Dare You To

Текст добавлен: 24 сентября 2016, 08:28

Текст книги "Dare You To"

Автор книги: Katie McGarry

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Beth

ALLISON OWNS A MERCEDES. Leather interior.

Jet-black on the outside. Isaiah would get all hot and bothered about the junk under the hood. She drives fast on the backcountry roads and a couple of times my stomach drops like we’re on a roller coaster.

“You smell like smoke.” Allison wears a red business suit and black stilettos. She’s slicked her blond hair into a painfully tight bun.

Maybe that’s why she’s uptight.

While waiting for Allison to drag herself away from the Ladies’ Planning Committee, I smoked one of the cigarettes I bummed from a stoner boy before the incident in Calculus. I hoped it would help me get over the fight I had with Ryan. I don’t know why, but yelling at him made me feel like crap. Kind of like I do after I fight with Isaiah. “Must be in your HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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head.”

“You smell like smoke when you come

home from school. Scott may choose to ignore it, but he’s not ignoring your little stunt in class.” Allison pulls into the massive driveway surrounded by woods and notices when I

glance at her. “That’s right. Your teacher called.”

Crap. I don’t have any idea how to get

myself out of this.

Scott and Allison live in a two-story white house with a wraparound porch. It resembles something you’d see in a Civil War movie full of rich plantation owners. Part of the house is surrounded by woods. The other part faces an open pasture with a barn.

Allison parks the car outside the four-car garage and grabs my wrist before I have a chance to bolt. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was to leave the meeting

because you called? This is a small town. Your teachers belong to our church. How long do you think it will be before everyone knows what a menace you are? I won’t permit you to ruin our life.”

“Get your hands off of me.” My eyes flicker HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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from her fingers on my wrist to her eyes.

No one touches me.

She drops my wrist like she was handling

fire. “Why don’t you leave? Even Scott knows you’re miserable.”

I bet Scott knows she’s miserable too. I’d never have imagined him with someone like her. Manicured. Polished. Heartless. “Were you surprised he wasn’t hard to trap?”

“What?”

“When you—” I do the mock quotation

marks in the air “—‘told’ him you were

pregnant, were you surprised how quickly he proposed? Scott always had a soft spot for babies. Why else would he marry you?”

Blood flushes her collarbone and her hands flutter up to her neck. “I don’t know what you’re even asking me.” She clears her throat, obviously flustered. “Scott doesn’t have a soft spot for babies.”

Has she had a conversation with the man she married? “If it weren’t for my mom, he would have married half of the girls knocked up in our trailer park.” And he wasn’t even the daddy.

Her hands slowly lower to her lap and I

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swear she quits breathing. “What did you

say?”

“You heard me.”

Her lips twist into a snarl. “Get out.”

“Gladly.” I open the door to her car, slam it shut, and repeat the process with the front door of Scott’s house. Before I can even reach the guest bedroom Scott declared as mine, Allison stalks in behind me, slamming the front door with as much, if not more, force than I did.

Scott opens the door to his office—the room across the foyer from my bedroom. He wears his crisp button-down shirt. Shit. He came home early from his “sales job” at the bat factory in Louisville. His eyebrows scrunch together. “What the hell is going on?”

Allison points at me. “Get rid of her.”

Scott places his hands on his hips.

“Allison…”

“You knocked up girls in trailer parks?”

In my defense, that isn’t what I said, but even I know when to keep my mouth shut.

Scott’s face turns red, then purple. “No.”

Allison clutches the hair on her head and the perfect bun loosens. “Forget the trailer parks. I can’t believe you told her. You promised you HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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would never tell anyone.” One hand

descends to her abdomen.

Damn. I was right—sort of. She did tell him she was pregnant, except she wasn’t lying like I’d assumed. She was pregnant, and then she lost it. If I’d known, I never would have said those things. Guilt makes me nauseous.

“Wait. I didn’t tell her.” Scott reaches out to Allison and his hand freezes in the air when she steps back. He extends his hand again and when she remains still he wraps his arms

around her, pulling her close to him. Scott lowers his head to her ear and I can tell he’s whispering to her. Allison’s shoulders shake and I feel like a Peeping Tom intruding on this intimate moment.

I slip inside the bedroom and try to close the door without making a sound. Sun shines from the two walls of windows. Crawling onto the middle of the bed, I draw my knees up and curl into myself. I hate this house. There are too many windows. All floor-to-ceiling. All open.

All of them make me feel…exposed.

