Dare

by Hannah Jayne

  “Okay,” Brynna said.

  He let out a chocolaty, banana-scented whoosh of air. “Okay? That’s your response?”

  Brynna blinked innocently. “Who am I to judge what kind of fabric a guy likes?” She grinned. “Honestly, I kind of had an idea.”

  Evan shrugged, his cheeks going pink.

  “So no one else knows? Not even Lauren?”

  He stared into his cup. “Honestly? Lauren and I aren’t that close. We shared a womb, but other than that, we don’t have much in common.” He paused, sipping the last bit of coffee. “Everyone thinks they know that I’m gay, I guess. But no. You’re the first person I’ve actually come out to.” He let out another long breath and laughed at the end. “Felt kind of good.” His face went slightly serious. “Do you want to lecture me on going to hell or whatever? Do you hate that I lied to you?”

  “Well, I am crushed that we’ll never get married and have lots of tiny, corduroy-hating babies, but I guess I can just continue to casually date Teddy…”

  “Thanks,” he said softly. “You’re a really good friend, B. My best friend. And don’t worry; I am going to be just as understanding and supportive when you come out as heterosexual. Is that your secret?”

  A slight chuckle. “No.”

  “Tell me.”

  Brynna tried to think of a funny and light response for Evan, but all she could think about was the dare. The humor slid right out of her, and she chanced a glance over the rim of her coffee cup. Evan’s eyes were still fixed and warm. With the soft leather couches and the cozy, coffee-scented air, she felt a comfort she hadn’t felt since before that night at Harding Beach ever happened.

  Brynna sucked in a determined breath. “Back at my old school…back at Lincoln, um, there was this party at the end of the summer. We were partying at this beach house—the whole school was. A few of us broke away and went out onto the beach. It was late, way past midnight.”

  Evan’s eyes flashed and he scooched closer, setting his mug down and pressing his hand, palm warm from the coffee, against Brynna’s.

  “Go on,” he whispered.

  “We were just screwing around. Drinking and whatever.”

  Like the flames of the bonfire, the memory flared up, images flicking up in her mind’s eye. She felt Erica’s bare skin pressed against her as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the beach, giggling. She saw the red party cup propped up by the sand, smelled the swirling fruit punch and alcohol smell.

  “Someone”—she couldn’t bring herself to say Erica’s name—“someone went into the water. A girl. She drowned.”

  Brynna peeked up at Evan who was sitting, rapt. His eyes were wide and he was pressing a hand over his open mouth. “Oh my god, B. And you were there? You were on the beach when this happened?”

  She bobbed her head without thinking about it. “Yeah.”

  “That must have been awful for you! To watch one of your classmates drown.” He shuddered. “Did you see the body?”

  Brynna stared straight forward, not really seeing anything. “No. They said she got caught in a riptide. They said it probably swept her under and…” She cleared her throat but couldn’t force herself to go on.

  “And it probably sucked the body out to sea. Did they ever find it? Probably not, right, because of currents and sharks and stuff? Ohmigod, Bryn, no wonder you’re all jumpy lately. Is this, like, the anniversary of it? Or, no, it’s not summer. Her birthday or something?”

  Brynna wanted to say something about the call, about the tweet, but the static in her head drowned every thought out. All she could do was shake her head from side to side.

  “That’s not everything, is it?”

  Brynna snapped her gaze back to Evan then dipped her head again, feeling the weight of her secret closing in on her.

  “She was my best friend.”

  “Who was?”

  “Erica. The girl who died. She was my best friend, and she jumped into the water because I dared her to jump with me.”

  Brynna held her breath, waiting for Evan’s face to harden. She was ready for him to spring to his feet and walk out the door or to point an accusing finger at her and call her something horrible.

  Finally, after a beat that lasted a lifetime for Brynna, Evan said, “B, you don’t think you’re somehow responsible for Erica’s death, do you?”

  Brynna couldn’t have answered if she wanted to; her heart was lodged firmly in her throat.

  “Because that’s completely ridiculous.”

  “But I was the one who dared her.”

  “And who are you, the Queen of Sheba? Erica didn’t have to go through with it.”

  The pounding was beginning in her head. “I made her. I told her she had to.”

  “So you roofied her, carried her limp body down the beach, and dumped her in the surf? Then you’re right. You did it.”

  “No, but—”

  “But nothing. She jumped because she wanted to. And you obviously thought it was fine because you did it too. No one could blame you.”

  Brynna paused, her teeth pressed against her lower lip. “I think someone does though.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She clasped her hands hard, suddenly hyperaware of every noise in the coffeehouse: the hiss of the steam escaping the espresso machine, the weird, new-agey music that was barely audible, the tink and clatter of coffee mugs being stacked on the counter.

  “B?”

  “Someone—someone tweeted me from Erica’s account. It said, ‘Remember me?’ over and over again.”

  “That could be anyone, you know, it could mean anything.”

  “And then someone called me and it—” Just the echo of the voices on the phone stung her. “It was a recording of us that night. Right…right before everything happened.”

