The Dare (12 page)

“Where are you going?” he asked shrilly. I could see that he was nervous too. Beads of perspiration formed a glistening line across his forehead.

“Just upstairs. I need to get some medicine. For my stomach. You know. The pink stuff.”

I hurried up the stairs, feeling dizzy and about to puke. I dived into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

I splashed cold water on my face and forced my
breathing to slow down. Then I took a long swig of the pink stuff.

I don't know how long I stood there, leaning over the sink, staring at my pale, frightened face in the medicine chest mirror, waiting for my stomach to stop churning and aching.

I heard another car backfire somewhere outside.

I heard the wind rattle our old bathroom window.

I splashed more cold water on my hot face.

I wanted to stay up there. I didn't want to go back down. But I knew I had to.

Because it was Saturday Saturday Saturday.

And I had accepted a dare. And you can't wimp out on a dare.

I made my way downstairs on rubbery legs. My stomach still ached, but I forced myself to ignore it.

“You okay?” Dennis demanded, eyeing me with concern. His entire forehead glistened with sweat now. And he had bright beads of sweat over his upper lip.

He looks as pale as I do, I realized. He seems just as tense and afraid.

That's so sweet, I thought. He cares about me. Dennis really cares about me.

Somehow his being nervous for me gave me new strength. I crossed the living room and pulled the pistol from the drawer. Again it felt so warm wrapped inside my cold, wet hand.

“Good luck, Johanna,” Dennis whispered. I felt his warm breath on my ear.

I hesitated at the kitchen door. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him for a long, long time.

There will be time for that … after.

That's what I told myself as I stepped outside.

It was so gray, so dark. The sky seemed to hover right over my head. The air was cold but dry.

Standing on the back stoop, the pistol gripped tightly in my hand inside my coat pocket, I raised my eyes to Mr. Northwood's backyard.

I looked for him first at the shed. But to my surprise, he had moved to the woodpile. He seemed to be leaning over a stack of logs. Rearranging them, I guessed.

I sucked in a deep breath and began moving quickly, silently, across the grass.

The pistol was burning hot in my hand.

The dark sky appeared to whir by overhead. The ground rolled beneath my sneakers. The grass appeared to buckle and bend. The tree trunks shimmied as if made of rubber.

Everything moved. Everything roared past me. The ground, the sky, the bare trees. The wind.

I shut my eyes, blinked several times, opened them again, trying to force the world to return to normal.

Normal?

This was Saturday.

Not a normal day. A day when nothing made sense.

Mr. Northwood leaned over the pile of logs. His arms were outstretched. The back of his coat glared at me like a target.

I pulled the pistol from my pocket.

I clicked back the hammer.

I slipped my finger over the trigger.

I stepped closer. Closer.

Could I do it?

Could I?

I
tried to aim for the middle of Mr. Northwood's back.

But the gun began to shake in my hand.

I gripped it with
both
hands, trying to hold it steady.

Mr. Northwood's wool coat flapped behind him in a sudden gust of wind.

I knew I had to shoot. Now. Before he climbed up. Before he turned around.

Before he saw me.

I struggled to steady the gun.

Shoot it!
I ordered myself.
Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!

I
had
to shoot. Because it was Saturday.

But I couldn't shoot.

I knew I couldn't shoot.

Everything started to make sense again.

I couldn't do this, I knew.

I'm me. I'm Johanna.

I'm not a murderer. I can't shoot someone. I can't shoot
anyone.

I'm Johanna. And everything is starting to make sense.

What was I thinking of? I asked myself. What
happened
to me?

I lowered the gun. I moved it behind my back.

I began to feel better immediately. My stomach stopped churning. My throat loosened. I began to breathe normally again.

I'm not a murderer. I'm me. I'm Johanna.

I'm not going to do it. Not!

It's Saturday. But I'm not going to kill him.

Mr. Northwood didn't move.

Everything made sense again. Except Mr. Northwood didn't move.

The wind gusted. His red and black coat flapped.

He didn't move. His arms hung limply over the stack of logs.

