Authors: Liz Miles
Truth & Dare (8 page)
Trapped on the stage of the patio, I shove my hands in my pockets and try to hide in my raised shoulders. The music still plays, and an uncomfortable spotlight of attention turns its glare on me. “Chelsea, I never lied to you.”
At first, it seems like she has no reaction at all.
Then, she slaps me.
It’s a white hot moment that fades to black, and by the time I turn to find her, she’s lost in the sea of the party.
ANOTHER ANGLE
The funny thing is, I’m the one standing there with the sting of her hand on my face, but everyone’s looking at me like I’m the sinner. Staring, really. Asking with their eyes, What did you do to her, asshole?
“’Scuse me,” I say.
Girls I’ve known for ever lower their gazes. They shrink and angle away, parting to let me pass through them, but not without dirty, defensive looks. Not without accusing glares. Cutting through them, I feel their heat at a distance.
For the first time since the ice, I have fire of my own. It’s small, just a faint glow, but it pulses in my wrists and my hands and my spine.
My hands make fists, and I don’t apologize when I bounce off J.P., our second baseman. Drink sloshing, he bristles and turns, but to hell with him, he’s in my way.
“What’s your problem?” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Have you seen Chelsea?”
His expression changes. Oh, Chelsea, oh yeah, that one—it’s the subtle life of a party at work. Everybody knows when something happens, even if they don’t know what that something is, kind of like a bruise you don’t remember getting.
Subtly sympathetic, he nods toward the stairs to the loft. “Went that way with the pussy posse.”
“Thanks,” I say, and thump his back harder than I need to as I head that way.
The last thing I want to do is get into this in front of a bunch of people, but I’m hacked off and feral and pissed. I’m not going to raise my hands or my voice. I just want an explanation.
It’s probably the movies; how good it looks up on a screen when beautiful women coil and strike. How bad guys try to
earn it, like it’s proof of their heat. But you know what? Getting slapped is humiliating.
Before I’m halfway up the stairs, the landing above me explodes. A thundering wave of shouts roll through the air—one is Tyler, for sure. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I see him slam his palms into Nick Blake’s chest.
A two-step stagger, and Nick lunges back. Their collision vibrates through the wooden steps; I feel it buzz the soles of my feet. Rushing up I grab the first scarlet jacket I come to and yank him back.
“Get off me!” Nick rages, and surges. It’s like trying to hold back a landslide. He almost slips free. I scramble to haul him back again.
I can’t tell who’s caging Tyler. All I can see of him is arms and a haze of dark hair. He’s got his arms banded back around his shoulders. Hands locked. Laced. Tight. Unbreakable even as Tyler heaves and twists against them.
Straining, his teeth bared, he snaps at Nick, “I will drop you.”
“Come get it!”
Sharp with adrenaline, I haul Nick off his feet. “Knock it off!”
For a moment, they still siege and seethe, but they’re going nowhere. There’s another flash of temper, and then it’s gone; they’re still pissed, no question, but they’re probably done trying to kill each other. Without the prospect of more blood, onlookers drift away and I finally remember to breathe.
“Let go,” Nick says, his tension unspooled. I wait, just another second, then release him. With a warning look, Nick straightens his shirt and bounds down the stairs.
Once he’s gone, I ask Tyler, “What was that all about?”
“Forget it,” he says, and brushes past. No explanation. No
eye contact. Whatever’s shifted his tide, it’s pulling him farther and farther away from me.
“Well, that was exciting.”
The comment comes from the guy who held Tyler back, and I finally get a good look at him.
His letter jacket is blue and gold, a cougar on his sleeve. Gold floss spells out Ex Beauchamp across his heart and his varsity letter glints with swimming pins. I would have guessed basketball. But we’ve played all over Indiana, and I don’t recognize his school. He’s a stranger, completely random.
“It’s not a party till somebody throws a punch,” I say.
“Then this is definitely a party.”
I look past him at a wall of closed doors. Chelsea could be behind any of them, but I’m hitting that long slide from angry to tired.
“Sorry, am I in your way?” Ex’s face is kind, his brows thoughtfully apologetic, and he moves to let me pass.
I shake my head. “Nah, just trying to figure out if I’m coming or going.”
We shake hands, clap each other on the shoulder, because that’s how you thank a stranger for breaking up a fight with you. Then I skim past, playing a shell game with the doors. I know two are bedrooms, and one’s a studio—Olivia’s stepmother paints landscapes.
