Dare You To--A Life Changing Teen Love Story

by Katie McGarry

  I chuckle at the thought of the tiny, black-haired threat throwing swings at me. Punches from her would feel like a bunny biting a lion. By the way she pinches her lips together, I can tell my laughter pisses her off. Time to end this bull. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  “Helpful? You mean you’re trying to help yourself. You’re a walking hard-on for my uncle.”

  A muscle near my eye ticks. On rare occasions, bunnies can develop rabies, and Scott did warn me she was rough around the edges. He failed to mention that razor blades are her softest layer. My mouth snaps open to ask what the hell is wrong with her when Lacy sidles between us. She shoots me a warning glare. “I got this.”

  “Come on, dawg.” Chris waggles his eyebrows and I realize he sent in Lacy to disturb us, thinking he interrupted me making a play. “Let’s go to class.”

  “Yeah.” Class. I want to win the dare, but that won’t happen if I lose my temper. I follow Chris, willing to do anything to get away from Beth.

  BETH

  The moment Ryan turns his back, I sag against a purple locker. The acrid smell of fresh paint fills my nose. Watch—the damn locker is newly painted and I’ll have purple on my ass.

  A hallway full of strange teenagers gawk at me like I’m an animal caged at the zoo. I swallow when two girls giggle as they pass. Both crane their necks to get a better glimpse of the new school freak.

  People judge. They’re judging me now.

  “Your hair used to be blond,” says Lacy.

  What is the deal with the people in this town and my hair? I barely recognize the girl I once claimed as a friend. We sized each other up in English, trying to figure out if the other was really who we thought she was. Lacy has the same chestnut-brown hair as when we were kids. Just as long, but not as stringy. It’s thick now. She nods at Ryan’s friend Chris, indicating that he should follow Ryan into the classroom and he does.

  “You used to hang out with cool people,” I say.

  The right corner of her lips tilts up. “I used to hang with you.”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  The bell rings and a few remaining stragglers race to class. Lucky me, I share another class with Ryan. I push off the wall, check for paint, and feel off-balance when Lacy follows.

  The cliques split off as fast as cockroaches when a light shines. Ryan and a couple other guys relax at a table near the back as if they’re God’s gift to women. Their expensive jeans and T-shirts that sport their favorite moronic teams scream total jock. I hand my enrollment sheet to a teacher deep in conversation with two more jocks. They discuss baseball, football, basketball. Blah, blah, blah. It must be a male thing to talk about playing with balls.

  Lacy plops down at an empty table and kicks out a chair for me to join her. “Ryan says you go by Beth.”

  I fall into the chair and glance over at Ryan. He quickly averts his eyes. My blood tingles—was he really staring at me? Stop it. The tingling fades. Of course he was. You’re the freak, remember? “What else did Ryan tell you?”

  “Everything. Meeting you Friday night. Yesterday with Scott.”

  Fuck. “So the whole damn school knows.”

  “No,” she says thoughtfully. Lacy looks me over and I can tell she’s searching for that pathetic girl from a long time ago. “He only told me, Chris, and Logan. The one with dark hair sitting next to Ryan is my boyfriend, Chris.”

  “My apologies.”

  “He’s worth it.” She pauses. “Most of the time.”

  For four classes, people have ignored me. I helped the situation by sitting in the back of each room and glaring at anyone who looked at me for longer than a second. Lacy drums her fingers against the table. Two thin black ponytail holders wrap her wrist. She wears low-rider jeans and a green retro T-shirt imprinted with a faded white four-leaf clover.

  “How many people have you told?” I ask her.

  The drumming stops. “Told what?”

  I lower my voice and pick at the remaining black paint on my nails. “Who I am and why I left town.” I’m fishing. Because of the enrollment slip, no one has called my name out in class and no one’s mentioned my uncle. For today, I’m anonymous, but how long will that last? I’m also testing the waters for the town gossip. Lacy’s dad was a police officer and he was the first one to walk into the trailer that night.

