The Fine Art of Truth or Dare

by Melissa Jensen

  “Oh, no. It’s not . . .” As I watched, he pressed a button on the front of the blindingly shiny fridge. A panel slid up, displaying four spigots. Alex lifted one eyebrow. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. You never know what’s lurking. So, can I interest you in flat water, fizzy water, iced green tea, or Diet Coke? Or . . .” He opened the door with a flourish, showing a space that looked nearly as big as the walk-in at the restaurant. It was startlingly empty, except for . . . “Regular Coke, milk, soy milk, grape juice, lemon soda—Italian, I will add—and three types of champagne, which, much as I would like to offer them, are not for first dates, either.”

  I was more in my comfort zone here than he might have imagined. It looked very much like Sadie’s mother’s fridge, right down to the single nonfat yogurt, bottle of green olives, and unopened, foil-wrapped box of Belgian chocolate truffles that someone completely unclear on guest-of-the-pin-thin etiquette had brought as a gift.

  I pointed to the lemon soda. “Smart girl,” Alex said. He handed me the bottle, then reached into a nearby cabinet for two glasses. My heart stuttered twice, first when I nearly dropped one, it was so heavy, then again when I realized that a glass weighing that much cost more than my monthly allowance.

  By the time I had everything gripped tightly, Alex had unearthed a bag of gourmet soy crisps from the very back of the tallest cupboard. “My mother resisting temptation,” he said dryly. “Sorry. I ate all the Doritos.”

  “Not a prob.” In my house, I have to stand on the top pad of the stepladder to get at the Doritos, Milanos, and peanut butter. My mother resisting temptation.

  “Onward and upward.” Backpacks and soy chips in hand, Alex headed toward the front of the house. It was eerily quiet, none of the usual street sounds you get living in the city. I could hear each little squeak of my Chucks on the marble floor. It was just a few degrees too cool, too. Like a museum.

  I would have liked to have wandered a little, like in a museum. There were sculptures scattered through the downstairs, including a life-size reclining blob that I was dizzily certain had to be a Moore nude. There were paintings, too, that I’m sure were original and probably priceless, and probably by very famous contemporary artists. Not my forte.

  We went up a huge flight of stairs, and another. And another. Alex opened a door to bright light, welcome warmth, and a very faint smell of socks. It was clearly his room.

  Here, everything was colorful and a little untidy: the big, low bed, made but obviously hurriedly, a single sports shoe in the middle of the floor, unidentified papers and a few graphic novels scattered over the counter/desk that ran the entire length of one wall. There was a huge, built-in TV, and a small Bose cube holding an even smaller iPod. It was a rich boy’s room. I liked it.

  Alex shrugged out of his jacket and slung it onto the bed. When he reached for mine, I tried to remember if I’d taken the tampon out of the pocket. I could just imagine it winging across the room. But Alex hung the jacket carefully over the back of his desk chair.

  “Okay. First things first. Three things you don’t want me to know about you.”

  “What?” I gaped at him.

  “You’re the one who says we don’t know each other. So let’s cut to the chase.”

  Oh, but this was too easy:

  I am wearing my oldest, ugliest underwear.

  I think your girlfriend is evil and should be destroyed.

  I am a lying, larcenous creature who talks to dead people and thinks she should be your girlfriend once the aforementioned one is out of the picture.

  I figured that was just about everything. “I don’t think so—”

  “Doesn’t have to be embarrassing or major,” Alex interrupted me, “but it has to be something that costs a little to share.” When I opened my mouth to object again, he pointed a long finger at the center of my chest. “You opened the box, Pandora. So sit.”

  There was a funny-shaped velour chair near my knees. I sat. The chair promptly molded itself to my butt. I assumed that meant it was expensive, and not dangerous. Alex flopped onto the bed, settling on his side with his elbow bent and his head propped on his hand.

  “Can’t you go first?” I asked.

  “You opened the box . . .”

  “Okay, okay. I’m thinking.”

  He gave me about thirty seconds. Then, “Time.”

  I took a breath. “I’m on full scholarship to Willing.” One thing Truth or Dare has taught me is that you can’t be too proud and still expect to get anything valuable out of the process.

