Dare You To

“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 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 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, 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.

“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 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 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, Ry, and you need to get your ass up to answer.”

BETH

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 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. Won’t be the last. I slip out of bed and slide my Chuck Taylor wannabes onto my feet. Time to have a coming-to-Jesus moment with Uncle Scott. That is, if he’s awake. It may be better if he went to bed. That way I can slip out without the fight.

Maybe I’ll score some food before I call Isaiah. With a room like this, I bet he buys brand-name cereal.

The house has that newly built, fresh sawdust smell. Outside the bedroom is a foyer instead of a hallway. A large staircase, the type I thought existed only in movies, winds to the second floor. An actual chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Guess baseball pays well.

“No …” A woman’s voice carries from the back of the house. I can tell she’s still talking, but she’s lowered her tone. Did he marry or does he keep a fuck on hand like he did when I was a kid? Gotta be a fuck. I overheard Scott tell Dad once that he’d never marry.

I follow the low voices to the brink of a large open room and pause. The entire back of the house—excuse me, mansion—is one enormous wall of windows. The living room flows right into the eat-in kitchen.

“Scott.” Exasperation eats at the woman’s tone. “This is not what I signed up for.”

“Last month you were on board with this,” says Scott. Part of me feels vindicated. He’s lost that annoyingly smooth calm from yesterday.

“Yes, when you told me you wanted to reconnect with your niece. There is a difference between reconnecting and invading our life.”

“You were fine with it when I called last month from Louisville and said I wanted her to live with us.”

The woman snaps, “That was after you said she ran away. I didn’t actually think you would find her. When you described the hellhole she lived in, I figured she was long gone. She’s a criminal. You expect me to feel safe with her in my home?”

Her words slice me open. I’m not that bad. No, I’m not kittens and bunnies, but I’m not that bad. I glance down at my outfit. Jeans. Tank top. My black hair falls in front of my face. It doesn’t matter. She made her decision before she met me. I bury the hurt, step into the room, and welcome the anger. Screw her. “You might want to listen to her. I’m a fucking menace.”

The shocked expression on their faces is almost worth being here. Almost. I press my lips together to keep from laughing at Scott. He wears a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. It’s a far cry from the outfits he used to wear when I was a kid: gangsta jeans that showed his underwear.

The woman is nothing like the girls Scott dated when he was eighteen. Her hair is a natural blond instead of bleached. She’s thin, but not alcohol-diet thin, and she looks kind of smart. Smart as in she probably finished high school.

She sits at a massive island in the center of the kitchen. Scott leans on the counter across from her. He glances at her, then talks to me. “It’s late, Elisabeth. Why don’t you go back to bed and we’ll talk in the morning.”

My stomach cramps, and a light wave of dizziness fogs my brain. “Do you have food?”

He straightens. “Yes. What do you want? I can fix some eggs.”

Scott used to make me scrambled eggs every morning. Eggs—the WIC-approved food. The reminder hurts and creates warm fuzzies at the same time. “I hate eggs.”

“Oh.”

Oh. The man’s a conversational genius. “Do you have cereal?”

“Sure.” He enters a pantry and I plop onto a stool at the island as far from Scott’s girl as possible. She stares at a spot right in front of me. Huh. Funny. I’m in arm’s reach of a butcher block full of knives. I can imagine the thoughts running through her single-celled brain.

Scott places boxes of Cheerios, Bran Flakes, and Shredded Wheat in front of me.

“You have got to be fucking kidding.” Where the hell are the Lucky Charms?

“Nice language,” the woman says.

“Thanks,” I respond.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Do I look like I fucking care?”

Scott slides a bowl and spoon to me, then goes to the refrigerator for milk. “Let’s tone it down.”

I choose the Cheerios and keep pouring until a few toasty circles trickle onto the counter. Scott sits in the chair next to mine and the two of them watch me in silence. Well, sort of silence. My crunching is louder than a nuclear bomb blast.

“Scott told me you had blond hair,” says the woman.

I swallow, but it’s hard to do when my throat tightens. The little girl I used to be, the one with blond hair, died years ago and I hate thinking about her. She was nice. She was happy. She was … not someone I want to remember.

“Why is your hair black?” The lawn ornament at the other end of the island has officially become annoying.

“What are you exactly?” I ask.

“This is my wife, Allison.”

The Cheerios catch in my throat and I choke, coughing into my hand. “You’re married?”