  “No one,” she says. “You’ll tell people about your uncle when you’re ready. It’s sickening. No one gave a crap about Scott until the World Series. Now everyone worships him.”

  A group of girls break into laughter. The same type of purse rests on the table in front of each perfectly manicured girl. Sure, the colors and sizes of the purses are different, but the style is the same. The blonde laughing the loudest catches me looking and I toss my hair over my shoulder as a shield. I know her, and I don’t want her to remember me.

  “Gwen’s still staring,” Lacy says. “It might take a few days for the hamster wheel turning her brain to make the full circle, but she’ll figure you out soon enough.”

  I might appreciate her sarcasm if I wasn’t distracted by the blonde. Gwen Gardner. The summer before kindergarten, Lacy’s mom suggested to Scott that I go with Lacy to Vacation Bible School. I put on my favorite dress, one of two that I owned, pinned as many ribbons as I could in my hair, and skipped into the room. A group of girls in beautiful fluffy dresses surrounded me as I introduced myself. To the tune of giggles and whispers from the other girls, Gwen proceeded to point out every hole and stain on my beloved dress.

  That was the high point in my relationship with Gwen. From there, it went downhill.

  “She still a bitch?” I ask.

  “Worse.” Lacy’s tone drops. “Yet everyone believes she’s a saint.”

  “And I thought third grade sucked.”

  Lacy snorts. “Imagine what middle school and training bras were like with her. I swear the girl blossomed into a C-cup between fifth and sixth grade. Thank God Ryan finally broke up with her last spring. I couldn’t stand being within a foot of her a moment longer.”

  Of course Ryan dated Gwen. I’m sure the break-up is temporary and they’ll marry soon and create tons of other little perfect spawns of Satan in order to torture further generations of people like me.

  We lapse into an awkward silence. It’s strange talking to Lacy. It used to be the two of us against the world. Then I left. I assumed, in my absence, she’d become one of them—the girls who were perfect. She had the potential to be one. Her parents had money. Her mom would have bought her the clothes. Lacy was pretty and fun. For some insane reason, she stuck with me—the girl who had two outfits and lived in the trailer park.

  I scratch off the remaining paint. Yesterday Allison bought me nail polish in the annoying shade of mauve. How can anyone look at me and think mauve? “What did your dad tell you?”

  Lacy’s pinkie taps the table repeatedly. “That he was called to your home and that you later moved to another city.”

  Surprised, I glance up to catch sincerity in her dark eyes. “That’s it?”

  “Everyone thinks Scott swooped in and saved you. Daddy and the other guys that responded that night let that rumor stand.” Her forehead crinkles. “It’s what happened, right? You’ve been living with Scott?”

  I scratch my cheek, trying to hide whatever reaction she might see. I could lie and tell her yes, but that would be like I’m embarrassed about Mom. And I’m not embarrassed. I love her. I owe her. Yet there are times…

  “I cried for three months when you left,” Lacy continues. “You were my best friend.”

  I cried too. A lot. Thanks to me and my stupid decisions, I cost my mom everything and I lost my best friend. Typical me—a hurricane that leaves nothing but destruction. “Go sit with your friends, Lacy. I’m bad news.”

  “In this classroom, t
hose two guys sitting over there are the only real friends I have.” Lacy drums her fingers once more. “And you.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Your life must suck then.”

  She laughs. “Not really. It’s a good life.”

  The teacher calls the class to order and I inch my seat away from Lacy’s. An unseen, uncomfortable vise tightens my chest. Normal people don’t like me. They don’t want to be my friend, and here is someone offering friendship willingly.

  As the teacher calls attendance, Ryan’s name is read and he answers with a deep, soothing, “Here.”

  Taking a chance, I peek in his direction and find him staring at me again. No smile. No anger. No cockiness. Just a thoughtful expression mixed with confusion. He scratches the back of his head and I’m drawn to his biceps. My traitorous stomach flutters. God, the boy may be an ass, but he sure is built.

  And guys like him don’t go for girls like me. They only use me.