  “Next.”

  “I’m terrified of a lot of things, including lightning, driving a stick shift, and swimming in the ocean.”

  His expression didn’t change at all. He just took in my answers. “Last one.”

  “I am not telling you about my underwear,” I muttered.

  He laughed. “I am sorry to hear that. Not even the color?”

  I wanted to scowl. I couldn’t. “No. But I will tell you that I like anchovies on my pizza.”

  “That’s supposed to be consolation for withholding lingerie info?”

  “Not my concern. But you tell me—is it something you would broadcast around the lunchroom?”

  “Probably not,” he agreed.

  “Didn’t think so.” I settled back more deeply into my chair. It didn’t escape my notice that, yet again, I was feeling very relaxed around this boy. Yet again, it didn’t make me especially happy. “Your turn.”

  I thought about my promise to Frankie. I quietly hoped Alex would tell me something to make me like him even a little less.

  He was ready. “I cried so much during my first time at camp that my parents had to come get me four days early.”

  I never went away to camp. It always seemed a little bit idyllic to me. “How old were you?”

  “Six. Why?”

  “Why?” I imagined a very small Alex in a Spider-Man shirt, cuddling the threadbare bunny now sitting on the shelf over his computer. I sighed. “Oh, no reason. Next.”

  “I hated Titanic, The Notebook, and Twilight.”

  “What did you think of Ten Things I Hate About You?”

  “Hey,” he snapped. “I didn’t ask questions during your turn.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I agreed pleasantly. “Answer, please.”

  “Fine. I liked Ten Things. Satisfied?”

  No, actually. “Alex,” I said sadly, “either you are mind-bogglingly clueless about what I wouldn’t want to know, or your next revelation is going to be that you have an unpleasant reaction to kryptonite.”

  He was looking at me like I’d spoken Swahili. “What are you talking about?”

  Just call me Lois. I shook my head. “Never mind. Carry on.”

  “I have been known to dance in front of the mirror”—he cringed a little—“to ‘Thriller.’”

  And there it was. Alex now knew that I was a penniless coward with a penchant for stinky fish. I knew he was officially adorable.

  He pushed himself up off his elbow and swung his legs around until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “And on that humiliating note, I will now make you translate bathroom words into French.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from the floor. “I have these worksheets. They’re great for the irregular verbs . . .”

  “Not today.”

  He shot me a look and kept shuffling papers.

  “Okay,” I said. “D’accord. Pas de papiers aujourd’hui. S’il vous plaît, Alex. Je . . . je fais les choses la dernière fois.”

  “Prochaine.”

  “What?”

  “La prochaine fois,” he corrected. “Next time. Dernière fois is ‘last time.’ I’m not even going to start on your verb usage.”

  “Right. La dernière . . . sorry . . . prochaine fois. How do you say ‘I’m begging you’?”

  “Je t’en supplie,” he answered. Then, “You are aware that in order to speak better french, you actually have to speak French.”

  “Oui, monsieur. But the Eiffe
l Tower will still be standing next week, and french fries will still be American.”

  “Belgian.” Alex sighed. “French fries started in Belgium. Look, I’m not going to force you to work. It’s your choice and not my job.”

  “Next week,” I promised. “I promise.”

  “Right.” He rubbed the back of his head, pushing his hair into a funny little ducktail. “Okay, fine. How ’bout a movie?”

  Worked for me. “Sure.”

  He got up, crossed the room, and slid open a drawer under the TV. Inside were maybe a hundred DVDs. I was impressed. Until he grunted, “Nope,” and opened the drawer next to it, displaying another hundred. By then I was just resigned, and wriggled deeper into my seat to wait.

  He found what he was looking for. I got a brief glimpse of the cardboard cover as he loaded the disk. It was unmistakable. “Jurassic Park? We’re going to watch Jurassic Park?”

  “Yup . . . in French.”

  A while later, while the awful lawyer ran from the T-rex into the Porta-Potty, his dubbed “Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi!” trailing behind him, Alex polished off the last tofu crisp and sighed happily. “I love this movie!”

