becky?  This is Lance.”

“Lance.”  Her heart stopped beating—she was sure of it.   And a liquid sort of paralysis attacked her limbs and turned them to jelly.

“I’ve been thinking about you.” He sounded nervous. 

Rivka wet her lips and tried to quietly clear her throat.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.  And I was wondering if we could see each other.  Maybe go to a movie?”

Lance was asking her out!  Rivka couldn't believe it.  She didn't dare breathe in case she ruined the moment.

"Sure.  That would be great."  She didn't know how, but she thought she'd managed the right note of casual indifference even though her heart was in over-drive.

"Would tomorrow night be okay?  I could pick you up."

"Sure."  

Rivka hung up the phone and stood there for a moment savoring the delicious thought that Lance had asked her out! It was beyond her wildest dreams.

Suddenly her mood plummeted like a roller coaster car on the final downhill plunge.  Would her parents let her go? 

They had to. 

But knowing them, they probably wouldn't.  Rivka realized that it would be far safer to avoid asking them altogether. 

She would have to lie.

     “Truth or dare?”  Pamela pulled a halter dress from a glossy red shopping bag from one of the most exclusive stores at the mall.  Deirdre watched as she cut off the tags with a pair of manicure scissors.

     “Me?”  Deirdre lay face down on the bed with her chin propped in her hands.  She was so tired she'd almost fallen asleep in Mr. McCain's geometry class.

     “Yes, it’s your turn.”  Pamela held up a pink sweater that looked like silk to Deirdre and tossed it on the growing pile on the chair.   

     Deirdre supposed the maid would put it all away later while Pamela was off doing something more interesting. 

     "Not this again."  Mary let the window blinds fall back into place.  She slid down the wall and sat, cross-legged, on the floor.

     Pamela pouted.  "Truth or dare."

     "Okay, truth then."  Deirdre rolled onto her back.  The bed cradled her softly, and she felt her eyes closing.

     "Hey, wake up.  What's the matter with you."  Pamela tossed a sweater at her.

     Deirdre batted the garment off her face where it had landed.  "Just tired, okay?"

     Pamela reached into the shopping bag and pulled out an evening bag in the shape of a cat. 

     Deirdre watched her from under half-lowered lids.  Pamela looked like a cat herself—the one who'd swallowed the cream.  But she always looked like that when she played this stupid game.  She couldn't remember when it had started—it seemed as if they had been playing it forever—at least since elementary school.

     Deirdre suspected she knew what the question was going to be, and her stomach lurched slightly in protest.  She didn't want to say it out loud—that would make it true. 

     She'd thrown the pregnancy test in her bathroom wastebasket, hidden under some make-up stained tissues.  Not that it mattered—her mother never went into her bathroom.  Some girl with a foreign accent came once a week and cleaned everything.

     She wished she had the nerve to tell her parents about the pregnancy, but she couldn't imagine doing it.  She'd have to catch her mother either on the way to or from one of her shopping trips and before she went up to bed with her martini.  Her father was hardly ever home anymore.  She didn't remember the last time she'd seen him.