Dare You To

I readjust my hat. “Dad took me to Reds’ tryout camp this past spring, but …”

Dad cuts me off. “They told Ryan he needed to bulk up.”

“You must have listened,” Scott says.

“I want to play ball.” I’m twenty pounds heavier than last spring. I run every day and lift weights at night. Sometimes, Dad does it with me. This dream also belongs to Dad.

“Anything can happen.” Scott looks over my shoulder, but his eyes have that far-off glaze, as if he’s seeing a memory. “It depends on how badly you want it.”

I want it. Badly. Dad checks his watch, then extends his hand again to Scott. He’s itching to pick up some new drill bits before supper. “It was nice officially meeting you.”

Scott accepts his hand. “You too. Would you mind if I borrowed your son? My niece lives with me and she’ll be starting Bullitt County High tomorrow. I think the transition will be easier for her if she has someone to show her around. As long as that’s okay with you, Ryan.”

“It would be an honor, sir.” It would. This is beyond my wildest dreams.

Dad flashes me his all-knowing smile. “You know where to find me.” The crowd near the barbershop parts like Moses commanding the Red Sea as Dad strolls toward the hardware store.

Scott turns his back to the crowd, steps closer to me, and runs a hand over his face. “Elisabeth.” He pauses, rests his hands on his hips, and starts again. “Beth’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s a good girl. She could use some friends.”

I nod like I understand, but I don’t. What does he mean by rough around the edges? I keep nodding because I don’t care. She’s Scott Risk’s niece and I’ll make sure she’s happy.

Beth. A strange uneasiness settles in my stomach. Why does that name sound familiar? “I’ll introduce her around. Make sure she fits in. My best friend, Chris, he’s also on the team.” Because I’ll try to work Chris and Logan into any conversation I have with Mr. Risk. “He has a great girl who I’m sure your niece will love.”

“Thanks. You have no idea how much this means to me.” Scott relaxes as if he dropped a hundred-pound bag of feed. The bell over the clothing shop chimes. Scott places a hand on my shoulder and gestures at the shop. “Ryan, I’d like you to meet my niece, Elisabeth.”

She walks out of the shop and crosses her arms over her chest. Black hair. Nose ring. Slim figure with a hint of curves. White shirt with only four buttons clasped between her breasts and belly button, fancy blue jeans, and an eye roll the moment she sees me. My stomach drops as if I swallowed lead. This is possibly the worst day of my life.

BETH

“IT’S NICE TO MEET YOU,” Arrogant Taco Bell Boy says as if we never met. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Jocks usually aren’t smart. Their muscles feast on their brains.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” I’m in hell. No question about it. This bad version of the town from Deliverance is certainly hot as hell. The heat in this forsaken place possesses a strangling haze that envelops me and seizes my lungs.

Scott clears his throat. A subtle reminder that fuck is no longer an acceptable word for me in public. “I’d like you to meet Ryan Stone.”

Once upon a time, Scott used to say words like s’up and sick. Variants of fuck were the only adjectives and adverbs in his vocabulary. Now he sounds like a stuck-up, suit-wearing, cocky rich guy. Oh wait, he is.

“Ryan’s volunteered to show you around at school tomorrow.”

“Of course he has,” I mumble. “Because my life hasn’t sucked enough in the past forty-eight hours.”

God must have decided He wasn’t done screwing with me yet. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott blackmailed me into living here. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott’s wife bought these tragically conservative clothes. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott told me he was enrolling me at the local redneck, Children of the Corn school. No, he wasn’t quite done screwing with me yet. The damn icing on this cake is the conceited ass standing in front of me. Ha fucking ha. Joke’s on me. “I want my clothes back.”

“What?” Scott asks. Good—I messed with him without cursing.

“He’s not dressed like a moron, so why should I?” I motion to the designer jeans and starched Catholic-schoolgirl shirt disgracing my body. Per Scott’s request to play nice with Allison, I stepped out of the dressing room to look at this atrocity in the full-length mirror. When I returned, my clothes were gone. Tonight, I’m searching for a pair of scissors and bleach.

Scott censures me by subtly shaking his head. I have close to a whole year of this bull in front of me, and the woman I’m trying to protect I can’t even see—my mom. A part of my brain tingles with panic. How is she? Did her boyfriend hit her again? Is she worried about me?

