The Dare (11 page)

If only it were true, I thought.

If only I didn't have to shoot him.

It was Thursday afternoon, and I had stayed home from school. My stomach was upset. I felt really shaky and strange. I was a nervous wreck.

The alarm had gone off at seven, the usual time. I had started to get dressed—and then realized I couldn't face another day at school, another day of kids staring at me, wishing me good luck, asking me when I was going to shoot him.

At first, I had loved all the attention.

But now it frightened me.

After my mom went off to work, I climbed back into
bed. I was shaking all over. I couldn't get rid of my chills. Finally I fell back to sleep and didn't wake up until noon.

I kept getting painful stomachaches. And I felt like I had to puke. I forced down some buttered toast and a Coke for lunch, but then my stomach felt even worse.

Maybe I'm sick, I thought. Maybe I really do have the flu.

But I knew I was just scared to death about killing Mr. Northwood.

Once he's dead, I'll feel so much better.
That's what I told myself. Strange way to cheer oneself up, huh?

I should have worked on my research project. But I knew I couldn't concentrate.

I didn't waste the day, though. I found a good hiding place for the pistol. There is a loose stone in the basement wall behind the dryer. After I shoot Mr. Northwood, I'll pull the stone out and slip the gun into the hole. The gun will fit snugly behind the stone, and no one will ever find it.

Finding that hiding place made me feel a little better. But just a little bit.

Dennis called at three-thirty. He saw that I wasn't in school and wondered if I was okay.

I thought it was sweet of him to call. He's really starting to care about me, I thought.

“We've collected nearly twelve hundred dollars,” he told me, lowering his voice to a whisper. I could picture his green eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Wow” was all I managed to reply. I mean, it was impressive. That's a lot of money.

“Half of it is yours,” Dennis continued, “if—”

“Shhhhh.” I cut him off. “I don't care about the money. I really don't.”

“But you're still doing it, right?” Dennis asked. I caught a little worry in his voice.

“Yeah. Sure,” I replied reluctantly.

“Saturday,” Dennis repeated. “Saturday.”

I didn't want him to hang up. I wanted to talk longer. I wanted him to tell me that he was dumping Caitlin, that he was interested only in me now. I wanted him to tell me how brave I was, how much I was helping him, how much fun we were going to have together once … once Mr. Northwood was dead.

But Dennis muttered good-bye, and the dial tone buzzed in my ear.

As I replaced the receiver, Dennis's low voice echoed in my ear.
“Saturday … Saturday … Saturday …”

I heard sounds in the backyard. Making my way to the kitchen window, I saw Mr. Northwood. Home from school. In his red and black flannel jacket and wool ski cap. Bending over to pick up logs from his woodpile.

That's when I had the evil fantasy of pushing the logs onto him and bashing in his skull and making it look like a terrible accident.

My daydream ended. Mr. Northwood was still standing there in the middle of his backyard.

And as I stared at him, bundling two logs in his arms and starting to the house with them, I realized I was shaking all over.

“I can't take this!” I cried aloud.

I knew that I'd never make it to Saturday. Never.

My heart pounding, I walked quickly to the desk in the living room to get the gun. I untaped the key my mother hid under the desk and slid it into the keyhole.

I'm going to do it now, I decided.

M
y hand was trembling as I pulled open the drawer and reached for the gun. But I stopped shaking as soon as my hand wrapped around the pistol.

Something about how solid it was made me feel calmer.

It felt so warm in my cold, clammy hand. Warm and almost … comforting.

I dragged my coat out of the front closet and pulled it on. Then I slipped the gun into a coat pocket.

I'm going to feel so much better in just a few moments,
I told myself.

I peered out through the window in the kitchen door. Mr. Northwood was bending over in front of the woodpile, arranging logs, his back to me.

I opened the kitchen door and stepped out onto the back stoop. I had my right hand inside the coat pocket, wrapped tightly around the pistol.

