Dare You To

The officer resembles a twenty-year-old Johnny Depp, and he smells clean—soap with a hint of coffee. He’s not the one who tried to talk to me last night. Just the guy that arrested me. He settles into the seat across from me and the guard leaves.

“I’m Officer Monroe.”

I glare at the table.

Officer Monroe reaches over, unlocks the cuffs, and slides them to his side of the table. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened last night?”

Just one drag. Oh God, it’d be better than a deep kiss from a really hot guy. But I’m not kissing a hot guy and I don’t have a cigarette because I’m currently being questioned in purgatory.

“Your mom’s boyfriend, Trent—we know he’s bad news, but he’s smart. We’ve never gotten enough to put him away. Maybe you can help us and yourself. Help us put him in jail, then he’ll be away from you and your mom.”

I agree—he’s Satan. Other than the fact that he’s a washed-up has-been of a football player who traded tackling men on the field for beating the shit out of women though, I have nothing to tell them beyond rumors I’ve heard on the street. The cops who walk the south-side beat are well aware of our bedtime stories regarding The Asshole Known as Trent. The tantalizing tidbit that he hits me and Mom could get us a flimsy piece of paper with the words Emergency Protection Order on the header, but domestic violence offenders rarely sit inside jail cells for long, plus Trent burns EPOs and puppies for fun.

Even before my mother got involved with Trent, the police were after him, but he’s the walking, talking real-life version of an oil spill—impossible to pick up once he’s been released. Helping the police will only bring the ooze and his sickening wrath quicker to our doorstep.

“He lives in the same apartment complex as your mom, right? Wouldn’t it be nice to live with her again and not have to worry about him?”

Having no idea how he knows I don’t live with my mom, I fight hard not to glance at him. Refusing to indicate he’s right.

“We didn’t even know he was dating your mom. He, uh, sees other women.”

I keep from rolling my eyes. There’s a shock.

“Elisabeth,” he says after my nonresponse.

“Beth.” I hate my given name. “My name is Beth.”

“Beth, your one phone call has been standing in the lobby since five a.m.”

Isaiah! My eyes flash to Officer Monroe’s. The walls I built to protect myself crumble and fatigue sets in as the iciness I’ve clung to all night melts. Fear and hurt rush to take its place. I want Isaiah. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.

I blink, realizing the stinging sensation is tears. Wiping at my face, I try to find my strength—my resolve, but I only find a heavy emptiness. “When can I go home?”

Someone knocks. Officer Monroe cracks the door open and exchanges a few heated whispers before nodding. Seconds later, my aunt, an older and cleaner version of my mother, walks in. “Beth?”

Officer Monroe leaves, closing the door behind him.

Shirley comes straight to me. I stand and let her hug me. She smells like home: stale cigarettes and lavender fabric softener. I bury my face in my aunt’s shoulder, wishing for nothing more than to lie in the bed in her basement for a week.

A cigarette is a close second.

“Where’s Isaiah?” Though I’m grateful for my aunt, my heart was set on seeing my best friend.

“Outside. He called me the moment he heard from you.” Shirley squeezes me before breaking our embrace. “What a mess.”

“I know. Have you seen Mom?”

She nods, then leans in and whispers in my ear, “Your mom told me what really happened.”

The muscles around my mouth tighten and I try to stop my lower lip from trembling. “What do I do?”

Shirley runs her hands up and down my arms. “Stick with your story. They brought Trent and your mom in for questioning. With you not talking, they couldn’t find anything to arrest them on. Your mom’s twitchy though. If you talk, they’ll send her to jail for breaking probation and the destruction of property. She’s scared of going to jail.”

So am I, but Mom can’t hack jail. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Her arms drop to her sides and she places the table between us. It’s only a few steps, but it creates a gap resembling a canyon. I turned seventeen last month. Before tonight, I felt like an adult: old and big. I don’t feel so big anymore. Right now I feel small and very, very alone. “Shirley?”

“Your uncle and I don’t have money for a lawyer. Isaiah and Noah, even that girl Noah brings around, they offered what they had, but your uncle and I got scared once the cops told us you took a bat to Trent. Then I had an idea.”

My heart sinks as if someone yanked a trapdoor right below it. “What did you do?”

“I know you don’t want anything to do with your dad’s side, but his brother, Scott—he’s a good man. Left that baseball team and became a businessman. He has a lawyer. A fancy one.”

