Dare Me (20 page)

“You’re a good son, Ben. Thanks.”

My insides shrivel and I feel like a complete asshole.

We sit, and Dad carves the turkey and Mom passes around the mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberries, et cetera. I take some of it all, but seeing the video has messed me up. My cell vibrates with another text, and I don’t bother to read it.

“This is nice, just the four of us.” Mom smiles over her wine glass and pretends to clink it in the air with us. She downs a significant gulp. “Like I said, I’m thankful for Benny not being with those boys, but I’m also thankful for having Ginny home with us, and for this condo becoming more like home.” She looks at Ginny and lifts her eyebrows.

Ginny squirms in her chair but then sits upright. “I’m grateful that school is going well and that I’m learning so much about a topic I like and think needs greater study.”

So Ginny. So layered with her double meaning. I get it.

“And I’m so thankful that Mom and Dad are making this difficult time work.”

Dad snorts and takes a pull on his beer. Ginny’s face turns red, and Mom gives Dad a dirty look but then turns to me. “Ben?”

It’s like she’s speaking from across the room and not two feet away. “Right. I’m grateful for this family and for my future.” I can’t think of anything more original. My brain is as shot through as my vest was.

“So long as it isn’t with some company that says they’ll give you a pension and keep you on forever.” Dad’s words run together and he grabs his beer. “You get settled on which school you’re going to, and then be like Ginny, going places.”

I don’t know what’s worse, watching him or knowing that I’m headed in the exact opposite direction from Ginny. I stare at my plate and have no idea how I’m going to get through this meal.

“Did you get your SAT score?” Mom asks. “Someone at work was saying they’d be online this week.”

“Nope, not yet.” I stab my turkey and hope we can end this conversation.

“Check after dinner,” Dad says and dives into his meal.

I open my mouth to respond but am kicked in the leg. I look at Ginny, and she is very subtly shaking her head. I acknowledge her by eating a forkful of turkey. It goes down like tree bark.

—

Chantel’s text:
Party at danielle’s tomorrow!

I want to throw my phone, go to bed, and wake up and have it be September. I want to start this year over and say no to Ricky and settle into my schoolwork and not care about how I’m remembered at our stupid high school.

My door opens and Ginny comes in holding an envelope. She sits on my bed. “Some Thanksgiving, huh?”

“One of the best.”

“Jesus, Benny.” She passes me the envelope.

I know before I even read the return address: BROOKWOOD HIGH SCHOOL. “When did this come?”

“Yesterday. Like it always does.”

It figures that she would know this and that I wouldn’t. And it figures that I’m wishing I could go back in time instead of owning up to the fact that I’m stuck with the here and the now and whatever the hell comes up on the spinning wheel of death.

I open my report card. I’ve got C’s in everything but PE and English. Somehow I managed an A and a B, respectively. “Shit.”

Ginny glances at the paper and her eyes widen. “What are you going to do?”

I know she means in terms of the big picture, like how am I going to turn this around. But I’m not. I’m not even going to try.

It’s too much work, and I don’t really want it to be September again. I just don’t like the bad that comes with the good.

“I’m going to a party.” I crumble up my report card and toss it into the garbage.

CHAPTER 21

I
’m standing with
John when Ricky and Trevor walk in. “How fucking gay are they?” someone says, and I look to see who it is. Some kid I don’t know.

His friend rocks back with laughter. “You had the same thought?”

I drink my beer and tuck away the comment. In spite of my conversation with Ricky, I’m not 100 percent sure where he and Trev stand in their relationship. Regardless, if this kid continues, I’m throwing a punch.

“What’s up guys, feeling good?” Ricky clinks beers with us. Trevor stands at his side.

“Not bad, we got eighteen thousand hits,” John says. This is the first time he’s mentioned our hits. We all notice. “What? I’m keeping track. I’d like to make some money before Ricky writes me out of the contract.” He drinks his beer before he says any more.

Danielle’s TV flashes with our latest dare and drunken kids scream at it. “Light ’em up!”

I don’t bother looking for a segue. “Trev, why wasn’t there a password this time?”