  I force my eyes to the front of class, pull my knees to my chest, and wrap my arms around them. Lacy invades my space and whispers to me, “I’m glad you’re back, Beth.”

  A sliver of hope sneaks past my walls and I slam every opening shut. Emotion is evil. People who make me feel are worse. I take comfort in the stone inside of me. If I don’t feel, I don’t hurt.

  RYAN

  Waiting on Sunday dinner, I can observe a lot from my seat on the couch in the living room of the mayor’s house. For instance, the serious set of Dad’s mouth and the angle of his body toward Mr. Crane suggests that Dad’s talking business. Serious business. Mom, on the other hand, is laughter and giggles as she stands next to the mayor’s wife and the pastor’s wife, but the way she fingers her pearls tells me she’s anxious. That means someone asked a question about Mark.

  Mom misses him. So do I.

  The power of observation. It’s a skill I need to play ball. Is the runner on base going to chance a steal? Is the batter going to hit the ball out of the park or is he going to hit a sacrifice fly in order to score the runner on third? Is Skater Girl the hard-nosed chick I believe her to be?

  For the last two weeks, I’ve watched Beth roam the school. She’s interesting. Nothing like the girls I know. She sits by herself at lunch and eats a full meal. Not salad. Not an apple. A full meal. Like an entrée, two sides, and a dessert. Even Lacy doesn’t do that.

  Beth sits in the back of every class, except for Health/Gym, where Lacy patiently makes small talk even though Beth stays quiet. Sometimes Lacy can get Beth to crack a smile, but it’s rare. I like it when she smiles.

  Not that I care if she’s happy or anything.

  What I find the most interesting is that even though she’s Ms. Antisocial, she doesn’t avoid people. Yeah, plenty of kids hide in plain sight. They duck into the library before school or during lunch. They evade eye contact and walk in the shadows as if they can go to school and never be detected. Not Beth. She stands her ground. Owns the space around her and smirks if someone comes too close, as if she’s daring them to take her on. A smirk that dares turns me on.

  “Are you ready for the quiz tomorrow?” Mrs. Rowe, my English teacher, rests against the arm of the couch. She also happens to be the mayor’s daughter. While everyone else wears suit pants, ties, or conservative dresses, Mrs. Rowe wears a daisy-print hippie dress. Today, her hair is purple.

  Considering the fights my family has had over Mark, I’m curious about the brawls that happen behind closed doors at this house. Or maybe other families find a way to accept one another.

  “Yes, ma’am.” To discourage small talk, I shove a bacon-wrapped shrimp into my mouth. Dad likes me to be at these occasional Sunday gatherings. I come in handy when the men discuss sports. I used to come in handier when I dated Gwen. Her dad is the police chief, plus my mother’s friends thought we were “cute together.”

  “I hated these things when I was your age,” Mrs. Rowe continues. I pop in another shrimp and nod. If she hated them, I would think she’d remember that useless conversation is physically painful. “My dad made me attend every dinner he threw.”

  I swallow and realize that not once in my four years of being old enough to represent the family have I seen Mrs. Rowe attend one of these functions. I consider asking why she’s here tonight, then remember I don’t care. In goes a meatball.

  “I read your paper,” she says.

  I shrug. Reading my paper is her job.

  “It’s good. In fact, it’s very good.”

  My eyes dart to hers and I curse internally when she smiles. Dammit, it shouldn’t matter if it was good. I want to play ball, not write. I make a show of staring in the opposite direction.

  “Have you thought about expanding it into a short story?”

  This I have an answer for. “No.”

  “You should,” she says.

  I shrug again and begin to search the room for a viable reason to escape—like the curtains catching on fire.

  A sly smile spreads across her face. “Listen, I received good news and I’m so glad I don’t have to wait until tomorrow to share. Do you remember the writing project we worked on last year?”