  “Someone’s playing a joke on you. That’s all it is. Someone is playing a really awful joke on you. It’s probably some horrible ass from your old school. Some idiot who thinks he’s being funny.”

  Brynna wasn’t sure if Evan was trying to convince her or himself.

  “Did Erica have any siblings or anything? They could have easily had access to her accounts and stuff.”

  She shook her head. “No. Well, her father was married before, but his stepson was, like, ten years older than us. He never lived with Erica or anything.”

  Evan tapped his foot on the hardwood. “B—what is it?”

  Brynna swallowed hard. “What if—what if it’s not someone from my old school? What if it’s Erica? What if she’s back?”

  FIVE

  Brynna nearly dropped her mug when her cell phone started blaring. She glanced down, certain it was Erica, and blew out a semi-relieved sigh when she recognized the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, Brynna, thank god. Where have you been? Why weren’t you answering?”

  “Dad?” Brynna inched back as though her father were standing in front of her. “Uh, I was in school. I can’t use the phone until school is over.”

  Her father sounded exhausted—and irate. “You got out of school over an hour ago.”

  Brynna’s eyes went wide. “I did?”

  “Your mother and I have been worried sick. She came to pick you up and you weren’t there. She’s been driving around looking for you, and I was just about to leave the office and—Brynna, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing, Dad. I just lost track of time.”

  He let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You know we had a deal.”

  A lick of anger sparked in the pit of Brynna’s stomach. “I know, Dad,” she said slowly, trying to keep her voice even. “I wasn’t doing anything. I just—” She thought of telling her father about the tweet but just as quickly dismissed the idea. Her parents would probably move Dr. Rother in with them and give Brynna a drug test w
ith her Cheerios every morning and a breathalyzer check at lunch. “I was just,” she thought fast, “watching the swim team practice.”

  There was a long pause, and Brynna imagined her father, pushed back in his enormous leather office chair, pulling out his legal pad and writing himself a message: Brynna—late—on drugs?

  “I’m really sorry. I guess I just got caught up. The team is doing heats.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the headache that was already starting. “I’m helping the coach keep time.”

  “The swim team, huh?” Her father’s voice took on a note of interest, and Brynna envisioned him scrawling a second note: swim team—better?

  “It’s over in twenty minutes. And Evan’s here. He could drive me home.”

  Another pause. “You’re still in trouble, young lady. Your mother will be waiting outside the gym when the swim team is through.”

  •••

  After a “we’re all trying to learn together” lecture from her parents and a grounding, Brynna retired to her bedroom and braved a hot shower that was more panic-inducing than relaxing. Wrapped in her robe, she crossed her room, her fingers brushing over her iPad. Should she check?

  She swiped the thing on, and when she got to her mailbox, she let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. The only tweets were from Lauren with a few responses from Teddy and Darcy. Nothing serious.

  Nothing from Erica.

  She glanced down at the phone and scrolled to the call log, finding the number with the Point Lobos area code. She hit the send button without waiting for her heart rate to climb or that little inner voice to tell her to stop. There was an odd crackle as if her call was going through actual wires and being connected, and then she heard the first ring. It shot a chill straight through her.

  What would I say to Erica?

  I’m sorry.

  I should have let the dare go.

  I miss you.

  Is it really you?

  Images of Erica pinballed through Brynna’s head while a second ring sounded. She remembered Erica with pigtails when they step-touched on their first day of dance class. Erica licking her greasy, salt-covered fingers after she ate all Brynna’s fries when Brynna never even offered. The way Erica’s eyes looked when Brynna said, “I dare you.” Wide. Round. Scared.

  There was a click on the other end, and someone sucked all the air out of the room.

  “Erica, is that you?” she stuttered into the phone.

  There was more static and then, “Phillips Mortuary, may I help you?”

  Brynna felt the phone as it left her fingers. The gentle sound of it thudding on carpet seemed to reverberate through her skull as if it was the loudest sound on earth. She wanted to scream—but she was paralyzed, the cloying scent of thousands of white lilies stinging her nostrils.

  “Hello? Phillips Mortuary?”

  There were flowers everywhere. White lilies, which Erica hated, and piped-in classical music, which Erica hated even more. Would have hated, Brynna corrected herself. Erica was dead—that’s what they kept telling her. Erica—caught in a black-and-white toothy grin from the cover of the Phillips Mortuary Memorial program—glared up at Brynna, her dark eyes smoldering, accusing.

  “It should have been you…”

  It was Erica’s voice, barely a whisper, but Brynna would almost swear she felt her best friend’s breath tickling her ear.

  People started to file in then, uncomfortably silent, holding their breaths as they took their seats in front of an empty casket that was supposed to represent Erica. Brynna couldn’t stand it any longer, sure that if she stayed one more second, the overwhelming smell of dying flowers would strangle her.

  Brynna was terrified. She was confused.

  How could the call have come from the mortuary?

