Dare Me
For those with the will to dare
and the courage to accept the consequences
CHAPTER 1
T
here is no doubt
that one of us will die. I’m not hoping for it, just considering the probability: three of us, ten stunts, each “death defying.” At least that’s the plan: spend senior year completing one dare a month. Why? So we’re legends by the end.
Ricky’s driving and he looks at me, rocks his head to the music blaring, and says, “Ready, Ben?”
As if there’s any answer I can give but yes. I know how it works. He looks in the rearview. “John, ready?”
John gives a thumbs-up and gets the camera into position. “On you, Ben.” He slides out of the rear window.
I turn and look. Nothing but cornstalks and pavement, blue sky and puffy white clouds. Perfection. I focus on that image and the stillness, the quiet. If I don’t, I’ll chicken out. My mind’s already filling with scenarios for how this will end badly. But school starts tomorrow, and I agreed to this, however it goes.
I pull the ski mask over my face and slide out the window.
The wind whips even though Ricky’s only going like thirty miles per hour. I can’t hear what John’s saying. His mouth’s moving, but it’s like being in a dream, all background noise, nothing real. He jacks his thumb into the air, an obvious sign for me to get on the roof. I take a deep breath, steady my elbows, and push myself up.
My feet tingle and my heart hammers, but I keep going. I grab the roof rack and pull and am flat on top. The wind pours over me now, but the space around my face is calm. Unreal.
“Let’s do it.” John’s words are faint, but they’re enough to propel me. I grip the rack and slide my feet beneath me. Ten seconds. All I have to do is stay on my feet and count.
I stand but wobble and have to sit back down on my heels. Shit, maybe I
can’t
do this. No matter how much I convince myself. I look over at John for help, forgetting that the camera is on me. There’s nothing he can do. This is all mine. I’d love nothing more than to crawl right back in the window, but it would be on film, and Ricky would never let me hear the end of it. Just like before.
I’ve decided that’s not what
I
want, so I swallow, take another breath, and ease my way up.
I rock again, but only slightly. John raps on the roof to let Ricky know I’m up, and Ricky lets out a scream. I spread my arms and yell along with him because this is fucking insane. The road stretches before me, and one false move and I’m part of it. But Ricky’s smooth, and it’s like I’m on a skateboard without the rumble beneath my feet.
A car comes from the other direction and Ricky honks. The driver looks up and sees me and I look down at him and for a second our eyes meet. In his, pure panic. His mouth is dropped and his skin is paper-white. But then he’s gone and my heart is racing and it’s been ten seconds. I let out one more scream and tuck back to the roof rack.
John smacks the car again to let Ricky know I’m done, and I hear muffled cheering from within. I smile. It’s big and hurts my cheeks and my eyes water from the wind, but this is the most alive I’ve felt in forever, exactly like Ricky said we would. One dare down, nine to go.
—
When I went to bed
at 2:00 a.m., there were thirty-five views. I woke up at 7:00 and there were thirty-seven. I just checked my phone and we’re up to a whopping fifty. Ricky talked about these videos being “the best senior prank ever” because they’ll last all year. I had to agree to the brilliance of the uniqueness. He also said that we’ll be “larger than Jesse Holmes” and his crew. I don’t know about that. One look at those guys, and it’s obvious they own our school. Handsome, suave, athletic. Considering either hopeful outcome, fifty views aren’t going to do jack.
John rolls up to my locker. “I’m still wrecked from yesterday. I kept dreaming about it. Woke up screaming.”
I picture John in his bed, all wound up in his sheets, screaming into the night. Doesn’t surprise me. He’s always had nightmares. Scared the hell out of me the first time he slept over in fifth grade. “You’ve got a month before the next one. Try to relax.”
He shakes his head and doesn’t say anything, but I know what he means. This isn’t our thing: trouble. That’s Ricky’s territory. But we’re only visiting, right?
We walk toward the cafeteria and go as unnoticed as usual. I watch the clusters and wonder what the hot girls are discussing, the übergeeks, the Bible-thumpers. I remember Ricky’s words:
This is how we make our mark. You’ve seen all the stupid dares kids are doing. Cinnamon eating and vodka in the eye. Not us. We’re going balls out and will leave here legends.
Yet day one of senior year feels like we never left. Classes have been exactly as I expected.
I’m Mr./Mrs. so-and-so, and this class will be difficult. You are a senior, so I’m not holding your hand. Here’s your first assignment.
And off we go.
John and I grab trays and get served the miserable offerings and head to our table. Ricky’s already there.
