Текст книги "Dare You To"
Автор книги: Katie McGarry
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
Ryan
THANKS TO THE SHOWERS at the community
center, there’s no need to head home. Clean and dressed in street clothes, I return to heaven.
Everyone has left the ballpark. The
bleachers are empty. The concession stand closed. Kenny Chesney blares from the parking lot, meaning that Chris ignored me when I told him I’d catch up with him later. Chris is really good at three things—playing shortstop, loving his girl, and knowing what I need even when I don’t know it myself.
At least most of the time.
From the community pool, little kids squeal in delight in time to the sounds of splashing and the bounce of the diving board. My brother Mark and I spent most of our summers
swimming in that pool. The other part, we HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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spent playing ball.
I stand on the pitcher’s mound, except this time I’m in blue jeans and my favorite Reds Tshirt. The early evening sky fades from blue to orange-and-yellow. It’s no longer a million degrees and the breeze shifts from the south to the north. This is my favorite part of the game—the time alone afterward.
The rush of winning and the knowledge I
have a scout interested in me still linger in my blood. My lungs expand with clean oxygen and my muscles lose the tension that weighed me down during the game. I feel relaxed, at peace, and alive.
I stare at home plate and in my mind I see Logan crouched in position and the batter taking a practice swing. My fingers curl as if I’m clutching the ball. Logan calls for a curve; I accept, except this time I…
“I knew you’d be here.” In her brown leather cowboy boots and blue dress, Gwen swings
around the gate into the dugout.
“How?” I ask.
“You screwed up the curve.” In one smooth motion, Gwen sits on the bench in the dugout and pats the wood beside her. She’s playing a HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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game. One I’ll lose, but damn if my feet
don’t move toward her.
She looks good. Better than good. Beautiful.
I ease down beside her as she tosses her blond ringlets behind her shoulder. “I remember you explaining the bases to me in this dugout. The best baseball conversation we ever had.”
I lean forward and clasp my hands together.
“Maybe you missed part of the conversation, because I wasn’t explaining baseball.”
Gwen flashes her bright smile. “I know, but I still enjoyed the demonstration.”
Our eyes meet for a moment and I glance
away when heat crawls along my cheeks.
Gwen’s the only girl I’ve had any real
experience with. She used to blush when she talked about anything sexual, but she doesn’t today. Nausea rolls through my gut. What new bases has Mike taught her?
“You seemed out of it during the game.” The material of her dress swishes as she crosses her legs and angles her body toward mine. Our thighs touch now, creating heat. I wonder if she notices. “Are you having problems with your dad again?”
Gwen and I spent countless afternoons and HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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evenings in this dugout. She always knew
when Dad pushed me too far with the refs or that if I played like crap, I’d come here for clarity. “No.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Everything. Mom and Dad fighting. Mark’s
absence. Me and pro ball. My friends/not-
friends relationship with Gwen. For a moment, I think about telling her about Mark. Like the rest of the town, she remains blissfully
unaware. I stare into her eyes and search for the girl I first met my freshman year. She wouldn’t have messed with me then.
Unfortunately, I’ve since become her favorite pastime. “I’m not in the mood to be played, Gwen.”
Gwen raises her hand and twirls her hair
around her finger. The glint of a large red-stoned ring strikes me like an ice pick. I shift so that our thighs no longer touch. “Mike gave you his class ring.”
She drops her hand and covers it with the other, as if hiding the ring will make me forget it’s there. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Last night.”
“Congratulations.” If I could have let more HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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anger seep out I would have.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know.” My voice rises with each
word. “For starters, not be here screwing with me.”
She ignores my comment as her own voice
hardens. “Mike’s a good guy and he’s always around. He’s not gone all the time and doesn’t have a thousand commitments like you.”
In all of our breaks and breakups, we never fought. Never raised our voices at each other.
Before, I never considered yelling at Gwen; now it’s the only thing I want to do. “I told you that I loved you. What else could you want?”
“To be first. Baseball always came first with you. God! How much clearer a picture did you need? I broke up with you at the beginning of your seasons.”
I stand up, unable to sit next to her. How much clearer a picture? Obviously I needed detailed drawings with written directions. “You could have told me that’s how you felt.”
“Would it have changed anything? Would
you have given up baseball?”
I curl my fingers into the metal of the fence and stare out at the field. How could she ask HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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that type of question? Why would any girl ask a guy to give up something he loves?
Gwen’s playing games right now and I’ve
decided to throw the pitch that ends the inning.
“No.”
I hear her sharp intake of air and the guilt of hurting her punches me in the stomach.
“It’s just baseball,” she rushes out.
How can I make her understand? Beyond the fence is a raised mound, a trail of dirt leading to four bases all surrounded by a groomed green field. It’s the only place where I’ve felt like I belonged.
“Baseball isn’t just a game. It’s the smell of popcorn drifting in the air, the sight of bugs buzzing near the stadium lights, the roughness of the dirt beneath your cleats. It’s the anticipation building in your chest as the anthem plays, the adrenaline rush when your bat cracks against the ball, and the surge of blood when the umpire shouts strike after you pitch. It’s a team full of guys backing your every move, a bleacher full of people cheering you on. It’s…life.”