“Mr. Northwood?” I slipped the gun into my coat pocket. “Mr. Northwood?” My voice, weak and trembling, blew back at me in the gusting wind.

He didn't move.

I stepped closer. Closer.

I gasped when I saw the dark stain on the back of his coat. The dark purple stain.

The dark purple bloodstain.

“Mr. Northwood?”

Why didn't he answer me? Why didn't he move?

I stared at the round purple stain on the coat. As it came into focus, I saw that the stain surrounded a
deep hole, a hole through the coat. A hole in Mr. Northwood's back.

Then I lowered my eyes to the dark puddle of blood on the ground in front of the woodpile.

“Mr. Northwood? Mr. Northwood?”

But of course he didn't answer me.

As I stared in open-mouthed horror, I realized that he had
already
been shot to death.

M
y knees started to shake. I fought to stay on my feet.

The gray sky seemed to lower over me, forcing me to see everything through a thick, swirling cloud.

Suddenly I became aware of footsteps behind me. I turned my head to see Dennis running across the grass, a smile on his face.

“Johanna—you did it!” he exclaimed.

“N-no,” I choked out. “No, Dennis.”

He stepped beside me and slid his arm heavily around my trembling shoulders. His eyes were locked on Mr. Northwood's body, sprawled facedown over the woodpile.

“You did it!” Dennis repeated happily. “I can't believe it! Wow! You did it!”

“But I didn't shoot him!” I screamed, pulling out from under Dennis's arm. “Listen to me, Dennis! I didn't do it! I didn't!”

Dennis's grin didn't fade. His green eyes flashed excitedly as he turned to me. “Of course you did, Johanna. You shot him.”

“No—please! Listen to me!” I begged.

“Check out your gun,” Dennis instructed calmly. “Go ahead, Johanna. Check it out.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” I hesitated, staring at him through the thick gray mist that refused to lift from my eyes. “What do you mean, Dennis? Why won't you listen to me?”

“Check out your gun.” He pointed to my coat pocket.

I pulled the pistol out, the pistol I had never fired.

Why was Dennis insisting that I had?

“Look at it,” Dennis instructed me, still grinning. “Your gun has been fired. See the powder on the barrel? Go ahead. Smell it.”

I obediently sniffed the nose of the barrel. I smelled gunpowder.

The gun, I remembered, had felt so warm when I had lifted it from the drawer in the living room.

“But, Dennis, I didn't—”

“I called the police,” Dennis interrupted, his smile fading, his expression turning cold.

“What?” I cried, startled.

“I called the police,” he replied casually. “They'll be here any second. I'll tell them it was self-defense, Johanna. Don't worry. I'll tell them that Northwood attacked you and you fired in self-defense.”

“But, Dennis, why—” I started to say. And then I stopped.

It was all making sense. Even through the thick gray
cloud that had lowered over me, it was all making sense.

The car backfire while I was upstairs in the bathroom—it wasn't a backfire.

“Dennis—
you
shot him!” I cried in a hushed, shocked voice I'd never heard before.
“You
shot him, Dennis!”

Dennis took a step back, his eyes on Mr. Northwood's body. “I'll tell them you did it in self-defense, Johanna,” he said softly.

“But
you
shot him!” I shouted. “While I was in the bathroom.”

I could feel my fury grow. The volcano was about to erupt. I grabbed his shoulders. “Dennis—why?”

He jerked away from me, his eyes lighting up angrily.

“Why, Dennis?” I demanded. “You set this all up, didn't you!” I accused him. “You set
me
up! Why?”

“What's happening?” A girl's voice called from the driveway.

I turned to see Caitlin hurrying over to us.

“Oh, Caitlin!” I cried, so happy to see her. “Caitlin—help me! Please?” I went running to her.

But she sidestepped me and hurried over to Dennis.

“It went perfectly,” Dennis told her, grinning. He pointed down to Mr. Northwood's body.

She kissed him on the cheek. “We did it!” Caitlin cried.

I
froze.

Caitlin slid her arm around Dennis's waist, holding him close.