The middle bedroom opens. Carrying a bundle of used paper towels, Sinjai steadies them against her chest when she comes out. She narrows her eyes and reaches back to pull the pale pine door closed.
It doesn’t catch.
When Sinjai walks away, I peer through the open wedge between door and frame.
Surrounded by wads of tissue, Chelsea sits on the floor. She’s blotchy, slumped against the wall. But in spite of sailing
a sea of Kleenex, she has an almost-smile for someone I can’t see.
Fuck it. I’ll talk to her later.
CUT TO:
THE NEXT MORNING
We’ve always had a system.
After one of Olivia’s cabin parties, Tyler and I get up first thing and haul out the beer bottles and makeshift ashtrays. While we do that, Olivia drives home any leftover guests, and then midway to noon, Tyler’s dad shows up with his truck to clear out the rest of the mess.
Some of the parents bitch about it under their breath, but not too loud. We haven’t had one drunk-driving accident since Livvy started throwing her parties back in freshman year. Nobody with alcohol poisoning. No drunkenly fatal stunts like train dodging, or car surfing or ghost riding.
Yeah, pretty much the only student at Stonard that’s died in three years is me.
And I was sober at the time, so … hate the methods, but they work, right? Anyway, Mr. Ross walks in as usual. I guess because I’ve been thinking about it lately, I suddenly realize how much he looks like Tyler. How much Tyler looks like him. He’s the salted, aged version, with silver wings at his temples, a roughness around his jaw, but the smile is the same.
“Plausible deniability?” he asks with a grin.
I shake his hand and vow, “We played checkers all night.”
“Good enough.” Laughing, he tosses Tyler a box of trash bags and turns to survey the damage. It’s not that bad. We’ll be out in an hour at the most, as long as we can find the vacuum. “How about this spring, Evan?”
Gathering cups into towers, I nod. “I’m probably playing.”
“Good enough, good enough,” Mr. Ross says. He gestures
at Tyler, cheerful. “I dunno what that one would do all alone out there.”
“I know how to play,” Tyler says. Black plastic snaps in the air.
“Sure you do,” Mr. Ross agrees. He makes a face, sweeping popcorn off the couch and on to the carpet. “Ross and Todd, though, that’s a team.”
“I dunno,” I say lightly. “I’m looking forward to giving him hell when he’s captain.”
Before Tyler can deny becoming captain, his dad does it for him with a snort. No words at all, just a sound that speaks all doubt.
My pile of cups is becoming a pyramid. “I’m voting for him. He deserves it.”
Mr. Ross says, “Sure would like to see State again.”
“I’ll get the sweeper,” Tyler says.
I bow my head when Tyler leaves, then ask his dad, “Is he okay?”
Taking his time, Mr. Ross finishes putting the chair back together. Sliding the cushion into place, straightening the whole lounger so it’s perfectly angled to catch the morning light. Finally, he says, “He’s got his moods.”
Unsettled, I stop and almost look at him. Sideways, my right eye meets his left, leaving space to give us cover if the truth is ugly. “Maybe seeing me like that did something to him. If he talked to somebody …”
“He needs to man up, that’s what he needs,” Mr. Ross says.
That’s all; that’s the end. I’m not Mr. Ross’s buddy any more. And honestly—I’m a little relieved.
DISSOLVE TO:
Home and showered, I wrap myself in a towel and stand in front of my blanked mirror. At the edges, condensation rolls
down, peeling away strips of steam. I’m still safe, shrouded in the hazy middle.
“Evan,” my mother says from my bedroom door.
“Yeah?”
Her footsteps fall soft and familiar. I hear her touching the things on my dresser. Straightening them. “How was the party?”
“It was all right,” I say, flattening my hands on the counter.
“Did you have a good time?” she asks.
A bead of water wells at the top of the mirror. It pulses, almost alive, growing and straining until it’s too heavy to cling to the glass any more. It doesn’t reveal me. It only threatens to.
I listen to her sit on my bed. Resigned, I say, “I guess.”
“I’m sorry it wasn’t more fun for you,” she says. There’s something distant, distracted in her voice. She segues suddenly, cutting past frames of small talk to ask, “What you said at the nurse’s office, Evan. It’s bothered me all week …”
With the heat of the shower slipping from my skin, the shadowy ache of cold starts to spread again. I reach for my robe, trying to shake it off. “I thought you were going to call Dr. Strickland.”
“Don’t change the subject,” she says softly.
Bundled in my robe, I turn out the light and lean against the wall. I feel her on the other side of it; I don’t have to look to know she’s hollowed with worry. “I’m not. I just thought you were.”