“You’re going to love it here,” says Taco Bell Boy—I mean Ryan.

“Sure I am.” My tone indicates I’m going to love this place as much as I’d love getting shot in the head.

Scott clears his throat again and I wonder if he cares that people will assume he’s diseased. “Ryan’s father owns a construction business in town and he’s on the city council.” Underlying message to me: don’t screw this moment up.

“Of course.” Of course. Story of my freaking life. Ryan’s the rich boy that has everything. Daddy who owns the town. Daddy who owns the business. Ryan, the boy who thinks he can do anything he wants because of it.

Ryan flashes me an easygoing grin and it’s sort of hypnotizing. As if he created it just for me. It’s a glorious grin. Perfect. Peaceful. With a hint of dimples. It promises friendship and happiness and laughter and it makes me want to smile back. My lips start to curve into an answer and I stop myself abruptly.

Why do I do this to myself? Guys like him don’t go for girls like me. I’m a toy to them. A game. And these types of guys, they all have the same rules of play: smile, trick me into thinking that they like me, then toss me to the side once I’ve been used. How many countless losers do I have to stupidly make out with only to regret it in the morning? Over the past year—too many.

But while listening to Ryan easily digress into a conversation with Scott about baseball, I swear that I’m done with loser guys. Done with feeling used. Just done.

And this time, I won’t break the promise—no matter how lonely I get.

“Yeah,” Ryan says to Scott as if I’m not standing right here, as if I’m not important enough to involve in conversation. “I think the Reds have a shot this year.”

God, I hate Ryan. Standing there all perfect with his perfect life and perfect body and perfect smile, pretending he never laid eyes on me before. He glances at me from the corner of his eye and I realize why he’s pouring on the charm. Ryan wants to impress Scott. Guess what? Misery definitely loves company. My life shouldn’t be the only one that sucks. “He hit on me.”

Silence as my words kill the moronic baseball conversation. Scott rubs his eyes. “You just met him.”

“Not now. Friday night. He hit on me and he stared at my ass while he did it.”

Joy. Utter joy. Okay, not utter, but the sole joy I’ve had since Friday night. Ryan yanks off his hat, runs his hand through his mess of sandy-blond hair, and shoves the hat back on. I like him better with his hat off.

“Is this true?” Scott asks.

“Y-yes,” stutters Ryan. “No. I mean yes. I asked for her phone number, but she didn’t give it to me. But I was respectful, I swear.”

“You stared at my ass. A lot.” I turn and lean over a little so I can give a demonstration. “Remember, there was a rip right along here.” I slide my finger along the back of my leg. “You bought me tacos afterward. And a drink. So I’m assuming you must have enjoyed the view.”

I hear muffled male comments and I peek at the crowd of men farther down the sidewalk. The first genuine smile slips across my face. Scott’s going to love a show. Maybe if I push hard enough I’ll be home in Louisville by dinner.

“Elisabeth.” Scott drops his voice to trailer-park pissed. “Turn around.”

Twelve different shades of red blotch Ryan’s cheeks. He doesn’t even look at my ass, but at my uncle. “Okay … yes, I asked her out.”

Scott does a double take. “You asked her out?”

Hey now. Why’s he surprised? I’m not a dog.

“Yes,” says Ryan.

“You wanted to take her on a date?”

Uh-oh. Scott sounds happy. No. I’m not going for happy.

“Yes.” Ryan holds out his hands. “I thought … I thought …”

“That I would be easy?” I snap, and Scott winces.

“That she was funny,” Ryan says.

Yeah. I’m sure that’s exactly what he thought. “More like you thought it would be fun to screw with me. Or just plain screw.”

“Enough,” snapped Scott. His narrowing blue eyes rage at me as I thrust my hands in the stiff pockets of the new jeans. Scott lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose before forcing that fake relaxed grin into place. “I apologize for my niece. She’s had a rough weekend.”

I don’t want him to apologize for me to anyone. Especially not to this arrogant ass. My mouth drops open, but the brief white-trash glance Scott gives me shuts it. Scott becomes Mr. Superficial again. “I understand if you don’t want to help Elisabeth at school.”