Ricky’s face darkens and Trevor looks at me with fish eyes, but he doesn’t answer. I have trouble connecting him to the kid who yelled at those hunters. “Seriously, Trev, my dad found the thing, like right after it was posted. It kicked off my Thanks-giving dinner.”

Ricky looks at the ceiling. “I told him to.”

John and I say, “What?” at the same time.

Ricky looks over our heads. “O. P. asked me to, so I gave Trev the green light.”

“Why did O. P. want that?” John asks.

Ricky keeps looking up, like there’s a mural painted up there. “Simple. Like you, he wants more hits.”

“But doesn’t that hang us out there?” I lean in to speak in case anyone’s listening. “We could get caught, especially after Jesse’s video.”

“One, we were in the middle of a field. Nowhere near anything identifying. Those hunters could say it was them, but what proof do they have? Two, it kind of makes sense to throw off the safeguards. Confuses the police, since that’s what Jesse did.” Ricky’s words are rehearsed. He might be able to make the first point on his own, but not the second. Shit, how much is O. P. feeding him?

Beyond that, why isn’t he linking us to his website? I bite my tongue.

“There’s my party people!” Danielle yells to the room and we all holler back. She glances at us, but that’s all. She holds her gaze on John for a moment, but then is gone. We’re still on the fringe. If it weren’t for Alexia and Chantel, we wouldn’t be here at all.

I look for Chantel, who got a text from Alexia and figured she’d better call her. Alexia keeps doing this, disappearing and reappearing as if nothing has happened. Last time, she and Chantel didn’t speak to each other for a week, so I got to see more of Chantel. But now? Who knows?

I turn back to Ricky, angry over what he’s done, irritated that Chantel’s not around again, tired and sore from yesterday, and no longer in the mood to party. “It’s not right that you did that without telling us. Some warning, at least, would have been good. And that contract shit, you going to hang that over our heads?”

“I hear you, but what would you have done differently if you’d known?”

“That’s not the point.” John says my exact thought.

“What is?” Ricky asks and drinks his beer.

Something about that move, like we’re shooting the shit about nothing instead of something so vital it could ruin us, pushes me over the edge. “Really, Rick? Are you that stupid that you can’t put this together?”

“The fuck you just say?” Ricky puffs his chest.

I ignore it. “You heard me. If you don’t realize that fucking with the two of us,” I point at John, “makes us want to walk and ruin the money-making scheme,
and
that what you did with the latest video makes no sense, then you’re an idiot.”

“You should have read the contract. That’s not
my
problem. And what’s wrong with making money? You all but begged for us to amp it up for John. And last I checked you were living in a piece of shit condo. Can’t imagine that’s fun.”

I look around, again to see if anyone cares about us. I’m not surprised that they don’t. I am shocked, however, by how much I want to punch Ricky in his face. “That’s not fair and
you
know it.” I hope he gets my inflection because I’m not into playing his game. “What I’m saying is what good is any of this money if we’re in jail because you stupidly led the cops to us?”

“So you’re still in?” Ricky asks, ignoring the question.

I look at John, but I know the answer. “For now.”

“I would never do that.” Trevor’s voice is quiet as usual, but defensive. “I hate the authorities.”

“Trev, I have no problem with you. It was Ricky’s decision, and you went along, same as us.”

“But you make it seem as if it’s even a remote possibility, which it’s not, and so I find that offensive,” Trevor says.

I look at John and his expression is the same as mine, thoroughly lost. He shrugs. “Nothing’s impossible, little man. I believed I was getting a full ride to school. . . .”

We all wait for John to finish, to tell us what is painfully obvious, but he drinks his beer instead.

“Regardless of what is or is not possible, I did this to help us, so don’t go shitting on me.” Ricky’s deflated some, but not much.

This is going nowhere and I’m not waiting for Chantel any longer. “Be careful with the decisions you make for
us
. Keep this shit up and you won’t find me risking my life with you.”

I turn and walk out into the cold. I’m behind the wheel before I realize John’s sitting shotgun.

—

The cold wakes me up.
My teeth are chattering, and I struggle to pull the blanket tight enough. I give up and head downstairs.

My parents are sitting in front of the fire, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. It’s easily ten degrees warmer down here.