“I did. We have an appointment.” She sighs. “You have an appointment.”
I don’t want to wear the weight of her grief. She should leave, go away, let me reclaim my room—just be downstairs and not up here. Anything I have to say will let her down. What kind of prick makes his mother cry on purpose? “Okay.”
“Come here.”
“Ma, I’m not even dressed.”
“I thought I bought you a robe.”
The instant irritation is familiar and normal and it almost makes me laugh. Rolling against the wall, I peer around the corner at her. “What?”
Hands folded in her lap, she raises her head to look at me. “How are you, Evan?”
My mouth says, “I’m dead.”
She snaps up and flies from the room.
FADE OUT
THE END
BY
H
EIDI
R. K
LING
CHER’S LIST OF NO’S
- No gum
- No peanut butter
- No nuts
- No grape juice
- No hard candy
- No dark soda
- No raw carrots (no big loss)
- No drama camp
- No Eve
- No Dad
- No brother
- No Jesse
- No chance for a lead in the play
- No freaking life!
I’m not kidding when I say I look like a wimpier version of Long Duck Dong’s uberdork girlfriend in
Sixteen Candles
. If you haven’t seen the greatest eighties movie of all time, get thee to the video store and rent it now cuz that’s
so me
and if you’ve already seen it, I won’t have to go into a long boring descriptive scene where I stare at myself in the mirror and tell
you all about my hair color (clown) and eye color (dirt) and boob size (can’t complain). I won’t have to tell you today is my first day of sophomore year, and I’m standing here on my curb in the direct Indian summer heat, sweat dripping down my forehead onto the leather strap holding my headgear and neckgear in place. I won’t have to explain that yes, I mean THAT KIND OF HEADGEAR. The real-deal, full-on, eighties-style headgear—Google it for a visual cuz it’s practically an artifact by now, and if you’ve never laid eyes on it then lucky you. But of course my orthodontist dug up this hideous thing because I have some rare and extremely serious case of “imbedded incisors insert-long-and-boring-
dental-term
,” which basically means I have vampire fangs that supposedly only medieval torture devices from Orthodontia Archives can help yank out of my gums and down into my mouth to join my more normal teeth. Phew. Got that?!
So Mom bought Dr. O.’s toilet of crap—even though I wanted a second opinion—and, because I’ve never won an argument with my mother in my life, I’m standing here alone, unable to move my head, waiting for the Giant Yellow Twinkie. No, I’m not six but since I have no car or license here I am, but that’s not as crucial as the fact that my teeth are encased in barbed wire and my perm-gone-bad bozo bangs are puffing out from under the strap.
I’m freaking out cuz none of my friends have seen me yet.
Not even Eve, not even George.
Especially not Jesse, who looks like Young Paul Newman and whose baby blues rip my heart out of my chest every time I let myself think about them. Since I’ve hidden out like a California-teen version of bin Laden in his cave all summer and because they’ve all had decent things to do, I’m terrified our reunion will be a re-enactment of the villagers chasing Frankenstein with their fiery sticks.
If my orthodontist were here, he would be standing here dead.
The only thing that makes the whole girlfriend-of-
Long-Duck
-Dong scenery worse is that my BFF since pre-school, Adamless Eve, is sitting on Said Bus sure-as-Sherlock as gorgeous as she was at the end of the last school year before she bid me “Ta ta” and headed off to Musical Drama Camp. Yes, the one my mom couldn’t afford to send me to because of monetary reasons due to my date from hell with the Evil Dr. O. and because Dad drained our bank account and moved in with Sally. (But that’s another horrible story for another horrible day.)
Honk! Honk!
Here it comes, with all of its exhaust-exhaling delight.
BOARDING THE TRANS-FAT-LESS TWINKIE …
No, Ms. Busdriver-wishing-you-had-a-Camel-straight-
dangling-from
-your-cherry-red-lips, no, I don’t need the disabled level lowered. No, please stop lowering it. Yes, I can walk up two stairs without—Oops. Nope, I’m fine. (Bang knee against door. Feel large bruise swelling up.) Oh, yeah, yeah, freshman idiots, laugh it up. It’s so funny. I’m such a freak. Yes, I’m drooling. Yes, this is headgear. No, it’s not illegal. Fascinating that your aunt had to wear something freaky like this. I’m glad you feel sorry for me. No, I can’t move my head to see the spitballs firing in my direction. Yes, I just cracked my hip on the metal rod jutting out from the vinyl seat. Yes, I can see your beat-up black cowboy boot sticking out in the aisle and no, it’s not funny to trip the girl with the freaked-up orthodontia, and Eve, will you pretty please scoot your gorgeous butt over and make room for Frankenstina?