Ryan has this blank, way too innocent expression. “Don’t worry, Mr. Risk. I’d love to help Elisabeth.” He turns to me and smiles. This smile isn’t genuine or heartwarming, but cocky as hell. Bring it, jock boy. Your best won’t be good enough.

RYAN

THE WALLS OF OUR KITCHEN used to be burgundy. As kids, Mark and I would race home from the bus stop and when we’d burst into the kitchen we’d be greeted by the aroma of freshly baked cookies. Mom would ask us about our day while we dunked the hot cookies in milk. When Dad came home from work, he’d sweep Mom into his arms and kiss her. Mom’s laughter in Dad’s arms was as natural as Mark’s and my constant banter.

With an arm still wrapped around her waist, he’d turn to us and say, “How are my boys?” Like Mark and I didn’t exist without each other.

Thanks to the renovations Dad finished last week, the kitchen walls are gray now. And thanks to my brother’s announcement and my father’s reaction to the announcement this summer, the loudest sound in the kitchen is the clink of knives and forks against china.

“Gwen came to your game,” says Mom. It’s only the third time she’s mentioned it in the past twenty-four hours.

Yeah, with Mike. “Uh-huh.” I shove a hunk of pot roast into my mouth.

“Her mom said she still talks about you.”

I stop mid-chew and glance at Mom. Proud for earning a reaction from me, she smiles.

“Leave him alone,” Dad says. “He doesn’t need a girl distracting him.”

Mom purses her lips and we enter another five minutes of clinking forks and knives. The silence stings … like frostbite.

Unable to stomach the tension much longer, I clear my throat. “Did Dad tell you we met Scott Risk and his—” psychotic “—niece?”

“No.” My mother stabs at the cherry tomato rolling around in her salad bowl. The moment she spears the small round vegetable, Mom glares at Dad. “He has a niece?”

Dad holds her gaze with irritated indifference and follows it up with a drink from his longneck.

“I gave you a wineglass,” Mom reminds him.

Dad places the longneck, which drips with condensation, next to said glass right on the wood of the table—without a coaster. Mom shifts in her seat like a crow fluffing out its wings. The only thing she’s missing is the pissed-off caw.

For the last few months, Dad and I have been eating our dinners in the living room while watching TV. Mom gave up food after Mark left.

Mom and Dad began marriage counseling a few weeks ago, though they have yet to directly tell me. The need to project perfection won’t allow them to admit to a flaw like their marriage needing help from an outside source. Instead, I found out the same way I discover anything in this house: I overheard them fighting in the living room while I lay in bed at night.

Last week, their marriage counselor recommended that Mom and Dad try to do something as a family. They fought for two days over what that something should be until they settled on Sunday dinner.

It’s why I invited Mark. We haven’t had a dinner together since he left and if he’d showed, maybe the four of us could have found a way to reconnect.

I wonder if Mom and Dad feel the emptiness of the chair next to mine. Mark possessed this charm that kept my parents from fighting. If they were annoyed with each other, Mark would tell a story or a joke to break the chill. The arctic winter in my house never existed when he was home.

“Yeah, he has a niece,” I say, hoping to move the conversation forward and to fill the hollowness inside me. “Her name is Elisabeth. Beth.” And she’s making my life hell—not too different from suffering through this dinner.

I tear a biscuit apart and slather on some butter. Beth embarrassed me in front of Scott Risk and I lost a dare because of her. I drop the biscuit—the dare. A spark ignites in my brain. Chris and I never set a time limit on it, which means I can still win.

Mom straightens the napkin on her lap, disrupting my thoughts. “You should be friendly with her, Ryan, but maintain your distance. The Risks had a reputation years ago.”

Dad’s chair scrapes against the new tile and he makes a disgusted noise in his throat.

“What?” Mom demands.

Dad rolls his shoulders back and focuses on his beef instead of answering.

“You have something to say,” prods Mom, “say it.”

Dad tosses his fork onto his plate. “Scott Risk has some valuable contacts. I say get close to her, Ryan. Show her around. If you do a favor for him, I’m sure he’d do one for you.”

“Of course,” says Mom. “Give him advice that goes directly against mine.”

Dad begins talking over her and their combined raised voices cause my head to throb. Losing my appetite, I slide my chair away from the table. It’s gut-wrenching, listening to the ongoing annihilation of my family. There is absolutely no worse sound on the face of the planet.