“Scott?” My mouth gapes. “How … what …” My breathing becomes shallow as I try to make sense of the insanity falling out of my aunt’s lips. “Impossible. He left.”

“He did,” she says slowly. “But he moved back to his hometown last month and he called me to find you. He wanted you to go live with him and his wife, but we blew him off. Your mom talked to him when he got persistent and she told him you ran away.”

My lip curls at the thought of him anywhere near me. “Good choice. So why involve Scott now? We don’t need him. We can figure this out without him or his fancy lawyer.”

“They said you were going to hit Trent with a bat,” Shirley repeats as she wrings her hands together. “That’s serious and I thought we needed help.”

“No. Tell me you didn’t.” I’m in hell. Or pretty damn close.

“We would have respected your wishes about him, but then this happened and … I called him. Listen to me, he has a great life now. Lots of money and he wants you.”

I start to laugh. Only it’s not funny. It’s not even close to funny. It’s the saddest damn thing I’ve ever heard. I collapse into the seat and rest my head in my hands. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He got the charges dropped.” Not a hint of happiness can be found in her voice.

I keep my face hidden, unable to look at her to see whatever truth she’s been building toward. “What did you do?” I ask again.

Shirley kneels beside me and pitches her voice low. “When I called him, your uncle Scott went to your mom’s apartment. He saw things he shouldn’t have seen. Things that can hurt your mom.”

I sway to the side as if I’ve been hit by a wave and the rushing sound of being sucked into the ocean whirls in my ears. My world is crashing around me. He went into my old room. Mom told me never to go in there after I left to live with Shirley. I never have. There are things even I don’t want to know.

“He didn’t tell the police,” she says.

Shocked by her revelation, I peek at her through my fingers. “Really?”

Shirley’s lips turn down and she scrunches her forehead. “Your mom had no choice. He walked into the station with his lawyer and made the demand—she either turned over custody of you to him, or he would tell the cops what he saw.”

My aunt stares at me, her eyes bleak. “She signed over custody. He’s your legal guardian now.”

RYAN

THANKS TO THE SHOWERS at the community center, there’s no need to head home. Clean and dressed in street clothes, I return to heaven.

Everyone has left the ballpark. The bleachers are empty. The concession stand closed. Kenny Chesney blares from the parking lot, meaning that Chris ignored me when I told him I’d catch up with him later. Chris is really good at three things—playing shortstop, loving his girl, and knowing what I need even when I don’t know it myself.

At least most of the time.

From the community pool, little kids squeal in delight in time to the sounds of splashing and the bounce of the diving board. My brother, Mark, and I spent most of our summers swimming in that pool. The other part, we spent playing ball.

I stand on the pitcher’s mound, except this time I’m in blue jeans and my favorite Reds T-shirt. The early evening sky fades from blue to orange-and-yellow. It’s no longer a million degrees and the breeze shifts from the south to the north. This is my favorite part of the game—the time alone afterward.

The rush of winning and the knowledge I have a scout interested in me still linger in my blood. My lungs expand with clean oxygen and my muscles lose the tension that weighed me down during the game. I feel relaxed, at peace, and alive.

I stare at home plate and in my mind I see Logan crouched in position and the batter taking a practice swing. My fingers curl as if I’m clutching the ball. Logan calls for a curve; I accept, except this time I …

“I knew you’d be here.” In her brown leather cowboy boots and blue dress, Gwen swings around the gate into the dugout.

“How?” I ask.

“You screwed up the curve.” In one smooth motion, Gwen sits on the bench in the dugout and pats the wood beside her. She’s playing a game. One I’ll lose, but damn if my feet don’t move toward her.

She looks good. Better than good. Beautiful. I ease down beside her as she tosses her blond ringlets behind her shoulder. “I remember you explaining the bases to me in this dugout. The best baseball conversation we ever had.”

I lean forward and clasp my hands together. “Maybe you missed part of the conversation, because I wasn’t explaining baseball.”

Gwen flashes her bright smile. “I know, but I still enjoyed the demonstration.”

Our eyes meet for a moment and I glance away when heat crawls along my cheeks. Gwen’s the only girl I’ve had any real experience with. She used to blush when she talked about anything sexual, but she doesn’t today. Nausea rolls through my gut. What new bases has Mike taught her?