(Gasp!)
A VOICE: Cher? Is that YOU?
CHER (ME): Duh.
EVE:
(swooshing hair in slow motion)
Oh. My. God.
CHER: Thanth.
EVE: I just didn’t realize …
CHER: Yeth.
EVE: Why are you talking like that?
CHER:
(points to mouth without moving head)
EVE: Your mom seriously is making you wear that to school?
CHER: Obviouthly.
EVE: Poor you! Poor Cher! Does it hurt? I’m sooo sorry!
(rests gorgeous head on Cher’s thick shoulder)
CHER: Ith no big deal.
EVE: Huh?
CHER:
(louder)
ITH NO BIG DEAL.
EVE:
(bats eyelashes)
CHER: Howth camp?
EVE: Huh?
CHER: CAMP!
EVE:
(lights up)
Camp was totally totally, amazing. So I was cast as Sandy, in
Grease
, ’cept it was this role reversal experimental thing where Sandy was a boy and Danny was a girl. I mean, I never really thought about it before but you know both of those names could really go either way, kinda androgynous, you know? So anyway, I was Boy Sandy, and this amazing guy—super hot, super cool, also super gay, major pity—was Girl Danny. So we just played around with the whole idea of
changing
for someone you like, like you know how in
Grease
, at the end of the movie, Sandy totally changes into like that hard-core chick and wears the black leather jacket and Afros out her hair and wears the super tight leather pants and smokes and stuff?
CHER: Tho Boy Tandy did that inthtead?
EVE: Kinda. Well. It was a bit different than that, but yeah, pretty much, it’s kinda hard to explain. I’ll show you the DVD okay. Oh, Cher, I so wished you were there! I totally missed you and with no computer and only snail mail it was like I missed everything. So what did you do all summer?
CHER:
(points to headgear)
EVE: That’s it?
CHER:
(points to headgear again)
EVE: Didn’t you see Newman or George?
CHER:
(blushes)
NO!
EVE: The whole summer?
CHER:
(blushes deeper, points to headgear)
EVE: So
no one
has seen you?
CHER:
(eyes fill with tears)
EVE: This is worse than I thought. I’d hug you but I don’t want to get caught …
CHER:
(shrugs large shoulders)
EVE: What about the play?
CHER:
EVE: Can you take that thing off for auditions?
CHER:
EVE: Just please don’t bring up the chair thing again, okay?
CHER:
(drool slides down chin)
EVE:
(wipes it off with her sleeve)
Oh fucksicles.
As the bus rumbles through our tiny NorCal foothill town passing 4WD trucks with gun racks and RVs filled with grandpas on fishing trips, and my teeth clang together like cymbals, I try not to think about being cast as a piece of furniture in my first play. It was a long time ago, and who cares if it was the jumping off point of twenty-five more plays of being typecast as inanimate objects, right? And Eve’s being super sweet. Super supportive. It’s just … somewhere in the
deepest Hades of my stomach, molten lava burns with jealousy as I listen to her ramble on and on about the hot guys she hooked up with and how she got a standing ovation on closing night. It’s not what you’re thinking; I don’t hate my best friend. I mean, look at her! Listen to her! And no, I’m not
in love
with Eve either, in a creepy, she-stalker sort of way. I just want to
be Eve
and am woman enough to admit it. To myself anyway. And I’ve read enough pop psychology books (under the covers, by light of flash) to know it’s not really because of who
Eve
is. She’s innocent. She was just born that perfect vanilla-smelling way. It’s because of who
I
am: a total loser. Someone who, fresh out of the shower, still somehow smells rotten. Someone who is bound to have a whitehead on her chin when talking to the hottest guy at school. Someone who inevitably trips on her eighth-grade graduation gown (fuchsia might I add) as she walks up the
one
step to the podium. Someone who at birth was destined to be the only girl in high school forced to wear headgear at the age of sixteen.
“
HEADGEAR GIRL, AGE SIXTEEN
” should be the headline of some cheesy rag instead of the real-life story of a real live girl, but here I am in the flesh. A live specimen. A pedigree geek-freak.
Which is why I like theater. It’s the only place I fit in and, even if I don’t get the best roles—Tree in Forest, Maid #3, Butt-half of a Donkey, Soldier Who Dies in Act I, Set Changer Dressed in Black, Servant #2 with no lines—at least they let me in the door. At least they don’t shoosh me away. At least in theater class,
I exist
.