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Ryan

IN THE GARAGE, I stand outside Dad’s office and prepare myself for the impending

conversation. The enrollment papers for the writing competition are rolled tightly in my left hand. I rap twice on the door and Dad tells me to come in.

Except for the chair he sits in, Dad made everything in this room: the chrome desk and matching cabinet, the printer stand, the large art table that displays the stack of blueprints for his current clients. He shot the two deer mounted on the wall. The central air kicks on and a couple of papers near the vent on the floor crinkle against each other.

Dad keeps the office neat, tidy, and

controlled. His eyes flick to me then back to the bound manual on his desk. He’s disposed of his tie, but he still wears his white work HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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shirt. “What can I do for you, Ryan?”

I sit in the chair across from him and search for words. Before Mark left, I never had a hard time talking to Dad. The words came easily.

Now words are hard. I stare at the papers bound together in my hand. That’s wrong.

Since Mark left, writing words has made life slightly tolerable. “Do you remember last year’s short-story assignment?”

He gives me a blank look and scratches the back of his head.

“You were upset because it was due during spring playoffs,” I remind him.

The lightbulb goes on as he nods and returns to the manual. “Didn’t you write about a

pitcher that came back from the dead or

something?”

Actually it was a pitcher that sold his soul to the devil in return for a perfect season, but I’m not here to argue.

“Did your English teacher give you a hard time? Too much gore?”

My mouth grows dry and I swallow. “No.

I…uh…finaled in a writing competition.”

That caught his attention. “You entered a writing competition?”

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“No, Mrs. Rowe entered the entire class

in the state writing competition. It was open to any high school student not graduating that spring. They read the entries this summer and I finaled.”

He blinks and the smile is slow to appear, but it finally manages to form.

“Congratulations. Have you told your mom?

She loves it when you do well in school.”

“No, sir, not yet. I wanted to tell you first.” I would have told them together, but since Mark left, they can barely be in the same room.

“You should tell her.” The smile slips and he glances away. “It’ll make her happy.”

“I will.” I suck in air. I can do this. “There’s another round of the competition in a couple of weeks in Lexington. I have to be there to win.”

“Will Mrs. Rowe be providing transportation or will the school let you drive yourself?”

“It’s on a Saturday so I can drive myself.”

“A Saturday,” Dad repeats. “Was Mrs. Rowe upset when you told her you couldn’t make it?

If so, I’ll talk to her. There’s no reason why she should hold this against you. Maybe one of her other students can take your place.”

He relaxes in his chair and folds his hands HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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over his stomach. “I saw Scott Risk at your game yesterday. He didn’t stay long because of family obligations, but he saw you pitch and he was real impressed. He mentioned a camp the Yankees may be doing this fall. I know what you’re going to say—‘not the Yankees,’ but once you’ve proved yourself you can trade teams.”

My mind swirls. Scott Risk watched me

play. Which is great and odd. Great because Scott knows people—specifically scouts. Odd because I’d have bet Beth would crucify me to her uncle.

Not important. Or it is, but not now. I came in here to discuss the writing competition. A competition Dad never considered. “I think I should compete. I can play the Thursday game and let one of the other two pitchers on the team play for me on Saturday.”

Dad’s forehead wrinkles. “Why would you

want to do that? The teams worth playing are scheduled on Saturdays.”

I shrug. “Mrs. Rowe said that a lot of college recruiters will be at the competition and that a lot of the finalists win scholarships. I figure I can get some sort of an athletic scholarship and HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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combine that with whatever scholarship I

could win from this writing event, and that way you won’t have to pay much.”

Dad lifts his hand. “Wait. Hold on. College recruiters and scholarships? Since when do you care about that?”

Until my conversation with Mrs. Rowe,

never. “You and Mark visited colleges. We haven’t discussed it, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to…”

Dad’s face flushes red and he spits the next words. “He was different. You can’t go into the NFL straight out of high school. He had to go to college first. You can go straight to the minors out of school. Hell, Ryan. You can go straight to the majors.”

“But Mark said…”

“Do not say that name in my presence again.

You’re not doing the competition. End of

story.”

No, it’s not the end of the story. “Dad…”

Dad picks up an envelope off his desk and tosses it at me. “A two-hundred-dollar-a-month car payment so you can make practices and games.”

The envelope lands on my lap and my throat HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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tightens.

“Your insurance on the car, the booster fees, the uniforms, the travel costs, the league fees—

”

“Dad—” I want him to stop, but he won’t.

“Gas for the Jeep, the private coaching

lessons…I have supported you for seventeen years!”

The anger inside me snaps. “I told you I’d get a job!”