“You seemed out of it during the game.” The material of her dress swishes as she crosses her legs and angles her body toward mine. Our thighs touch now, creating heat. I wonder if she notices. “Are you having problems with your dad again?”

Gwen and I spent countless afternoons and evenings in this dugout. She always knew when Dad pushed me too far with the refs or that if I played like crap, I’d come here for clarity. “No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Everything. Mom and Dad fighting. Mark’s absence. Me and pro ball. My friends/not-friends relationship with Gwen. For a moment, I think about telling her about Mark. Like the rest of the town, she remains blissfully unaware. I stare into her eyes and search for the girl I first met my freshman year. She wouldn’t have messed with me then. Unfortunately, I’ve since become her favorite pastime. “I’m not in the mood to be played, Gwen.”

Gwen raises her hand and twirls her hair around her finger. The glint of a large red-stoned ring strikes me like an ice pick. I shift so that our thighs no longer touch. “Mike gave you his class ring.”

She drops her hand and covers it with the other, as if hiding the ring will make me forget it’s there. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Last night.”

“Congratulations.” If I could have let more anger seep out I would have.

“What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know.” My voice rises with each word. “For starters, not be here screwing with me.”

She ignores my comment as her own voice hardens. “Mike’s a good guy and he’s always around. He’s not gone all the time and doesn’t have a thousand commitments like you.”

In all of our breaks and breakups, we never fought. Never raised our voices at each other. Before, I never considered yelling at Gwen; now it’s the only thing I want to do. “I told you that I loved you. What else could you want?”

“To be first. Baseball always came first with you. God! How much clearer a picture did you need? I broke up with you at the beginning of your seasons.”

I stand up, unable to sit next to her. How much clearer a picture? Obviously I needed detailed drawings with written directions. “You could have told me that’s how you felt.”

“Would it have changed anything? Would you have given up baseball?”

I curl my fingers into the metal of the fence and stare out at the field. How could she ask that type of question? Why would any girl ask a guy to give up something he loves? Gwen’s playing games right now and I’ve decided to throw the pitch that ends the inning. “No.”

I hear her sharp intake of air and the guilt of hurting her punches me in the stomach.

“It’s just baseball,” she rushes out.

How can I make her understand? Beyond the fence is a raised mound, a trail of dirt leading to four bases all surrounded by a groomed green field. It’s the only place where I’ve felt like I belonged.

“Baseball isn’t just a game. It’s the smell of popcorn drifting in the air, the sight of bugs buzzing near the stadium lights, the roughness of the dirt beneath your cleats. It’s the anticipation building in your chest as the anthem plays, the adrenaline rush when your bat cracks against the ball, and the surge of blood when the umpire shouts strike after you pitch. It’s a team full of guys backing your every move, a bleacher full of people cheering you on. It’s … life.”

The clapping of hands to my right causes me to jump out of my skin. In pink hair and a matching swimsuit cover-up, my junior English teacher and soon-to-be senior English teacher stops the annoying sound and raises her hands to her chin as if in prayer. “That was poetry, Ryan.”

Gwen and I share a what-the-hell look before returning our stares to Mrs. Rowe. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

She picks her beach bag up off the ground and swings it. “The pool closed for the night. I saw you and Ms. Gardner and decided to remind the two of you that your first personal essay is due to me on Monday.”

Gwen’s boots stamp on the ground as she switches legs again. A month ago, Mrs. Rowe tried to ruin everyone’s vacation with a summer homework assignment.

“I’m so excited to read them,” she continues. “I’m assuming you’ve completed yours?”

Haven’t even started. “Yeah.”

Gwen stands and readjusts Mike’s ring on her finger. “I’ve gotta go.” And she does. Without another word. I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my feet, waiting for Mrs. Rowe to follow Gwen’s lead. I’ve got a ritual to complete.

Obviously having no intention of leaving, Mrs. Rowe leans her shoulder against the dugout entrance. “I wasn’t kidding about what you said, Ryan. You showed a lot of talent in my class last year. Between that and what I just heard, I’d say you have the voice of a writer.”

I snort a laugh. Sure, that class was more interesting than math, but. “I’m a ballplayer.”

“Yes, and from what I hear, a fine one, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be both.”

Mrs. Rowe is always looking for a book convert. She even started a literary club at school last year. My name isn’t on that roster. “I’ve got a friend waiting for me.”

