The Accidental Siren (18 page)

“Sincerity,” she said.

Ryan nodded. “Interesting response. I like
that.”

I looked to Mara to exchange our usual
glance–the rolled-eyes, quiet rapport that discretely declared us
as “friends”–but Mara didn’t reciprocate.

Instead, she looked at Whit.

And Whit looked back at her.

“Who’s next?” I blurted, a subconscious
attempt to snuff the exchange.

“Mara’s turn, Mara’s turn, Mara’s turn!” said
Kimmy.

“Me?” she asked.

“Yes, silly!”

Starting on her left, Mara chanted, “Eeny,
meeny, miny, moe...”

“You’re such a geek.” Kimmy said.

“...catch a spider by its toe.”

“A spider?” A.J. asked.

“If it wiggles let him go. Eeny, meeny,
miny...” Mara paused for dramatic effect, “...Moe! Haley!”

Haley covered her eyes. “Do I hafta?”

“Everybody hasta,” Ryan said.

“I’ll pick dare...”

“The first dare of the night!”

Livy and Kimmy giggled and toppled in the
circle.

Mara perked. “Okay, okay, I got one! Haley,
have you ever seen an R rated movie?”

“Laaame-ooo,” said Ryan.

“What’d I do wrong?”

“First of all, that’s not a dare. Second of
all, it’s lame!”

“It’s spposta be dirty,” added A.J.

“Fine!” Mara said. “Haley... stick your
finger in your ear... then lick it!”

Livy and Kimmy looked at each other with
astonishment.

Ryan slipped his arm around Mara’s back, so
far that his hand emerged on her other side. “Mara,
honey
,
this is Truth or Dare, not recess.”

She growled. “Uhg! Haley Jenson... kiss
Whitney...
on the lips
.”

The “ooos” rose again like a sitcom’s live
studio audience. Livy and Kimmy provided a drumroll on the wooden
floor.

Haley looked to me (in the moment, I
interpreted her sorrowful gaze as a look of disgust; today, I
wonder if she was trying to apologize for the impending betrayal).
She crossed the gap on hands and knees and Whit closed his eyes to
cage his bewilderment. Haley leaned forward. The group held a
collective breath... and she pecked him on the lips.

“Hey Whit,” Ryan called. “Is that a banana in
your pocket, or do you just like Haley?”

We laughed. A.J. and I applauded our friend
while the girls patted Haley’s back as she returned to her
seat.

“Simmer down, children,” Whit said. “Show’s
over. It’s my turn and I choose Mara.”

“What gives?
Whitney
.” Kimmy put her
hands on her hips, jabbing me in the gut with her boney elbow.
“There are other girls here too, ya know.”

Whit ignored her. “Mara? Truth or dare?”

“Truth!” she said.

He didn’t hesitate. “Out of the four boys in
this room, who’s the cutest?”

She scowled. “That’s a mean question! You’re
all cute!”

“But who’s the
cutest
?”

Shedding twelve pounds wasn’t enough to make
me “cute.” I could lose fifty pounds and never compare to Ryan
“Junior Varsity” Brosh.

“I mean it,” Mara said. “You’re all cute in
different ways. I like the look in A.J.’s eyes when he’s being
kind.” She squeezed the necklace on her chest. “James has this
funny face he makes when he writes. It’s totally adorable and
reminds me of the insides of a grandfather clock. He focuses so
hard that his forehead wrinkles and his eyes get all tight.” She
mimicked the look and everyone laughed.

“Dead on!” Whit said.

“Whitney is just...” She studied his face.
“...different.”

“Different?” he said.

Different?
I thought.

“In a good way,” she said and tapped his
knee.

“I’ll take it!”

She turned to Ryan. “And you look like a
movie star!”

He smiled. (I swear I saw his teeth glisten.)
“Guess that means I win!”

Livy was next. “I’m gonna hafta pick...” She
fiddled with the rainbow beads in her hair. “...Ryan!”

“Sa-weet!” he said and thrust his fists into
a victory pose.

Livy’s neck retracted until her shoulders
covered her cheeks and, for the first time, I noticed Mara’s blue
polish on her fingernails. She released a nervous squeal as if she
couldn’t believe she was really going to say what she was about to
say. “Ryan Brosh... show us your butt!”

The girls feigned disgust. The boys covered
their eyes.