The clapping of hands to my right causes me to jump out of my skin. In pink hair and a HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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matching swimsuit cover-up, my junior
English teacher and soon-to-be senior English teacher stops the annoying sound and raises her hands to her chin as if in prayer. “That was poetry, Ryan.”
Gwen and I share a what-the-hell look
before returning our stares to Mrs. Rowe.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She picks her beach bag up off the ground and swings it. “The pool closed for the night. I saw you and Ms. Gardner and decided to
remind the two of you that your first personal essay is due to me on Monday.”
Gwen’s boots stamp on the ground as she
switches legs again. A month ago, Mrs. Rowe tried to ruin everyone’s vacation with a
summer homework assignment.
“I’m so excited to read them,” she continues.
“I’m assuming you’ve completed yours?”
Haven’t even started. “Yeah.”
Gwen stands and readjusts Mike’s ring on
her finger. “I’ve gotta go.” And she does.
Without another word. I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my feet, waiting for Mrs.
Rowe to follow Gwen’s lead. I’ve got a ritual to complete.
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Obviously having no intention of leaving, Mrs. Rowe leans her shoulder against the
dugout entrance. “I wasn’t kidding about what you said, Ryan. You showed a lot of talent in my class last year. Between that and what I just heard, I’d say you have the voice of a writer.”
I snort a laugh. Sure, that class was more interesting than math, but… “I’m a ballplayer.”
“Yes, and from what I hear a fine one, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be both.”
Mrs. Rowe is always looking for a book
convert. She even started a literary club at school last year. My name isn’t on that roster.
“I’ve got a friend waiting for me.”
She glances over her shoulder toward
Chris’s truck. “Please tell Mr. Jones that his paper is also due on Monday.”
“Sure.”
Again I wait for her to leave. Again she
doesn’t. She just stands there. Uncomfortable, I mumble a goodbye and head for the parking lot.
I try to shake off the irritating itch embedded in my neck, but I can’t. That moment on the mound is hallowed ground. A need. A must.
My mother calls it a superstition. I’ll call it HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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whatever she wants, but in order for me to win the next game, I have to stand on that mound again—by myself—and figure out the
mistake I made with my curveball.
If not, it means bad mojo. For the team. For my pitch. For my life.
With his head tilted back and eyes closed, Chris sits in his old black Ford. His door hangs wide open. Chris worked his ass off for that truck. He plowed his granddaddy’s cornfield this summer in return for a leaky truck that rolled off the line when we were seven.
“I told you to head home.”
He keeps his eyes closed. “I told you to let the bad throw go.”
“I did.” We both know I didn’t.
Chris comes to life, closes the door, and turns over the motor. “Hop in. We’ve got a party to go to that will make you forget.”
“I’ve got a ride.” I motion to my Jeep,
parked next to his truck.
“My goal is to make sure you ain’t gonna be fit to drive home.” He revs the engine to keep it from stalling out. “Let’s go.”
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Beth
OFFICER MONROE PUSHES OFF THE WALL the
moment I slip out of the girls’ bathroom.
“Beth.”
I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m not real giddy for the long-lost uncle reunion either. I pause, folding my arms over my chest. “I
thought I was free.”
“You are.” Officer Monroe has clearly
mastered the Johnny Depp puppy-dog eyes.
“When you’re ready to tell me what happened last night, I want you to call.” He holds out a card.
Never going to happen. I would rather die than send Mom to jail. I brush past him and walk into the lobby. Hurting my eyes, the sun glares through the windows and the glass
doors. I blink away the brightness and spot Isaiah, Noah, and Echo. Isaiah leaps to his feet, HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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but Noah puts a hand on his shoulder and
whispers something to him, nodding to the left.
Isaiah stays still. His steely-gray eyes implore me to come to him. I want to. More than
anything.
Two people cross in front of Isaiah, and pain slices my chest. It’s my mom. Like some sort of deranged baby monkey, she clings to her asshole boyfriend. Her eyes are desperate. She sucks her cheeks in as if she’s trying to hold back tears. That bastard has engulfed her in his disgusting life. I swear to God, I’m going to drag her back out.
Trent yanks her out the door. It’s not over, asshole. Not even close.
I’m about to step toward Isaiah when I hear it. “Hello, Elisabeth.” A shiver snakes down my spine. That voice reminds me of my father.
I turn to face the man who’s hell-bent on destroying my life. He resembles my father in looks as well: tall, dark brown hair, blue eyes.
The main difference is that Scott’s built like an athlete, whereas my father had the body mass of a meth head.
“Leave me alone.”
He gives Isaiah the judgmental once-over. “I HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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think you’ve been left alone for too long.”
“Don’t pretend to care. I know your
promises are worth shit.”
“Why don’t we get out of here, now that
you’re free to go. We can talk at home.”
Scott puts a hand on my arm and is unmoved when I jerk away. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Yes,” he says in an annoyingly even tone.