I'm going to feel so much better.

It was a bone-chillingly cold day, but I couldn't feel it. I didn't feel anything except the pistol in my hand.

I didn't see anything except Mr. Northwood bent over his logs.

I made my way across my backyard, stepping carefully over the frozen ground, being careful not to make a sound.

How close do I need to get? I asked myself, staring hard at Mr. Northwood's red and black wool back.

How close? How close?

Close enough not to miss.

I stopped short when he stood up.

Was he going to turn around and see me? Was he going to spoil this for me?

He stretched, pushing his long arms straight up over his head. Then he bent again and began lifting logs onto a low stack.

I pulled the gun from my coat pocket. I was squeezing it so tightly, my hand hurt.

I pulled back the hammer. It made a metallic
click.

I sucked in my breath, afraid Mr. Northwood had heard it.

He let out a groan as he dropped some logs onto the stack he was building.

I took another step toward him, tiptoeing on the frozen grass. Another step.

How close do I have to get? How close?

Another step. Another.

I raised the gun, aimed it at his back.

Am I
really
doing this? I suddenly wondered. Am I
really
crossing the backyard with a loaded pistol in my hand?

Am I really going to shoot Mr. Northwood?

Or is this another one of my violent fantasies?

No.

This was no fantasy. This was real.

Cold and real.

I aimed for his back, slid my finger over the trigger, and prepared to shoot.

“J
ohanna!”

I gasped as I heard a girl shout my name.

Mr. Northwood heard her too. He spun around, startled.

Had he seen the gun before I jammed it back into my coat pocket?

“Johanna, I didn't hear you!” he cried, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

“I—I came to ask you about the homework,” I stammered, thinking quickly.

I turned to see who had called out my name. “Margaret!” She was standing in the driveway, her bulging backpack slung over the shoulder of her coat. “What are
you
doing here?” I demanded.

“There's going to be a quiz tomorrow,” she replied, making her way across the grass. “You weren't there. I thought maybe you'd need the notes.”

“What a considerate friend,” Mr. Northwood commented.
“Where were you today, Johanna? We missed you.”

“I didn't feel well,” I told him.

He
tsk-tsked
and returned to his logs. Margaret and I began heading back toward my house.

“I have a tape recording of the class, if you'd like to hear what you missed,” Mr. Northwood called to me.

I thanked him but said I'd borrow Margaret's notes instead.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked Margaret. I was studying her face, trying to figure out why she had come. She and I hadn't been friendly for weeks. I knew she hadn't come to deliver the history notes.

“No. I have only a minute,” she replied. She brushed a ringlet of red hair off her forehead.

The afternoon sun lowered behind the trees. A shadow rolled over both of us. The air grew colder.

“Everyone's talking about you, Johanna,” Margaret whispered, gazing over my shoulder to Mr. Northwood. “Everyone's talking about the dare and about all the money that kids are betting.”

“Yeah … well …” What was I supposed to say?

I had a sudden impulse to explain it all to Margaret. I really wanted to tell her how Mr. Northwood was ruining Dennis's whole life and how he was picking only on Dennis's friends, and how he was ruining my life too.

But I knew Margaret wouldn't understand about Dennis and me. She would never understand about the dare or about Dennis and me and the kids in our group, because Margaret wasn't one of us.

She wouldn't get it. She just wouldn't.

So I fought back the impulse to explain and just returned her stare.

“So what do you want?” I asked sharply.

She hesitated, chewing her lower lip. “Well … I just had to ask you,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “I mean … you're not really going through with it—are you?”

“No. Of course not,” I told her, squeezing the gun tightly inside my coat pocket. “Of course not.”

S
aturday arrived gray and blustery.

A perfect day for a murder, I thought, staring down at the bare maple trees from my bedroom window.

I stayed in bed until I heard the car door slam and heard Mom drive off to work. Then I quickly got cleaned up and dressed, pulling on gray sweats. I brushed and brushed my hair until my scalp hurt. I think I needed some pain to wake me up.