“Two years,” says Scott. Ugh. He does that googly-eye thing Noah does with Echo.

I slide another spoonful of Cheerios into my mouth. “When I’m done—” crunch, crunch, crunch “—I’m going home.”

“This is your home now.” Scott has that calm tone again.

“The hell it is.”

Allison’s eyes dart between me and the knives. Yeah, lady, a couple of hours in jail and I’ve moved from destruction of property to sociopath.

“Maybe you should listen to her,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say through more crunches, “maybe you should listen to me. Your wife’s worried I’m going to go all Manson and slit her throat while she sleeps.” I smile at her for effect.

Color drains from her face. At times, I really enjoy being me.

Scott gives me the once-over—starting with my black hair, then moving on to my black fingernails, the ring in my nose, and finally my clothes. Then he turns to his wife. “Will you give us a few minutes alone?”

Allison leaves without saying a word. I shovel in more cereal and purposely talk with my mouth full. “Did you have to purchase the leash for her or did it come as a package deal?”

“You won’t disrespect her, Elisabeth.”

“I’ll do as I fucking please, Uncle Scott.” I mimic his fake haughty tone. “And when I’m done eating my shitty cereal, I’m calling Isaiah and I’m going home.”

Him—silence. Me—crunch, crunch, crunch.

“What happened to you?” he asks in a soft voice.

I swallow what’s in my mouth, put down the spoon, and push the bowl of half-eaten Cheerios away. “What do you think happened?”

Scott—the master of long silences.

“When did he leave?” he asks.

I don’t have to be a mind reader to know Scott’s asking about his deadbeat brother. The black paint on my fingernails chips at the corners. I scrape off more of it. Eight years later and I still have a hard time saying it. “Third grade.”

Scott shifts in his seat. “Your mom?”

“Fell apart the day he left.” Which should tell him a lot, because she wasn’t exactly the poster child for reliability before Dad took off.

“What happened between them?”

None of his business. “You didn’t come for me like you promised.” And he stopped calling when I turned eight. The refrigerator kicks on. I scrape off more paint. He faces the fact that he’s a dick.

“Elisabeth—”

“Beth.” I cut him off. “I go by Beth. Where’s your phone? I’m going home.” The police confiscated my cell and gave it to Scott. He told me in the car that he tossed it in the garbage because I “didn’t need contact with my old life.”

“You just turned seventeen.”

“Did I? Wow. I must have forgotten since no one threw me a party.”

Ignoring me, he continues, “This week my lawyers will secure my legal guardianship of you. Until you turn eighteen, you will live in this house and you will obey my rules.”

Fine. If he won’t show me the phone, I’ll find it. I hop off the chair. “I’m not six anymore and you aren’t the center of my universe. In fact, I consider you a black hole.”

“I get that you’re pissed off I left….”

Pissed? “No, I’m not pissed. You don’t exist to me anymore. I feel nothing for you, so show me where the damned phone is so I can go home.”

“Elisabeth …”

He doesn’t get it. I don’t care. “Go to hell.” No phone in the kitchen.

“You need to understand….”

I walk around his fancy ass living room with his fancy ass leather furniture looking for his fancy ass phone. “Take whatever you have to say and shove it up your ass.”

“I just want to talk….”

I lift my hand in the air and flap it like a puppet’s mouth. “Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll only be gone a couple of months. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll make enough money to get us both out of Groveton. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. You’ll never grow up like me. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll make sure you have some fucking food to eat!”

“I was eighteen.”

“I was six!”

“I wasn’t your father!”

I throw my arms out. “No, you weren’t. You were supposed to be better than him! Congratulations, you officially became a replica of your worthless brother. Now where the fuck is the damn phone?”

Scott slams his hand on the counter and roars, “Sit your ass down, Elisabeth, and shut the fuck up!”

I quake on the inside, but I’ve been around Mom’s asshole boyfriends long enough to keep from quaking on the outside. “Wow. You can take the boy out of the trailer park and pretty him up in a Major League Baseball uniform, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the boy.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Whatever. Where’s the phone?”

Noah told me once that I have a gift that borders on supervillain status—the ability to push people past the edge of sanity. The way Scott releases another breath and rubs his forehead tells me I’m pushing him hard. Good.

Scott tries for that obnoxious, level tone again, but I can hear the edge of irritation in it. “You want trailer park, I can go trailer park. You are going to live in my house with my rules or I’ll send your mother to jail.”