“Gladly!” said the jock, then flipped to his
knees, pressed his head against an exposed beam, stuck his rump in
the middle of the circle, and pulled down his shorts.

I didn’t see Ryan’s ass, but I imagine it was
a sculpted gift from the gods. My sister was certainly tickled by
the sight.

When the laughter subsided, it was my turn.
Set in my belief that “different” was the only way to win Mara’s
affection, I ignored the instant gratification of physical contact
and provided the poor girl a break from the onslaught of horny
boys. Based on a hunch, I chose Whit.

“Truth,” he said and furrowed his brow.

Ryan sighed and leaned back on his elbows.
“Lame.”

“When we were shooting the scene with the
rowboat,” I said, “what were you and Mara laughing about?”

The truth was so benign that Mara had to help
Whit remember their conversation. “Computers,” she whispered.
“’Member?”

“Right!” Whit said. I was telling Mara about
the operating system on my IBM PowerPC. She’s only seen computers
in movies before the one in my room, so I answered her
questions.”

“Whitney says we’re all going to talk through
computers in the future. We won’t need phones! He can already send
electronic messages to people.”

“I run a text-based program called PINE
through Windows 3.1. I can even send and receive digitized pictures
by connecting my internal modem to a file transfer protocol.”

The other girls gave requisite nods.

Mara was enthralled. “Someday, James’ll be
able to put his camera right into the computer so people can see
him in China.”

“Why would anybody want to see me in China?”
I asked, annoyed that my simple question revived their buddy-buddy
rapport.

“She’s not saying you’d want to,” Whit said,
“just that it’ll be possible in the future.”

“Spoiled brat...” muttered A.J.

“My parents like to support my talent. Some
kids get hunting gear,” he pointed to Age, “some get orange balls
to throw at hoops,” he pointed to Ryan, “and I got a computer.”

“You’re a geek,” Ryan jabbed.

Whit grinned and jabbed back. “Haven’t you
heard the phrase, ‘Date the jocks but marry the geeks?’ You may be
a ladies’ man now, Blue Eyes, but come see me in fifteen
years.”

“How ‘bout you send me a digitized picture
instead?”

“Deal.” The boys nodded their agreement.

It was time. A.J.’s turn was next and I
remembered the twenty dollars and Ryan’s instructions. I wanted to
end the game now, to pretend like I heard a parent to scatter the
players or at least ruin the mood. But Ryan also recalled his deal
with A.J. and announced, “It’s the skinny boy’s turn!”

The cavern pipes groaned above me as all eyes
turned to Age.

“Ryan,” he said and the ground trembled.

As Ryan pretended to consider either truth or
dare, the particleboard walls began to slide inward like the Death
Star trash compactor. Was it my anger at Ryan Brosh that pressed
sweat from my forehead pores? Or was it empathy for Mara? She
didn’t fret the tedious lowering of pipes, the insulation cramming
against her back, or the limbs of boys inching bit by bit into her
personal space.

“Dare,” Ryan said.

Was A.J. really going to go through with it?
Magazines, bins, and other loose artifacts began collecting at the
corners of the constricting cavern. A metal duct cut into the back
of my neck.

“Hmm...” A.J. said. “Kiss ‘er on the
lips.”

Ryan grit his teeth. Wires dropped like
nooses around our throats. “Kiss
who
on the lips?”

A.J. couldn’t say her name, but pointed.

And Mara smiled.

As the girl I loved spanned the orifice
separating her from Ryan Brosh, I looked to my best friend to
exchange looks of terror and disgust. Instead,
Whit was watching
the kiss.
The world was crumbling around us, but Whit was
fine–excited even–by the very thing that was crushing us alive.
When I heard Mara’s lips smack against Ryan’s,
Whit
grinned
.

I wanted to bolt from the collapsing tunnel
like Indiana Jones from the spike-riddled cave, but time was
gaining momentum and Mara was already back in her place, Ryan was
lost in a state of Nirvana, and Kimmy was on her knees deciding who
to pick. “Ryan!” she declared with obnoxious glee. “I dare you to
kiss Livy!”

Oh Livy...
I thought. She had
propositioned Kimmy just like Ryan propositioned A.J.!

He doesn’t like you!
I wanted to
scream.
He likes Mara! Everyone likes Mara!

Ryan returned from his endless bliss from
Mara’s kiss. He basked in the “ooos” and the “ahhs” of his
underlings. He crawled with a swagger to my beaming sister, formed
his lips into an exaggerated kissy-face, and planted them on
hers.