Until the phone rings. My parents fall silent as all three of us look over at the counter and see Mark’s name appear on the caller ID. A rocky combination of hope and hurt creates a heaviness in my throat and stomach.

“Let it go,” Dad murmurs.

Mom stands on the second ring and my heart beats in my ears. Come on, Mom, answer. Please.

“We could talk to him,” she says as she stares at the phone. “Tell him that as long as he keeps it a secret he can come home.”

“Yeah,” I say, hoping that one of them will change their minds. Maybe this time Mark would choose to stay and fight instead of leaving me behind. “We should answer.”

The phone rings a fourth time.

“Not in my house.” Dad never stops glaring at his plate.

And the answering machine picks up. Mom’s cheerful voice announces that we’re away at the moment, but to please leave a message. Then there’s a beep.

Nothing. No message. No static. Nothing. My brother doesn’t have the balls to leave me a message.

And I’m not stupid. If he wanted to talk to me, he could have called my cell. This was a test. I invited him to dinner and he was calling to see if I was the only one who wanted him home. I guess we all failed.

Mom clutches the pearls around her neck and the hope within me fades into an angry clawing. Mark left. He left me to deal with this destruction on my own.

I jerk out of my seat and my mother turns to face me. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got homework.”

The corkboard over my computer desk vibrates when I slam my bedroom door shut. I pace the room and press my hands against my head. I’ve got a damn homework assignment and the clarity and calm of a boat being tossed by the waves. What I need to do is run off the anger, lift weights until my muscles burn, throw pitches until my shoulder falls off.

I shouldn’t be writing a damn four-page English paper on anything “I want.”

The chair in front of my desk rolls back as I fling myself into the seat. With one press of a button the monitor brightens to life. The cursor mockingly blinks at me from the blank page.

Four pages. Single spaced. One-inch margins. My teacher’s expectations are too high. Especially since it’s still technically summer vacation.

My fingers bang on the keys. I’ve played ball since I was three.

And I stop typing. Baseball … it’s what I should write about. It’s what I know. But the emotions churning inside of me need a release.

Dad and Mom would turn into raging bulls if I wrote about the real status of my family. Appearances mean everything. I bet they haven’t even told their marriage counselor the truth about why they see her.

A dawning realization soothes some of the anger. I shouldn’t do it. If anyone figured it out, I’d be in deep, but right now I need to dump all the resentment. I erase the first line and give words to the emotions begging for freedom.

George woke up with a vague memory of what used to be, but one glance to the left brought on a harrowing realization of what his new reality was. Of what, specifically, he had become.

BETH

“THEY MIGHT REMEMBER ME.” Mondays suck and so does the first day of school in Hicksville, USA. I lean against the windows in the guidance counselor’s office and look around. Décor circa the 1970s: faux wood paneling, desk and chairs bought from the Wal-Mart bargain basket. The scent of mildew hangs in the air. This is backwoods schools at their finest.

“That’s the point, Elisabeth.” Scott flips through a thick schedule booklet. “Your old elementary school is one of three schools that feed into here. You’ll know some people and rekindle old friendships. What about Home Ec? You and I baked cookies a couple of times, remember?”

“Beth. I go by Beth.” It’s like the man is learning impaired. “And the last time I baked anything, it was brownies and I put …”

“We’ll put Home Ec in the No section. But I prefer the name Elisabeth. What was your best friend’s name? I used to drive you to her house.”

And we played with dolls. Over and over again. Her mom let us use her real cups for tea parties. They had a real house with real beds and I loved staying for dinner. Their food was hot. It becomes hard to swallow. “Lacy.”

“That’s right. Lacy Harper.”

The door to the office opens and the guidance counselor pops in his head. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Risk. I’m on the line with Eastwick High.”

Scott drops that cheesy grin. “Take your time. Is there a Lacy Harper at this school?”

Somebody shoot me. Now. Right now.

“Yes, there is.”

The fun doesn’t stop coming. Scott glances at me. “Isn’t that great?”

I overly fake my response. “Awesome.”

He either chooses to ignore my sarcasm or believes my excitement. “Mr. Dwyer, could you place Beth in one of Lacy’s classes?”