“This is your job!” Dad pounds his fist

against the desk, exactly how a judge ends all discussion in court. A stack of papers resting on the edge falls to the floor.

Silence. We stare at each other. Unblinking.

Unmoving. A thick tension fills the air.

Dad’s eyes sweep over his desk and he

inhales deeply. “Do you want to waste four years of your life going to school when you could be out on that field playing baseball for money? Take a look at Scott Risk. He came from nothing and see what he’s become?

You’re not starting with nothing. You have a jump on opportunities he never had. Think of what you can make of your life.”

My fist tightens around the enrollment

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papers in my hand and they crackle. Is it fair? Is it fair of me, even if it’s just for one game, to walk away from something that my parents have sacrificed and worked so hard for?

Besides, it’s baseball. Baseball is my life—

by my choice. Why are we even arguing?

“Ryan…” Dad’s voice breaks and he rubs

his hand over his face. “Ryan…I’m sorry. For yelling.” He pauses. “Things at work…things with your mom…”

My Dad and I—we’ve never fought.

Strange, I guess. I know plenty of guys who go rounds with their fathers. Not me. Dad’s never given me a curfew. He believes I’m

responsible enough to decide what trouble I want to get in and says if I go too far, I’m smart enough to dig myself out. He’s

encouraged me every step of the way with

baseball. More than most parents ever would.

Dad watches out for me and this… this is him looking out for me again.

I nod several times before speaking,

agreeing to something, but I don’t know what.

Anything to make this confusion stop. “Yeah.

It’s okay. This was on me.” I crumple the HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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papers in my hand. “You’re right. This…” I lift the wadded paper. “It’s nothing. Stupid, even.”

Dad forces a smile. “It’s all right. Go in and tell your mom. She’ll be thrilled.”

I stand to leave and try to ignore the

emptiness in my chest.

“Ryan,” says Dad. At the door, I turn to face him.

“Do me a favor—don’t tell your mom about

the last round of competition. She’s been on edge lately.”

“Sure.” What would be the point of telling her? Mom has a way of knowing when I’m

untruthful, and I’m not eager to discover that the words I just uttered to Dad are a lie.

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Beth

THE CLOCK READS NINE FORTY-FIVE and Isaiah gets off work at ten. My finger, paused against the speed dial button, goes numb. The sun set a while ago, leaving the room dark. I haven’t moved from my spot on the bed. Scott hasn’t come in. Neither has Allison. Not to lecture me on school or to scold me for yelling at Allison or to call me to dinner.

I’ve dry heaved twice. Scott’s going to send Mom to jail. He probably already called the police. The ironic part of this whole

nightmare? I tried. I tried and I failed. Imagine that.

At ten, I’ll call Isaiah and tell him to come and get me. We’ll go to the beach. We’ll run away. Too bad I can’t convince Mom to go

with us. Isaiah and I could get her before the cops do.

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I raise my head and a wave of hope

floods my body, making me dizzy. I could

convince Mom to go. We could go away—

together.

Someone knocks on the door. I slip the

phone under the covers. “Yeah.”

Scott enters the room and turns on the light.

He wears a black T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. For the first time, I see a hint of the kid that took care of me when I was younger and, foolishly, my heart responds. I move off the bed. I have to tell him I’m sorry. “Scott…”

Focusing on the carpet, he cuts me off. “I’m not in the mood to hear you bitch. If you ever talk to Allison like that again, I’ll make sure you regret it. She’s my wife and I love her.”

I nod, but Scott doesn’t look at me to see it.

He pulls his wallet out and slaps a card onto the dresser. The name and number belong to Mom’s probation officer. “I talked to him this evening. Nice guy. Did you know your mom

will serve a ten-year sentence if she screws up probation? Ten years. That’s not even counting what they’ll charge her with when I tell them what I know. Your choice, Elisabeth. Either way you’re living here until you turn eighteen.

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Your actions decide if your mom goes to

jail.”

The relief sweeping through my body makes me weak. He hasn’t sent my mom to jail. Not yet. I still can make this work. The possibilities have my mind racing. I’ll have to find a way into Louisville, to convince Mom to leave with me, and then get Isaiah on board.…

“Last chance.” Scott breaks into my

thoughts. “I want perfection this time.”

He smacks his hand against the dresser and the last cigarette I bummed rolls out of a folder and onto the floor. Shit.

Scott crouches and stares at the cigarette before picking it up. He acts like it’s a joint instead of tobacco. Crap. It might as well be a needle full of heroin. “I can explain.” Actually, I can’t. But I heard Noah use that phrase with Echo once and it bought him time.