The trees along the back fence suddenly came to life, their branches trembling, their slender trunks leaning in a strong burst of wind. Fat brown leaves raced over my sneakers as if trying to flee.

“I don't get this,” I muttered.

“It was all a dare,” Dennis explained casually. “Caitlin dared me to let you take care of our Northwood problem.”

“You mean—” Too many thoughts ran through my mind at once. I felt as if my head would burst.

“It was easy to get you to volunteer,” Dennis continued. “You seemed so eager. And you made it so easy too.” Caitlin nodded in agreement, her eyes on Dennis.

“I could hardly believe it when it turned out that
you of all people owned a gun,” he said with a laugh. “I didn't even have to try to think of a clever way to kill him. You had the perfect weapon right in your own house.”

“You went out with me just because you wanted me to kill Mr. Northwood?” I demanded, ignoring the chills that ran down my back, ignoring the blood throbbing at my temples.

Dennis nodded. “Pretty much. It was a dare, see.”

“Dennis is going with me,” Caitlin murmured, staring hard at me. “Didn't you wonder why he was suddenly so interested in you?”

“I can't believe you planned this whole thing,” I said, shaking my head unhappily.

“I have to get back on the track team,” Dennis replied softly. “Northwood was ruining my whole life. You seemed so eager to take care of Northwood for me.”

I let out a gasp. “But then
you
shot him.
You
killed him. Why?”

“I thought you might wimp out,” Dennis replied. “I couldn't take that chance. So I did it. But the police will think you did it. Everyone will think you did it.”

Something inside me exploded. The volcano went off. My anger, my hurt, burst out of me in a flood of cries and furious words.

“I trusted you! I trusted you! I cared about you!”

I heard the words escape my lips, but I didn't feel that I was saying them. I was too hurt, too broken to think clearly, too angry, too betrayed to see!

Caitlin and Dennis held on to each other. They stared back at me defiantly, coldly.

My anger and hurt meant nothing to them. Nothing.

Dennis had killed Mr. Northwood. And now I was going to be blamed.

My life was ruined so that Dennis could rejoin the track team and live happily ever after with Caitlin.

I heard sirens approaching from the street.

They blended with my own furious screams.

I was out of control. Out of myself. Out of my head.

“I can't let you do this to me!” I shrieked at Dennis.

The pistol was in my hand.

I raised it to Dennis's chest and pulled the trigger.

N
o, I didn't.

I couldn't. I'm not a killer.

I was breathing hard, gasping for air. I felt as if I were choking, drowning, going under, down, down into frightening darkness.

What was that angry wail?

Was it my desperate cry?

Was it the police siren?

Why was it so dark? So terrifyingly dark?

Why couldn't I breathe?

“Drop the gun! Drop it!” A man's stern voice broke through the darkness.

Before I could move, powerful hands grabbed me roughly. I saw a flurry of movement. Dark uniforms. Grim faces. A hand pulled the pistol away by the barrel.

“Don't move!” the man ordered.

Someone stepped behind me, grabbed my arms, and forced them behind my back.

The darkness lifted slowly.

Four police officers came into focus.

Two of them bent over Mr. Northwood. One of them held on to me tightly from behind. The other stepped up to Dennis and Caitlin.

To my surprise, I saw that Caitlin had started to cry. “It was so
horrible!”
she wailed to the solemn-faced officer.

“We saw the whole thing,” Dennis said, his features tight with sorrow, his arm still around Caitlin's trembling shoulders.

Caitlin let out a sob. She took several deep breaths. “We tried to stop Johanna,” she told the police officer, wiping her tears off her cheeks with her hands. “We tried to stop her. But we weren't in time.”

“If only we'd arrived sooner,” Dennis added, shaking his head. “Just a few seconds earlier, and Mr. Northwood would still be alive.”

“But she shot him!” Caitlin cried. “Johanna shot him!”

The other officer pulled my arms up behind me until I cried out from the pain. “Read Johanna her rights,” he instructed his partner. He lowered his face close to mine. “The charge will be first-degree murder.”