“There he is. How was your party?” Dad sits up.

“You want some breakfast? I’ll make you eggs?” Mom folds her paper and I shake my head.

“I’m good,” I say and head to the coffee pot and fill up. “Why didn’t you put a fire on upstairs?”

Dad frowns. “Didn’t think we’d need it. Cold?”

Why else would I be asking? “Yeah. Is the heat on?”

“Your father wants to see how much we can get out of the fireplaces, instead of using the furnace.”

“Got a buddy from the plant who hooked me up with a few cords of wood for free. Why not?”

They stare at each other for a moment and then each returns to their section of the paper. I sip my coffee and Ricky’s comments tumble back to me and burn. I wish we were back at our home. I don’t know who lives there now, but I envy them. That house was always toasty.

I take my mug and head back upstairs, shower, and change, and feel a little warmer. A half hour later I’m out the door and looking at Chuck’s sour face.

“Hey, we’re backed up since Alexia called in.”

My insides spasm. “What?”

“She says she’s sick, but I’d guess hungover is more like it.” Chuck walks into the freezer.

I get my orders together. Once I’m in my Jeep, I go to text Chantel, but change my mind. She never bothered to reach out last night after I left, and I’m starting to think I was just a one-night stand.

I open up Twitter and search for Alexia. She hasn’t tweeted in two days. Her last reads:
Happy Thanksgiving
. Maybe she’s away? But she could tweet from her phone. And she was using it last night. I check Facebook. No activity. She hasn’t posted, hasn’t liked a thing.

I’m going to pay Alexia a visit.

That may be easier said than done. Every house I go to, it’s: “Hey, are
you
the guy?” I have to shake it off and say, “Nope, not me. He
doesn’t
work for us.” Finally, I deliver my last order, a twelve-cut pepperoni, to a guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. He smokes a cigarette, peels off bills, and says, “Next time, you guys gotta dress like Santa and elves or some shit. Get some reindeer.” Before I can protest, he’s shut the door and I’m wondering if I should take myself up on my own dare and not participate in the next.

I pull onto Alexia’s street and slow down. Her parents definitely moved into a better section of town, but this street really isn’t that nice compared to the new development. I bet her dad’s pissed he didn’t get in there when they were first building.

I crawl up and hit the brakes. Holmes’s car is parked out front. Immediately, my mouth goes dry and my legs tingle. The text and phone call last night, the lack of online activity, her calling in—they all congeal into one sick image now that I’ve seen his ride. I pull over and step out. Her neighborhood is quiet, not a person out. I walk to his car and touch the hood. It’s cold. He’s been here for some time. The opening in my stomach grows deeper.

The doorbell chime echoes through the house. Alexia lives in a sprawling ranch, so I wait, in case her room is way in the back. No one shows. I ring again. Still no one. I step off the front walkway and look around the side of the house. A light’s on in a room. Someone moves past the window. I bolt back to the door and ring again.

Alexia pokes her head out the door a moment later. “Ben, is everything all right? Did something happen at work?” Her eyes are puffy, her lips are chapped, and her skin is a shade of pale.

“Alexia?” It’s all I can say, but it’s enough.

“Ben, I know.” She holds up a hand. “He came over before Danielle’s to pregame. But he got too drunk too fast, and I didn’t want to drive.” She shakes and starts to cry. “We got into a huge argument and then he finished the bottle. He’s still passed out now.”

I reach out and pull her close. She feels like a bag of bones against me. I have the urge to pick her up and put her in my Jeep and bring her to the condo and set her in front of the fireplace with a bowl of soup. She rattles and stills, and I hold her close.

Alexia pulls away and wipes her tears. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long night.”

“It’s fine. Really. Are you okay? Did he . . .”

“No! I’m fine!” she cuts me off.

“Do you want me to get Chantel to come over?”

“No. Jesse will freak if she’s here when he wakes up.”

That sounds about the last thing anyone needs so I don’t argue.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I could get someone else to come over.” I’m thinking Ginny, but I keep that to myself.

“No, no. It’s fine. He’s just being Jesse. And with all that’s happened to him, I guess he deserves to blow off some steam.”

“What? He busted up those mailboxes. He did that to himself.”