“I broke out the windows of the car. Not her. You have nothing on her.”

Scott narrows his eyes. “Wanna discuss what’s in your mom’s apartment with me?”

My body lurches to the left as the blood seeps out of my face, leaving behind a blurry and tingling sensation. Shirley already warned me, but hearing it from him is still a shock. Scott knows what I don’t want to know—Mom’s secret.

“Push me, Elisabeth, and I’ll have this same exact conversation with the police.”

I stumble as I try to stay upright. The back of my legs collide with a coffee table. Losing the battle, I sit. Right beside me is a phone and as much as I want to, I can’t touch it. Scott has me. The bastard traded my life for my mom’s freedom.

RYAN

I LEAN AGAINST the closed tailgate of Dad’s truck and listen from two parking spots away as Dad recounts to a group of men loitering outside the barbershop every detail of our meeting with the scout last night. Some of them heard the story at church this morning. Most of the listeners are generational farmers and this kind of news is worth hearing again, even if it means standing in the type of August heat where you can smell the acrid stench of blacktop melting.

In my peripheral view, I notice a man stop on the sidewalk and assess the ring of listeners and my storytelling father. I don’t pay attention to tourists and if he were a local, he’d join the group. It’s better to leave the tourists alone. If you look at them, they talk.

Groveton’s a small town. To appeal to tourists, Dad persuaded the other councilmen to call the old stone buildings dating back to the 1800s Historic then add the words Shopping District. Four B-and-Bs and new tours of the old bourbon distillery later, and the city folk brave the fifteen-mile winding country road from the freeway. It can make parking a bitch on the weekends, but it gives lots of good people jobs when money gets tight.

“What’s the local gossip?” the man asks.

He’s speaking and I didn’t even make eye contact. That’s bold for a tourist. I fold my arms across my chest. “Baseball.”

“No kidding.” There’s a drop in his tone that catches my attention.

I turn my head and feel my eyes widen in slow motion. No way. “You’re Scott Risk.”

Everyone in this town knows who Scott Risk is. His face is one of the few to peer at the student population from the Wall of Fame at Bullitt County High. As a shortstop, he led his high school team to state championships twice. He made the majors straight out of high school. But the real achievement, the real feat that made him a king in this small town, was his eleven-year stint with the New York Yankees. He’s exactly what every boy in Groveton dreams of becoming, including me.

Scott Risk wears a pair of khakis, a blue polo, and a good-natured grin. “And you are?”

“Ryan Stone,” Dad answers for me as he appears from out of thin air. “He’s my son.”

The circle of men outside the barbershop watch us with interest. Scott holds out his hand to Dad. “Scott Risk.”

Dad shakes it with a badly suppressed smug smile. “Andrew Stone.”

“City Councilman Andrew Stone?”

“Yes,” Dad says with pride. “I heard rumors you were moving back to town.”

He did? That’s the sort of news Dad should have shared. “This town always did love gossip.” Scott keeps the friendly look, but the light tone feels forced.

Dad chuckles. “Some things never change. I heard you were looking at buying some property nearby.”

“Bought,” says Scott. “I purchased the old Walter farm last spring, but asked the Realtor to keep the sale quiet until we moved into the home we built farther back on the property.”

My eyebrows shoot up and so do Dad’s. That’s the farm right next to ours. Dad takes a step closer and angles his back to make the three of us into our own circle. “I own the property a mile down the road. Ryan and I are huge fans of yours.” No, he’s not. Dad respects Scott because he’s from Groveton, but loathes anyone from the Yankees. “Except when you played the Reds. Home team takes precedent.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” Scott notices my baseball cap. “Do you play?”

“Yes, sir.” What exactly do I say to the man I’ve worshipped my entire life? Can I ask for his autograph? Can I beg him to tell me how he stays calm during a game when everything is on the line? Do I stare at him like an idiot because I can’t find anything more coherent to say?

“Ryan’s a pitcher,” Dad announces. “A major-league scout watched him at a game last night. He thinks Ryan has the potential to be picked up by the minors after graduation.”

Scott’s easygoing grin falls into something more serious as he stares as me. “That’s impressive. You must be pitching in the upper eighties.”

“Nineties,” says Dad. “Ryan pitched three straight in the nineties.”

A crazy gleam hits Scott’s eyes and we both smile. I understand that spark and the adrenaline rush that accompanies it. We share a passion: playing ball. “Nineties? And you’re just now getting the attention of scouts?”