To Ryan, the kiss was a complimentary mint
after a steak dinner.

Livy wouldn’t rinse her mouth for a week.

* * *

The walls returned to their static posts and
the group disbanded; girls through the library hatch, boys to my
bedroom.

A.J. made his twenty bucks. I made a new
enemy.

* * *

12:50 AM.

“Double-dog dare ya.”

“
Triple
-dog.”

“If you do this, little man, I got a
five-dollar bill in my pocket with your name on it.”

“Her room’s empty, bro! Your parents are
asleep and the chicks are a hundred miles away.”

The high-schoolers surrounded me. I could
smell the congested virility like cold broth.

“They’re in the ballroom,” I said. “They
could come downstairs any second.”

“They’re asleep!”

I shook my head. “I don’t think Mara even has
a diary.” This was a lie. A dozen times I spotted Mara scribbling
in a blue journal while pondering its poetry.

“Psht!” Ryan said. “Every girl’s got a
diary.”

Whit forced himself between the males. He
shook his head and mouthed,
“No.”

“It has a lock!” I said.

Ryan pounced. “Ah ha! She
does
have
one!”

“Locks don’t matter,” said another kid. “Jon
over there could bust into Fort Knox with a rusty paperclip.”

The ghosts from the end of
Raiders
couldn’t make me share Mara’s innermost feelings with these grunts
(especially the grunt who locked lips with the girl only minutes
ago). But if I wanted a chance to read her diary for myself, a
group of savage perverts could provide a believable excuse for a
broken lock...

“Forget it,” Ryan said. “I’ll do it.”

“No!” I blurted then looked to Whit for
reassurance.

Again, he shook his head. But I was out of
options.

“There’s a set of walkie-talkies in my
closet,” I said. “Ryan, stand guard in the parlor. If you see
anybody, warn me.”

* * *

1:05 AM.

A key-ring flashlight was my only guide
through the soft clutter of Livy’s bedroom. I trailed the dull beam
across the beds and floor, revealing stuffed creatures with button
eyes, a homemade kitten toy made from feathers and elastic string,
and a scattered set of curlers like pink toilet paper tubes. I held
my breath as I waded through my sister’s half of the room, then
inhaled fully the essence and smells of Mara; a potpourri of
Skittles, fabric softener, and impending rain.

The headset crackled in my ear.
“You’re
all clear, Red Five, but I sense movement upstairs. Find the secret
diary and get the hell out.”

“Will do, Millennium One. Over and out.”

My light landed on the statue of Saint
Michael on Mara’s nightstand shrine. I sat on her bed–mindful of
the taut sheets and perfect creases–and slid open the top
drawer.

It was too easy. The diary was alone,
unlocked, and squared in the center of the drawer. I grazed the
sapphire spine with my fingertips, afraid that–if I moved it too
quickly–a giant boulder might burst from the closet door.

But then I was holding it. No traps had
sprung. No secret force was binding the pages shut. As the book
unfurled almost magically in my hands, I became unshakably aware of
my youth as if the last two months had been an elaborate game of
“house”: while I was writing about monsters and castles and sword
fights–while I was reading
Goosebumps
and
Boxcar
Children
books–Mara was etching her soul into the pristine
pages of a diary.

“
How we lookin’, Red Five? Any sign of
that book?”

“Workin’ on it, Millennium One,” I whispered.
“This room’s a mess. Could be anywhere.”

“
Make it snappy. Over and out.”

I held the flashlight between my teeth.

The pages smelled like flowers. The outside
corners were numbered with sparkly blue ink from a gel-pen. Mara
wrote in cursive, never used apostrophes, and dotted her “i”s with
hearts only if they appeared in a name. Half scrapbook, half
journal, my fingertips traced the pages like braille; the curled
corners of magazine articles, the rippled paste beneath each
clipping, the lyrical indentations of a ballpoint pen on smooth
parchment, and thin trails of backward cursive, raised like mole
tunnels from the opposite page. There were notes and lyrics from a
hymnal, snippets from Cosmo with tips to act like a lady (
”Trim
hair every six weeks, drink eight glasses of water per day,
absolutely no junk food...”
) and highlighted passages from
books beyond my reading level. Petals from a yellow rose were
pressed between the pages, staining her thoughts with a colorful
Rorschach test.