  It’d be tough to forget. We spent the year devouring books and movies. Then we tore them apart as if they were machines so we could see how the parts worked together to create the story. After that, Mrs. Rowe snapped the whip and made us write something of our own. Hardest damn class I ever took and I loved every second. Hated it too. When I became too interested or too eager in class, the guys from the team rode me hard.

  “Do you remember how I entered everyone into the state writing competition?”

  I nod a yes, but the answer is no. Just because I loved the class didn’t mean I listened to everything she said. “Why? Did Lacy win?” She had a hell of a short story.

  “No…”

  In goes another meatball. That sucks. Lacy would have been excited if she won.

  “You finaled, Ryan.”

  The meatball slips into my throat whole and I choke.

  * * *

  Ditching the formal clothes for a pair of athletic pants and a Reds T-shirt, I lean back in the chair at my desk and stare at the homework assignment I turned in to Mrs. Rowe. In four pages, poor George woke up to discover he had become a zombie. My favorite sentence is the paper’s last:

  Staring down at his hands, hands that someday would likely kill, George swallowed the sickening knowledge that he had become absolutely powerless.

  Why it’s my favorite, I don’t know. But every time I read it something stirs inside me, some sort of sense of justification.

  I run a hand over my hair, unable to comprehend that I finaled in a writing competition. Maybe later tonight hell will freeze over and donkeys will start flying out of my ass. It all seems possible at this point.

  I swivel the chair and survey my room. Trophies and medals and accolades for playing ball are scattered on the wall, the shelves, my dresser. A Reds pennant hangs over my bed. I know baseball. I’m good at it. I should be. It’s been my entire life.

  I’m Ryan Stone—ballplayer, jock, leader of the team. But Ryan Stone—writer? I chuckle to myself as I pick the paperwork up off the desk. All of it describes in detail how to continue to the next phase of the writing competition, how to win. Not once in my life have I backed down from a challenge.

  But this…this is beyond what I am. I toss the papers down again. I need to stay focused on what’s important and writing isn’t it.

  BETH

  Gym is an abomination to self-esteem. While changing out of the white ruffled shirt into the required gym attire of a pink Bullitt County High T-shirt and matching shorts, I take stock of the other girls. They gossip as they change. Most brush their hair. Some fix their makeup. All thin. All fit. All beautiful. Not me though. I’m thin enough, but I’m not pretty.

  T
he girls who really irritate me are the ones God gave everything to: money, looks, and a C-cup chest. Gwen is the worst. The moment she enters the locker room, she strips her shirt and walks around freely in her lace bra. Her nonverbal reminder that us B-cups are inferior.

  Busting out of the locker room, I relax when I see the gym is empty. Most of the school is a no-cell zone, but not the gym. I desperately need to speak to Mom. It’s been two weeks since the last time I talked to her and her last words to me were that pathetic “please…probation” in the parking lot. Trent wouldn’t permit her to say goodbye to me at the police station. God, I hate him.

  I duck under the bleachers, pull the phone out of my shorts pocket, and dial Mom’s number. I’ve called several times over the last two weeks, but she’s never answered. Anytime after four she’d be at the bar. Mom told me once that you’re only an alcoholic if you drink before noon. Good thing for Mom she never wakes before three.

  The phone rings once then three loud beeps answer. A calm, annoying voice states a message of doom: “Sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected.”

  Regret becomes a weight in my stomach. Last month, I could pay the electricity bill with Mom’s disability check or I could pay the phone bill. The electricity company sent a disconnect notice. I thought I had more time on the phone. I picked the electricity bill.

  My throat becomes thick and my eyes burn. Crap—my mom. I messed up. Again. Imagine that. I should have paid the phone bill. I should have found a way. I could have taken on more hours stocking at the Dollar Store. I could have sucked up my pride and asked Noah or Isaiah for money. I could have done so many things and I didn’t. Why am I such a screwup?

  I suddenly wish it was ten at night. Isaiah and I talk then—every night. Usually, it’s not for long. Just a few seconds or so. He’s not a phone talker by nature, but the first time I called he asked me to check in nightly and I do. His voice is the only thing keeping me sane.