Mr. Dwyer practically falls to the floor in admiration. “We’ll certainly try.” He withdraws from his own office and shuts the door.

“Were you smacked upside the head with a bat?” I can’t believe Scott expects me to attend this school.

“Only when I was five and on days that end in y,” he mumbles, still flipping through the catalog. His response pricks my chest. I’ve done my best to block out that portion of my childhood. Grandpa, his dad, used to beat the crap out of him and my dad. Scott kept him from doing the same to me. “What about Spanish?”

I actually smile. “My friend Rico taught me some Spanish. If a guy’s too touchy I can say …”

“Strike Spanish.”

Damn. That could have been fun. “Seriously, Scott. Do you really want me going to school here? Have you thought this through? Your pet with a wedding ring …”

“Allison. Her name is Allison. Let’s say it together. All-i-son. See, not so hard.”

“Whatever. She loves how everybody worships you. How long is that going to last when they remember that you’re low-life trash from the trailer park a couple miles out of Groveton?”

He stops flipping through the catalog. Even though his eyes fix on the paper, I can tell he’s no longer reading. “I’m not that kid anymore. People only care about who I am now.”

“How long do you think it will take before people remember me or Mom?” I meant to say it nasty, like a threat, but it came out soft and I hate myself for it.

Scott looks at me and I loathe the sympathy in his eyes. “They’ll remember you the way I do—a beautiful girl who loved life.”

Pissed that he keeps discussing that poor pathetic girl, I break eye contact. “She died.”

“No, she didn’t.” He pauses. “As for your mom, she moved into town her sophomore year and dropped out when she was still fifteen. People won’t remember her.”

Nausea strikes and my hand drops to my abdomen. Scott wasn’t there when the police came to the trailer and he wasn’t there to dry my tears. This is a small town and everyone knows everyone else. Even though they promised to keep that night a secret, I’m sure someone told.

“What happens to both of us when someone remembers Dad?” I ask. “No one’s going to worship you then. This is a bad mistake, Scott. Send me home.”

“Mr. Risk.” The guidance counselor from Hicksville pokes his head into the office. Worry lines clutter his overly large forehead and his fingers white-knuckle a fax. I told him I majored in detention while at Eastwick. “Can I have a moment?”

I tilt my head, knowing the words to say to make Mr. Dwyer uncomfortable. “What was that class you wanted to put me in? Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin. “Honors English?”

“Sit down, Elisabeth.” Scott’s getting really good at demanding things in a low voice. “Okay, Mr. Dwyer, let’s discuss Beth’s schedule.”

RYAN

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, bow your heads and give an amen. Scott Risk’s niece is attending Bullitt County High and the dare is back in play. I weave through the crowded hallway with an extra spring in my step. Defeat is a nasty word. A word I no longer have to accept.

My mood crashes when I spot Chris backing Lacy against a locker. His head angles down as hers inches up. Not a good position to be in with the assistant principal exiting his office. Last year, he lectured the junior class on our hormones, carnal impulses, and the consequences for those who break the body boundary barrier. In plain English: if you’re caught standing close to a person of the opposite sex, then you’ll spend a day in detention. Back-to-back state championships require practice, not detention.

“Backseats of cars work.” I ease to the other side of Chris and Lacy to block the oncoming assistant principal’s view. “Preferably off campus.”

Chris groans when Lacy places her hand on his chest and pushes him until they’re an “acceptable” distance apart. She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Morning, Ry.”

“Go away,” Chris says flatly.

“The assistant principal is on the prowl and we are not moving practice like we did last year because you’re sitting in detention.”

Chris lets out a sigh identical to Lacy’s. “You need a girlfriend.”

“Exactly!” Lacy throws her arms out. “I’ve been saying that for months. Not an evil girlfriend. We are not doing evil again. I was tired of wearing crucifixes. I considered carrying holy water, but then I would have had to sneak into a church and then—”

“Shut it down,” I tell her. There has always been bad blood between Gwen and Lace, but I dated Gwen once. I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting her.

The first warning bell rings, and the three of us head to English. Standing by himself, oozing perpetual boredom, Logan waits for us at the line between the seniors’ lockers and the juniors’. The four of us take as many classes as we can together. For fun. For camaraderie. For Lacy and Logan to help me and Chris with homework.