It was nearly lunchtime, but I couldn't eat. I paced around nervously, walking from room to room like a caged lion.

My stomach was churning. My throat felt so tight, I could barely swallow.

This is crazy, I thought. Crazy.

Mr. Northwood probably won't even be home.

I gazed out the kitchen window. No sign of him. The woodpile stood darkly in the center of the gray yard, like a hulking animal.

A scrawny squirrel stood tensely to the left of it, its tail straight up in the air. A loud
bang,
a car backfiring, I think, made the squirrel dash frantically for safety.

I had to laugh. That squirrel looks like I feel! I told myself.

My stomach started to ache. I felt really sick.

I began pacing again. One room blurred darkly into the next.

Without realizing where I was going or what I was doing, I found myself in the basement. I was reaching behind the dryer, pulling out the loose stone in the wall, checking once again the place I was going to hide the gun after I had used it.

Saturday afternoon. It was Saturday afternoon.

Saturday. Saturday. Saturday.

I repeated the word over and over until it had no meaning, until it made no sense.

Until
nothing
made sense.

And then back up in the kitchen, leaning on the windowsill, I saw Mr. Northwood appear in his backyard. His red and black wool coat was open, revealing a green turtleneck underneath. His gray hair stood up on his head, fluttering in the strong breeze.

He carried an open can of paint in one hand, a fat paintbrush in the other.

My heart pounding, I watched him make his way to the shed behind his garage, his head bobbing as he took his usual long strides.

He's going to paint the shed, I realized, pressing my hot forehead against the cool windowpane. He's going to paint the shed in his backyard.

And I'm going to shoot him.

Because it's Saturday Saturday Saturday Saturday.

And nothing makes sense.

My stomach churned. I pictured waves of molten lava rolling around inside me. I'm a volcano, I thought, about to erupt.

I swallowed hard, trying to force back my nausea.

I was in the living room now. I glanced down and saw the pistol gripped in my hand.

How did it get there?

I didn't remember walking from the kitchen. I didn't remember crossing the living room, opening the table drawer, lifting the gun.

But I had.

I had the pistol in my hand now.

Because it was Saturday Saturday Saturday.

And Mr. Northwood was in his backyard. Waiting to be killed.

Holding the pistol in one hand, I rubbed my aching stomach with the other. Then I started to the closet to get my coat.

And the doorbell rang.

S
tartled, I dropped the gun. It hit the carpet and bounced toward the couch.

The doorbell rang again.

The sound sent a chill down my back.

With a low groan, I bent and grabbed the gun. I stuffed it back into the drawer, pushed the drawer shut, and hurried to see who was at the front door.

“Dennis!”

He didn't smile. His eyes burned into mine. “Did you do it?”

“Not yet,” I said. I stepped back so he could get into the house. “I—I'm not sure I can,” I admitted.

He didn't seem to hear me. “Is Northwood home?”

I nodded. “In the backyard. Painting his shed. Do you believe it? He picks the coldest day of the year to paint.”

“That's great!” Dennis exclaimed, his eyes studying me.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“You're not very friendly,” he replied, pretending to pout.

“I'm a little nervous,” I told him. “And my stomach—”

He interrupted me by moving forward and pressing his lips against mine. His face was cold from the outside, but his mouth was warm.

“That was for moral support,” he said when the kiss had ended.

I trembled. My entire body was shaking. I felt as if I were made of rubber, as if I had no bones at all.

“Let's get it over with,” Dennis whispered in my ear, “so we can celebrate.”

“Celebrate,” I repeated numbly. That word didn't make any sense either.

Nothing made sense. Nothing.

“Where's the gun?” Dennis demanded, staring intensely into my eyes.

I pointed to the drawer in the green table.

My stomach churned. “I'll be right back,” I told him, rubbing it with one hand over my gray sweatsuit.