As he stands, his hand shakes. Dad’s hands used to shake. “This is bullshit. I bring you to my home.” He falters and I can see him trying to rein in the anger. It scares me that he won’t look at me. “I give you a home and you don’t even have the decency to try to follow my rules.”

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Quiet anger frightens me. The drunks, the idiots, the ones that rage easily—them I can handle. I know when to step out of their way.

It’s the ones that hold the anger in, the men that think about what they do and how they do it, that scare me. They’re the ones that cause damage. A small voice, a voice that sounds a lot like me when I was a child, sweetly

murmurs that Scott would never hurt me. That he was our protector. Once. I don’t know this man.

“I tried,” I whisper.

“Bullshit!” Scott yells so loudly that the crystals on the lampshade tinkle. I flinch and step back. “You’ve done everything you can to make Allison and me miserable.”

I swallow. Mom’s boyfriend, Trent, started this way. He walked into the apartment all calm and cool, with anger seething underneath.

Then he yelled. Then he hit.

Dad had this anger too. So did Grandpa. My heart beats wildly in my chest as Scott crushes the cigarette in his hand. For the first time, he looks at me. “Jesus, you’re shaking.”

He moves toward me and I take a retreating step. My back hits the window and my hands HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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fly out, searching for something—

anything—to protect myself with. “Get out.”

The anger—it’s gone, calls the little girl in my head, but I ignore her. She died along with my love of ribbons and dresses and life. She’s nothing but a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly and places space between us. “I didn’t realize I scared you. I was mad. Allison was upset. I hate to see her cry and your teacher called…but I’m calm. I swear.”

I tried. Really, I did. I tried and this is where it got me. Trapped in a room full of windows with a man who resembles my father. Dad also used to say he was calm, but he never was.

“Get out!”

“Elisabeth…”

“Out!” My hands wave air in front of me,

motioning for him to leave. “Get out!”

Scott’s eyes grow abnormally wide. “I am

not going to hurt you.”

“This is your fault!” I yell and I want to stop, but if I stop I’ll cry. A strange wetness burns my eyes. My lip is so heavy it trembles. I can’t cry. I won’t cry. Embracing the anger, I open my mouth again. Damn him if he makes HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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me cry. “You’re the one that dragged me

here. Is it not enough to take me away from home? You have to humiliate me at school?”

“Humiliate you? Elisabeth, what are you

talking about?”

“I am not Elisabeth! Look at me!” I grab at the clothes on my body with one hand and

yank my Calculus book off the bedside table with the other and fling the book straight at his head. He ducks and the book makes a loud

thud when it smacks the wall. “You want me to be somebody else. You don’t want me to be me. You’re just like Dad! You want me gone!”

My chest is heaving and I gasp for air. The silence that falls between us is heavy and I’m drowning under its weight.

“That’s not true.” Scott pauses as if he’s waiting for a reply. He picks up the textbook and sets it on the dresser. Right beside Mom’s parole officer’s card. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

No, we won’t. He leaves for work before I wake for school. Scott gently closes the door. I race across the room, lock it, turn off the lights, then toss the covers off the bed, searching for the phone. My fingers shake as I press the HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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numbers. My pulse beats in my ears in time to the name of the person I need: Isaiah. A heartbeat. Isaiah. The phone rings. Isaiah.

“Hey.” At the sound of his easygoing voice I lean against the closet door. “You had me worried. It’s five after ten. You’re late for our one-minute talk.”

Hoping my lip will quit trembling, I close my eyes and will the tears to stay away. It’s all in vain. If I speak, I’ll cry and I don’t cry.

“Beth?” Worry creeps into his tone.

“Here,” I whisper back and that one word is almost my undoing. Isaiah and I—we don’t do phone conversations. Never have. We watched TV. We partied. We sat next to each other—

existed. How do you just be on a phone? And that’s what I need. I need Isaiah to just exist.

“Beth…” He hesitates. “Is that Ryan guy

messing with you again?”

I swallow a possible sob. I won’t cry. I

won’t. “Sort of.” And Allison and my uncle and school and everything and I feel like the walls are caving in, an avalanche preparing to bury me.

Silence from Isaiah.

I bite my lip when one tear rolls down my HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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face. “Do you want me to let you go?”

Dammit. Just dammit—I don’t cry. “Because I know you don’t talk. I mean us. We. We don’t talk.” I swear under my breath. My voice

shook. He’ll know I’m upset. He’ll know.

Silence again. Air crackling on the line.