  I had to admit it, I did, too.

  By the time it was over, I’d learned all the right words for all the dinosaurs (pretty much the same as they were in English), and multiple variations of “Help, for the love of God!,” which might come in handy should I ever take up any of the activities that scared me most. It was also past five o’clock. Time to go. I extricated myself from the chair, leaving a distinctly Ella-shaped imprint, and retrieved my jacket.

  I scanned the several closed doors on the room’s periphery. “Um . . . bathroom?”

  Alex pointed toward the stairs. “Next floor down, first guest room on the right.” He gave me a brilliant smile. “My bathroom is strictly No Girls Allowed.”

  I wondered if he was lying, if Amanda got to use it.

  I went downstairs into a magazine-perfect bathroom. I peed. I washed my hands and smelled the Diptyque fig candle. Twice. Sadie had bought me one once, lavender scented, after she’d caught me going back into her bathroom three times to smell hers. I was on my way out the door when I saw the sketch.

  It was maybe eight inches square, in a carved gold frame. I’d seen ones like it before, in books and museums, quick studies for pleasure, or for bigger paintings. The Philadelphia Museum of Art has about a dozen on display. This one was a female nude, seen from behind, seated at what might have been a dressing table. She was brushing her long hair. It was clearly Edward’s work, a model other than Diana. Diana was long and angular. This woman looked smaller; only her toes touched the floor under her padded stool. She was softer, too, rounder.

  There was something written in pencil in the bottom corner, smudged and faded. I leaned in until my nose was almost pressed against the glass. Narnia, it looked like.

  I must have stared for a lot longer than it seemed.

  A tap on the door had me jumping. “Ella?” A second later. “Um . . . Ella? You okay in there?”

  Alex looked red-faced and startled when I jerked the door open. Even more so when I grabbed his wrist with both of my hands and pulled him into the bathroom. Another time, I might have been equally red-faced. I would definitely have been uncomfortable, even if it wasn’t in a bad way. But at the moment, I was too busy in a different part of my head.

  I let go of him and pointed to the sketch. “That’s a Willing.”

  “Is it?” He didn’t look particularly impressed. More relieved that I hadn’t fallen and hit my head or had some similar mishap.

  “Edward Willing. You have to know who Edward Willing is.”

  He peered past me. “Philadelphia painter. Early twentieth century, right? I was in your art history class last year, you know.”

  I didn’t. Not really. “You were?”

  “I sat in back. You sat in front. Never saw your face during class, but I remember you arguing with Evers about Dalí. I remember. You don’t like Dalí.”

  “Not much.”

  “You like this guy?”

  “Yeah.” I took a breath. “Yeah. I do. And you have one of his sketches. In your guest bathroom.”

  He caught on. At least as much as I could have expected him to. “Ella, my parents buy what their decorator tells them to buy, and they display it where she tells them to display it.” He looked again. “This one might actually have come from my grandmother’s house. Most of the older stuff did.”

  “Are there more of Edw—of Willing’s pieces?” I was feeling giddy now.

  Alex looked apologetic. “No. I’m pretty sure there aren’t. But there’s a Picasso in the living room. And a really, really small Matisse in the den.” He held both hands out, like he was offering me . . . everything, maybe. “Look, I’ll move this one now. I’ll put it somewhere more visible . . .”

  He actually reached for the frame. I stopped him. “No. You can’t. But thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  It hit me, then, while he stared down at me with a slight frown. I was standing almost chest to chest with Alex Bainbridge in a very small space. I backed up a step and bumped into the toilet. “I should go,” I said, a little shakily. “I should get home.”

  “Right.” Always polite, he let me walk out first. “Next week . . . Next week, we can have our tutoring session in here. We’ll discuss art. Or bathroom fixtures. You can sit up there”— he pointed to the counter— “next to the Willing.”

  Now, out of the bathroom, and a few feet away from him, I could laugh—“Okay. Before you start to think that I am obsessive and insane, there has to be something, the sight of something, that would make you go all goofy.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Mademoiselle Winslow in a tutu. No . . .” He looked a little goofy when he said, “Spider-Man versus Doctor Octopus. July 1963.”