“You are.”
The muscles in my back tense as if I’m a cat arching its back to hiss. “Did you just tell me what to do?”
Fingers wrap around my wrist and gently
pull me to the left. Isaiah hovers over me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Do you need a
reminder you’re in a police station?”
I sneak a peek and notice Officer Monroe
and another cop watching our dysfunctional family reunion. My uncle regards Isaiah and me with interest, but keeps his distance.
My body is nothing but anger. Rage. It beats at my lungs, wreaks havoc with my blood. And Isaiah is standing here telling me to rein it in? I have to let it go because it’s consuming me.
“What do you want me to do?”
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Isaiah does something he’s never done
sober. He touches his hand to my cheek. His palm feels warm, strong, and safe. I lean into it as the anger drains from his simple touch. Part of me craves that anger. I don’t care for the frightening emptiness left behind.
“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Go with him.”
“But—”
“I swear to God I’m going to take care of you, but I can’t do it right here. Go with him and wait for me. Do you understand?”
I nod as I finally comprehend what he’s
attempting to tell me without saying the words.
He’s going to come for me. A shimmer of hope breaks through the emptiness and I fall into the safety of Isaiah’s protective arms, our bodies pressed tight to one another.
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Ryan
IN THE BACK FIELD that borders three farms, a field party rages without me, Logan, and Chris.
Parties are great. They have girls, girls who drink beer, dancing, girls who like dancing, and guys who hate dancing but do it anyway in the hope of laying the girls who drink beer.
Lacy’s in the mood to dance, Chris is in the mood to avoid dancing, I’m still burnt from Skater Girl last night, and Logan’s always game for the stupid and insane. Ten minutes into the party, Lacy was dancing and the three of us took on a dare. Actually, I took on a dare.
I lost last night and I don’t lose. Chris and Logan are along for the ride.
“You can’t pull this one off.” Chris walks beside me as we head toward the cars parked neatly in a line. The full moon gives the field a silver glow and the scent of bonfire smoke HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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hangs in the air.
“That’s because you have no imagination.”
Thankfully, I have plenty and I know a few guys who get a kick out of screwing with
friends.
“This is going to be sweet,” Logan says
when I change course and head toward a group of defensive linemen enjoying their own
private party.
Tim Richardson owns a mammoth-size,
ozone-killing truck, which is good, because the four guys sitting on lawn chairs on the back of it easily weigh 275 pounds each. Tim liberates a can of beer from his cooler and tosses it to me. “What’s going on, Ry?”
“Nothing.” I put the cold can on the tailgate.
No drinking for me. I’ve got business to take care of. “Not in the mood for the party?”
His truck is one of the few that can make it over the hill into the back field. “A girl over there is pissed at me,” Tim mutters. “Anytime I go near her, she won’t keep her mouth shut.”
Logan snorts and Chris smacks him on the
back of the head. Pissed would be an understatement. Rumor at school said Tim’s ex-girl caught him making out with her twin HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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sister. Tim throws a warning glare at Logan before focusing on me. “How’s your brother?
The team’s ticked at him. He promised he’d help with summer practice while he was home from college.”
Hating these kinds of questions, I shift my stance and shove my hands in my pockets. Dad made it clear that we tell no one what
happened with Mark. “He’s been busy.” Before Tim has a chance to probe further, I switch to the problem at hand. “How would you guys
like to help me with a…situation?”
Tim leans forward as his fellow linemen
snicker. “What dare did you sign up for this time?”
I bob my head back and forth like what I’m preparing to ask isn’t a big deal. “Nothing fancy. Rick dared me to move his car.”
Tim shrugs because it doesn’t sound like a big deal.
“Without the keys,” says Chris.
Tim lowers his head, and deep chuckles
resonate from his chest. “You three are the definition of insane. You know that, right?”
“Says the guy that tackles other dudes for fun,” I say. “Are you in or out?”
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Tim’s lawn chair moves with him as he
stands. As he reaches his full height, the chair plunges onto the bed of the truck with a loud clank. “In.”
CURLED FINGERS MISERABLY clutch metal
and my back and thighs burn with pain. Seven guys, one 2,400-pound car, and one more inch to go.
“On three,” I say through clenched teeth.
“One…”
“Three,” yells Logan and I barely unwedge my fingers from the bumper of the two-door Chevy Aveo when the six other guys drop the car to the ground. The frame of the blue car bounces like a Slinky before coming to a rest.
“Sweet shocks,” says Logan.
Sweat soaks my shirt. Gasping for air, I bend over and place my hands on my knees. The
rush of the win races through my veins and I laugh out loud.
Logan admires our handiwork. “Six feet
over and nicely parallel parked between two trees.” Nicely meaning the front and rear bumpers currently kiss bark.
Tim’s chest heaves as if he’s experiencing a heart attack. “You’re a crazy son-of-a-bitch, HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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Ry.” Pant. “How the hell is Rick going to move this piece of shit?”
“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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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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
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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, HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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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.
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“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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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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, HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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Ry, and you need to get your ass up to
answer.”
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