And I know what you’re thinking: Oh, yeah, here comes the story of the classic geeky girl who’s wearing headgear on the chilly first day of school but when she gets it off in the spring, flowers will bloom and she will look like Angelina Jolie. I’ll be crowned Prom Queen next to Brad Sherman, who’s a shoo-in
for the real Brad, and blah blah blah. Sorry to disappoint. But no, this isn’t that story.
So now you’re probably thinking: if it isn’t
that
story—the one where the gorgeous girl takes off her glasses and brushes her hair and suddenly she’s one of Leo DiCaprio’s model girlfriends—then this must be the story of the ugly girl who has the great
personality
so everyone loves her and she is the most popular girl at school because beauty is inner and all that other totally false crap? Nope. Try again.
I don’t have an interesting personality. I’m not the class clown. I’m not even funny at all. (At least not intentionally.) So basically I’m the worst kinda geek imaginable: I’m Napoleon minus the Dynamite. How’s
that
for a description?
• • •
Things go from bad to worse when we get to school.
In the hallways, I’m greeted by either shocks of disgust or open mouths wagging in complete disbelief. Eve graciously walks next to me toward our first-period drama class, where our favourite teacher from last year, the way-awesome Ms. Tea is sitting on the stage flipping through some notes. We’re the first ones here. Thank God.
Ms. Tea blinks and wiggles her tiny pug nose slightly when she sees me, but quickly and only once. Either she’s an incredible actress (for sure) or she’s been pre-warned via the office via my mother not to balk and run away at the sight of me (most likely).
“Good morning, Cher. Good morning, Eve.”
“Morning, Ms. Tea. Did you have a good summer?” Eve sing-songs her way into the front row as her white eyelet skirt floats through the air behind her.
“I did, thanks. How about you girls? How was camp, Eve?”
“Utterly. Ridiculously. Fabulous.”
“That good, huh?”
Eve nods like a bobble doll. “The play we did, it was like this reverse
Grease
where Danny …”
While Eve fills an attentive Ms. Tea in on her adventures at musical camp, trickles of other kids enter the theater. I glance toward the door each time—peripheral vision, of course—half hoping he is, and half hoping he
isn’t
, in this class.
I get back into listening mode, cuz obviously I can’t be in talking mode. “We’re doing
Wild Oats
this fall. But I don’t think we’ll do role reversal.”
“Seriously?” Eve gushes, “Cuz I know how to do it. I may be able to take a lead role
and
assistant direct. Did I tell you I directed a one-act at camp? It was so amazing and …”
While Eve fills Ms. Tea in on directing the one-act, I stare straight ahead wondering how in the world I’ll even get cast as furniture in this show.
What’s the show?
Wild Oats
. Perhaps it’s about a farm. I could be a fence.
A barbed-wire fence? They could build it around me like that human toilet costume George wore last year and I could just stick my face through a cutout hole. I don’t need any lines. I won’t even have to move my neck for that.
I open my mouth a millimeter. “There any fentheth in
Wild Oath
?”
The normal females stop talking and look over at me.
Ms. Tea’s eyes are warm. “What did you say, Cher?”
“I THED, ARE THERE ANY FENTHETH IN THE THOW?? I COULD BE A FENTH!”
Eve throws her delicate fingers to her forehead. “Fences, Cherrie? She’s saying the word fence, Ms. Tea. Right, honey?” She looks at me like I’m a pathetic stray dog she’s found instead of her best friend. Then she tilts her face back toward our teacher. “She wants to be a fence.”
I don’t
want
to be a fence. I said maybe I
could
be a fence.
“Cher? I don’t know if there’s a fence in this show. You can still try out for a normal role.”
“But with thith thing on maybe I …”
Eve leans forward and stares intently. “It’s totally bizarre Ms. Tea and it’s probably because I’ve known her my whole life, or maybe it’s just because I’m so good with dialect and learning foreign accents and stuff? But I can
translate
Cher’s new headgear voice into regular English. I can do it the whole semester. For the show even!”
A burble of giggles fills the stale theater air and I see George out of my peripheral vision laughing it up.
“Paris, girl, you rock. And uh, Sonny, why is your face caught in a bear trap?”
“Headgear.” Eve nods with a shrug.
George’s green eyes dance. “You said it was bad. But wow, baby, wow!”
“George!” I say, in my one happy second of the day.
“Boy George! You made it back for auditions! How was your summer and I
have to have to
tell you about camp …”