  “That’s a comic book, right?”

  He sighed. “Oh, Ella.” Then, “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  The sun was setting as he pulled up in front of my house. There weren’t any lights on there, but I could see into the restaurant. It was already busy; Sienna and Leo were both waiting tables.

  I got out of the car and closed the door. Then I leaned back through the window. “Thanks for the ride. It was really nice of you.”

  “No worries. Since I’m down here, maybe I’ll swing by Geno’s for a cheesesteak.” He shook his head. “You saw what was in my fridge.”

  “I did. Alex . . .”

  I could ask. It would be so easy. A pizza, some of Nonna’s fettuccine . . .

  “I had a good time,” I told him. Coward, I scolded myself. “I didn’t expect to.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t beat a good raptor attack. Next time, before we get started, I’ll show you my French comic book collection . . .” He wiggled his brows at me in perv fashion. “Then we’ll work.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Sounds good.” I started up the sidewalk. Instead of going home, I’d decided to go over to Marino’s. Offer to peel garlic or something. Dad would appreciate it.

  “Hey, Ella.”

  I turned. “Yeah?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I must have looked blank.

  “At the dance,” he added.

  “Oh. Yeah. See you tomorrow.” I turned back toward the restaurant.

  “Hey, Ella.”

  “Yeah?”

  “J’ai passé un très bon moment, aussi.” When I just stared at him again, he snorted. “Work it out.”

  I did, but not before he’d driven away. He’d had a really good time, too.

  20

  THE DANCE

  The floor was full of crepe streamer seaweed and decomposing pirates. Or at least so it seemed. Half of the male population of Willing was out strutting its stuff in frilly shirts, head scarves, and gruesome makeup. Although, to be fair, some of the contorted faces had more to do with
exertion than costume-store goop. Some boys need to concentrate really hard if they want to get their limbs to work with the music. It looked like “Thriller” meets Titanic.

  Of course, the other half was blinding. As predicted, sequins reigned. Also as predicted, the costume of choice was some sort of skirt (the smaller the better) paired with a bikini top (ditto). As I watched from my seat at the edge of the gym, a mousy physics teacher dressed in a rotund foam sea-horse suit had a brief, finger-waggling argument with a mermaid over the size of her shells. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the hand gestures said plenty. The teacher won; Shell Girl stalked off in a huff. She stopped halfway off the floor to do an angry, hokey-pokey leg shake to disentangle a length of paper seaweed from around her ankle. A group of mathletes watched her curiously. One, wearing what looked like a real antique diving suit, even tried an experimental shake of his own leg before another elbowed him into stillness.

  “Teddy Roosevelt?” I suggested. Sadie and I had been trying to figure out the second mathlete’s costume for a few minutes. He was wearing a 1930s-style suit, had his hair slicked down carefully, and was sporting a fake mustache.

  “No glasses. And I can’t even begin to imagine the connection between Davy Jones’s Locker and Teddy Roosevelt.” Sadie pulled a long gold hair from her pumpkin-orange punch and sighed.

  Maybe her mother hadn’t topped her Sleepy Hollow triumph, but it wasn’t from lack of determination. What Mrs. Winslow hadn’t achieved in creativity (she’d gone the mermaid route), she’d made up in the details. The tailed skirt was intricately beaded and embroidered in a dozen shades of blue and green. It was pretty amazing. The problem was the bodice: not a bikini, but not much better as far as Sadie was concerned. It was green, plunging, and edged with itchy-looking scallops. She was managing to stay covered by the wig, but that was an issue in itself. It was massive, made up of hundreds of trailing corkscrew curls in a metallic blonde. To top it all off, the costume included a glittering, three-point crown, and a six-foot trident, complete with jewels and trailing silk seaweed.

  “Sadie,” I’d asked quietly when she’d appeared at my house, shivering and tangled in her wig, “why don’t you . . .” Just tell her where she can shove her trident? But that would just have been mean. Sadie gives in and wears the costumes because it’s infinitely easier than fighting. “. . . come next door and we’ll see if Sienna has a shawl you can borrow?”