She glances over her shoulder toward Chris’s truck. “Please tell Mr. Jones that his paper is also due on Monday.”

“Sure.”

Again I wait for her to leave. Again she doesn’t. She just stands there. Uncomfortable, I mumble a goodbye and head for the parking lot.

I try to shake off the irritating itch embedded in my neck, but I can’t. That moment on the mound is hallowed ground. A need. A must. My mother calls it a superstition. I’ll call it whatever she wants, but in order for me to win the next game, I have to stand on that mound again—by myself—and figure out the mistake I made with my curveball.

If not, it means bad mojo. For the team. For my pitch. For my life.

With his head tilted back and eyes closed, Chris sits in his old black Ford. His door hangs wide-open. Chris worked his ass off for that truck. He plowed his granddaddy’s cornfield this summer in return for a leaky truck that rolled off the line when we were seven.

“I told you to head home.”

He keeps his eyes closed. “I told you to let the bad throw go.”

“I did.” We both know I didn’t.

Chris comes to life, closes the door, and turns over the motor. “Hop in. We’ve got a party to go to that will make you forget.”

“I’ve got a ride.” I motion to my Jeep, parked next to his truck.

“My goal is to make sure you ain’t gonna be fit to drive home.” He revs the engine to keep it from stalling out. “Let’s go.”

BETH

OFFICER MONROE PUSHES OFF the wall the moment I slip out of the girls’ bathroom. “Beth.”

I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m not real giddy for the long-lost uncle reunion either. I pause, folding my arms over my chest. “I thought I was free.”

“You are.” Officer Monroe has clearly mastered the Johnny Depp puppy-dog eyes. “When you’re ready to tell me what happened last night, I want you to call.” He holds out a card.

Never going to happen. I would rather die than send Mom to jail. I brush past him and walk into the lobby. Hurting my eyes, the sun glares through the windows and the glass doors. I blink away the brightness and spot Isaiah, Noah, and Echo. Isaiah leaps to his feet, but Noah puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers something to him, nodding to the left. Isaiah stays still. His steely-gray eyes implore me to come to him. I want to. More than anything.

Two people cross in front of Isaiah, and pain slices my chest. It’s my mom. Like some sort of deranged baby monkey, she clings to her asshole boyfriend. Her eyes are desperate. She sucks her cheeks in as if she’s trying to hold back tears. That bastard has engulfed her in his disgusting life. I swear to God, I’m going to drag her back out.

Trent yanks her out the door. It’s not over, asshole. Not even close.

I’m about to step toward Isaiah when I hear it. “Hello, Elisabeth.” A shiver snakes down my spine. That voice reminds me of my father.

I turn to face the man who’s hell-bent on destroying my life. He resembles my father in looks as well: tall, dark brown hair, blue eyes. The main difference is that Scott’s built like an athlete, whereas my father had the body mass of a meth head.

“Leave me alone.”

He gives Isaiah the judgmental once-over. “I think you’ve been left alone for too long.”

“Don’t pretend to care. I know your promises are worth shit.”

“Why don’t we get out of here, now that you’re free to go. We can talk at home.”

Scott puts a hand on my arm and is unmoved when I jerk away. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes,” he says in an annoyingly even tone. “You are.”

The muscles in my back tense as if I’m a cat arching its back to hiss. “Did you just tell me what to do?”

Fingers wrap around my wrist and gently pull me to the left. Isaiah hovers over me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Do you need a reminder you’re in a police station?”

I sneak a peek and notice Officer Monroe and another cop watching our dysfunctional family reunion. My uncle regards Isaiah and me with interest, but keeps his distance.

My body is nothing but anger. Rage. It beats at my lungs, wreaks havoc with my blood. And Isaiah is standing here telling me to rein it in? I have to let it go because it’s consuming me. “What do you want me to do?”

Isaiah does something he’s never done sober. He touches his hand to my cheek. His palm feels warm, strong, and safe. I lean into it as the anger drains from his simple touch. Part of me craves that anger. I don’t care for the frightening emptiness left behind.

“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Go with him.”

“But—”

“I swear to God I’m going to take care of you, but I can’t do it right here. Go with him and wait for me. Do you understand?”

I nod as I finally comprehend what he’s attempting to tell me without saying the words. 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.

RYAN

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 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 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?”

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, Ry.” Pant. “How the hell is Rick going to move this piece of shit?”