“Hey, John, don’t trip!”
Ricky laughs at his own joke and chews on a French fry.
“You hit that pothole on purpose?” John sits but doesn’t touch his food.
“That’s one way of looking at it. Or maybe you wanted to end up on the windshield. Crying.” Ricky smiles. “Guess we’ll never know, huh?”
“I wasn’t crying,” John mumbles into his food.
He was totally crying, but who cares? It was good footage. Well, for our purposes.
I take a bite of the hamburger. “You think maybe the low numbers are because of the distortion?”
Ricky takes a sip of his drink. He looks calm, like this is all part of his plan. “We need the masks and the blurring so we don’t get in trouble. No faces, no identity match. We’ve been through this.” He leans in. “Don’t worry, I got this. Plan B, the old-fashioned route.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked him this question. For all of high school, the answers didn’t include me. Until now.
Ricky laughs. “Ben, don’t worry, I’m going to make a PSA. You like those, don’t you?” He climbs onto the table and I kind of hate him.
“Shit,” John whispers.
Ricky looks around, smiling and waving. Some kids point. Others swear at him. But in a moment everyone is watching. He opens his mouth.
“Ladies and gentleman of the senior class, today is the beginning of our last year at this institution.” His voice is steady and thick and he pauses for the cheers that accompany anything about seniors. “It could be just another year, the same as the last and the one before, where we hope for something exciting to actually happen, but it never does. Or, we can make a decision. We can decide to make that excitement a priority.” He pauses dramatically and I wince. “That’s what
someone
here has done.”
The room murmurs and students look around at one another. I’m trying not to think of all the ways this could get us into trouble, but the infractions scramble my head.
“Do yourselves a favor,” Ricky continues, “check out ‘Brookwood High Senior Year Dare Number One’ on YouTube. It seems like someone here has a plan for the year. Hopefully, you’ll see it and feel like I did: pumped. Hopefully it will get you excited for this year. Hopefully it’ll give you something fun to watch instead of just stalking one another on Twitter.” Ricky thrusts his fist into the air and nods his head while looking around the room. He’s gone too far. Most of the kids stare, while others start cracking jokes. A teacher motions for him to get off the table, and in a moment his big scene is over and people are back to their lunches. I’m quietly relieved.
“That was impressive,” John says, as Ricky gets down from the table.
Ricky’s jaw is set and his shoulders are pinned, and it seems he doesn’t know where to look or what to say. His PSA failed, like the video. Maybe he’s realizing that his ideas suck. This is nothing new, but the way he seems to feel about it is. I take another bite out of the hamburger, and it’s like putting my mouth around a sponge.
—
The rest of the day
flows as before, irritating and uncomfortable, like a tag still in my underwear. I manage to zone out long enough in econ to feel as if I’m not even in the room, but floating somewhere. This is what gets me by. I think too much, worry too much. But it’s not like I can stop. Success comes from seeing the next turn before you’re there. At least that’s what my dad says. So I try to detach and think. But I’m having trouble today. Maybe it’s the dare. Maybe it’s being back at school. One class isn’t enough to figure it out, so I’m going to blame it on the weather.
It’s still too warm for school. When the last bell rings, it feels more like we’re leaving for the year rather than just beginning.
“I’m taking a nap. Today was terrible. Not at all what I expected.” John slaps his feet across the sidewalk as we walk.
“Yeah, it could have been better. I’ve got work now, too.”
“Thought you weren’t staying on once school started?”
I was going to quit. My parents would rather I focus on school, anyway. And it’s disgustingly hot in there. But my boss, Chuck, is cool, and I like delivering, even though reeking of pizza sucks.
“Yeah. The money’s good, and I should start saving for next year.”
John stops walking. “Next year?”
“You know, college?”
His face clears. “Oh, right.”
I love John and all, but lately he’s like a telephone pole: tall, thick, and only useful for one purpose. Fortunately for him that purpose is basketball, and because of it, scholarships. He will most likely get redshirted for his freshman year because of his grades. If he weren’t so dumb, he might have known enough not to hang with me. He could have been popular. Maybe that’s why I never worry about him, our friendship. His loyalty is like a dog’s.
“Hey, check it.” He points across the street and I follow his finger. Danielle Thompson, top Mean Girl, is laying into her boyfriend of the moment. Can’t remember his name. She smacks him once, and he drops against his car. She reels back again and he grabs her wrist, but she looks at his hand like she could melt it with her eyes, and he starts apologizing. I can’t begin to fathom the dynamics of that relationship.