  She was crazy, she was guilty, she wanted not to feel. She spun around the room, her eyes darting toward all of her old stash points: in the box spring, in her jewelry box, a bottle stuffed in her boot. It may have been illegal and unhealthy, but she didn’t care—having her heart beat through the roof and her skin pricking with fear couldn’t be healthy either. Her lips felt dry and sticky, and she was tearing through her things now in case something had been forgotten, been carelessly tossed into a box: a lone pill, a fat green tablet of leftover Oxy to obliterate the facts, make her float away from memory. Maybe she had left one of the mini vodka bottles she used to stash in her purse. They were barely a taste, but it was something, something to quell the aching in her chest, the way her every cell seemed to fold in on itself with want.

  “Brynna?”

  Her mother’s voice floated up the stairs, and all at once, Brynna remembered that she was in her new house, in her new room, in her new life, and she was supposed to be better. She was supposed to deal with problems with deep breathing and talking to “peers she could trust.” Brynna looked around at the detritus of an almost-binge. Her head started to pound, and there was a lump in her throat.

  “Pizza will be here in fifteen minutes.”

  Brynna swallowed hard and pushed herself off the floor, pressing the mess back into her closet.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Fifteen minutes was all she needed.

  Brynna fished her phone from the mess and redialed the number, breathing deeply as she paced. This was a mistake. A misunderstanding. She couldn’t have heard—

  “Phillips Mortuary.”

  It was the same female voice that answered the time before, but this time, it was fraught with annoyance.

  “Hello, is anyone there?”

  “Hi.” Brynna forced the word out. “Hi, I’m sorry. I—I just received a call from this number.”

  “That’s impossible, miss. There are no outgoing calls on this number.”

  Brynna blinked, straightened. “No, but I just did. I just redialed it and now I’m talking to you.”

  The woman let out a sharp sigh. “You can call me, but I can’t call you. This number doesn’t make calls. That’s from the office line—”

  “No,” Brynna said, sweat heating up the back of her neck. “No, someone just called me.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but—”

  “Erica. Do you know Erica?” She knew she sounded desperate—crazy, even. And as tears pricked at the back of her eyes, that’s how she felt.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t help you.”

  The dial tone droned in Brynna’s ear as everything came crashing down around her.

  “No.” She dropped the phone and pressed her palms against her ears, terrified that she would hear something, that the phone would ring again, and this time, it would be Erica. Still alive, or back from the dead?

  A tiny voice in her head tried to reason with her: it was a weird ping from the cell phone tower. It was a snag in the service. But all of that was stomped out by the sickening terror that wracked her. She wasn’t sure when she started crying, was even more surprised when her parents rushed through her bedroom door and gaped down at the mess on the floor. Brynna was pressed so hard against her bed that the iron bar of the frame was digging into her flesh. It hurt, but it was real and tangible and it was better than the pain of memory, of disembodied voices and mysterious phone calls.

  “Brynna, Brynna, honey, what happened? Are you okay?”

  She was trembling completely now, biting so hard into her lower lip that her mouth filled with the hot, metallic taste of blood. Brynna blindly shook her head from side to side.

  Her mother came to her side immediately, but her dad stood in the doorway looking both parts helpless and angry. He used one hand to pick up her laptop and the other to unplug it.

  “You’re supposed to be grounded.”

  “Adam, can you forget about the rules for two seconds? Something happened to Bryn.”

  “I understand that, but forget
ting about the rules isn’t going to help her.” His eyes flicked over Brynna’s, but she was too scared to care. She wanted to curl into her mother and cry, to let everything out, every last detail of the last fourteen months. But she couldn’t. She was supposed to be better. She was supposed to be starting a new life.

  But something from the old wouldn’t let her go…

  “There was—I got a call from—” Brynna looked at both of her parents, each one wearing an expectant expression. She couldn’t tell them.

  They’ll know you killed her, a little voice at the back of her head whispered. They’ll know you’re crazy, another one confirmed. They’ll have you locked up…again.

  Brynna dropped her head into her hands, using her fingertips to grip at the skin on her forehead as she pinched her eyes shut.

  “I just got scared is all.”

  She didn’t have to look up to know that the loud whoosh of air she heard was her father trying to regroup. She wasn’t surprised when she felt her mother’s palm on the back of her neck, gentle and warm.

  “That’s okay, Brynna. We know that this is difficult for you.”

  But Brynna didn’t want to hear another Dr. Rother-ism. She was tired of hearing her mother utter phrases from the Alateen handbook—the one handed out to the parents of every teen in Alcoholics Anonymous, empty words that were meant to be helpful or inspiring but only made Brynna want to escape all over again. She was tired of her father working hard to act concerned when Brynna knew the only thing he was doing was biding his time until his next trip, until his next flight where he could be a thousand miles away from his drunken, screwed-up daughter.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing away from her mother. “I’m sorry I worried you guys. I think I should probably just get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  Her mother eyed her suspiciously but eventually kissed Brynna’s forehead and got up to leave. Her father blew her a kiss and offered a “sleep well, honey,” and they both shut the door, leaving Brynna in silence. She crawled to the wall and clicked off the lights, then made her way into her bed, not bothering to change her clothes or take off her makeup. At least in sleep, she wouldn’t have to think.