Dare You To
Page 20

I text back: what about her?
The wait for her answer stretches into eternity. I glance away from the phone as if that will make her respond faster. This summer, after Mark left, Mom repainted my room blue.
She loves to redecorate as much as Dad loves to build. They used to work together on projects, but that was before our world fell apart.
Gwen: you tell me I hate texting. You never know what the person is really trying to say. I take a risk. One that will make me an idiot and her dangling monkey if she ignores my request.
Me: call me
My heart picks up a few beats. Will she do it or will she leave me hanging? Since our breakup, when we play the text game, I call her.
My cell rings and I smile. On the third ring, I answer. “Gwen.”
“Stone,” she says without much emotion.
“What’s going on?” It’s an awkward dance.
One I despise. We used to spend hours on the phone talking and now we overanalyze every word and pause.
“You knew who she was the entire time.”
There’s a hint of accusation in her voice.
I work at staying nonchalant. “And if I did?”
“You could have told me.”
I stare at the posters of my favorite teams.
Why would I have told her that Beth is Scott Risk’s niece? They share classes together.
They went to the same elementary school. She could have talked to Beth herself.
“Why did you nominate her?” she asks.
I hear ruffling. The sound is Gwen lying back onto her pillows. She has five of them on her bed and she sleeps with every last one. I can picture her golden hair fanning out.
“You know how much homecoming queen means to me,” she says.
I do. I used to listen as she rattled on about her dream of winning that sparkly tiara.
Actually, I faked interest, then pretended to listen. “You seconded the nomination.”
“Because I’d look like a sore loser if I didn’t, and now I have to scramble for votes.
This would have been a lot easier if you told me sooner she was Scott Risk’s niece. Really, Ryan, I thought we were friends.”
“What do you care? No one knows her and she doesn’t want friends.”
Her frustrated sigh sets my muscles on edge.
“She’s an instant celebrity and for some insane reason certain people think she’s cool. You nominated her and everyone at school knows you’ve asked her out, so you give her credibility. If you had told me who she was from the beginning, I could have done some damage control. Befriended her or something. Because of you, she has a shot at winning.”
We broke up and I shouldn’t have to deal with this. I go with the old standby answer:
“I’m sorry for ruining your life, Gwen. The next time I do anything I’ll be sure to get your permission.”
Gwen blurts out, “She’s not your type.”
I blink. “What?”
“Beth’s a little, I don’t know, freakish. I mean, she is kind of pretty if you like the weird my-life-is-a-dark-room sort of pretty. I guess I’m saying you won’t be able to give her the attention she needs. You know, because of baseball. I guess I’m just saying… not her.”
Not her. Anger strangles my gut. And we’re back to the conversation from the dugout—
baseball ruined our relationship. “We broke up and now you’re with Mike.”
I can hear Gwen’s smile. “But you promised we’d be friends. I’m being a good friend.”
Friends. I hate that word. “You’re right.
Beth is pretty.”
“She has a nose ring.” Gwen’s lost the smiling voice.
“I think it’s sexy.” I do.
“I heard she smokes cigarettes.”
“She’s trying to quit.” Yeah, I made that up.
“I heard she has a tattoo on the small of her back.”
Interesting. “I haven’t gotten that far, but I’ll let you know if I do since we’re friends and all.”
An image plays in my mind of lifting the back of Beth’s shirt to reveal her skin, my caress causing her to smile. I bet her skin is smooth, like petals. My fingers fidget with the desire to touch Beth and my blood warms with the idea of her whispering my name. Damn.
The girl really does turn me on. I run a hand over my head, trying to rid my mind of the thought. What the hell?
“Ryan. I’m not kidding. She’s not your type.”
“Then tell me who is.” I say it with more anger than intended, but I’m tired of the game.
“Not her, okay?” Gwen pleads.
The image of touching Beth taunts and confuses me. Three quick raps on my door and Mom enters. “I’ve gotta go.”
“`Night,” Gwen says with disappointment.
Mom wears a matching blue blazer and skirt. She attended a women-only dinner with the mayor’s wife this evening. “Am I interrupting?”
“No.” I toss my phone onto the bedside table.
“You sounded a little upset.” Mom walks over to my dresser, appraises her reflection in the mirror, then readjusts her pearl necklace. “I could hear you in the hallway.”
I shake my head. “Just Gwen.”
Her hands freeze on her necklace and a smile curves her lips. “Are you together again?”
“No.” Mom loved Gwen and I think the breakup was hardest on her.
She continues her grooming. “You should consider it. I heard that both you and Gwen were nominated for homecoming court.”
News travels at lightning speed in our town.
“Yeah.”
“You know, your father and I were nominated for homecoming courts. Both fall and winter.”
“Yep.” She mentioned it. A million times.
They won both times too. If her continued retelling of the events didn’t refresh my memory, the pictures hanging in the family room of them dancing with crowns on is a good reminder.
“I also heard that Scott Risk’s niece was nominated.”
“Uh-huh.” If Mom knows everything, then why is she bothering me?
“What are your thoughts on the niece? Her aunt, Allison Risk, has asked to be nominated for the empty seat on the church event committee.”
And there’s my answer. Respectability. If Beth is an outcast, then Beth’s guardians will be considered bad parents. Mom wants the prestige of nominating Scott Risk’s wife, but she doesn’t want the scandal of nominating the guardian of the “bad girl.” Both Mom and Dad’s families have been members of this community since the first foundations of home and church were laid hundreds of years ago.
The Stones are a legacy.
“She’s interesting.”
Mom turns. “Interesting. What does that mean?”
I shrug. It means that Beth’s in the way of my winning a dare. It means she tries my patience. It means I want to see her tattoo.
“Interesting.”
Mom rubs her forehead in frustration. “Fine.
She’s interesting. If you discover another word, you know where to find me.”
Yep, I do. If in public, she’ll be right next to Dad. In private, the exact opposite of where Dad will be. Mom pauses at the door frame.
“And Ryan, I talked to Mrs. Rowe this evening.”
I dip my head and briefly close my eyes. Not good. Not good at all. “Uh-huh.”
“She’s curious as to when you’ll be turning in your paperwork for the final writing competition in Lexington.”
Damn. I raise my head, but my shoulders stay slumped as I look at Mom. “I’m not doing it. It interferes with ball.”
Mom stiffens. “Was that your father’s decision or yours?”
“Mine.” The word comes out fast. The last thing I want is for them to get into another twelve-round fight, especially over me.
“I’m sure it was.” Mom gives a dismissive wave.
Something inside me snaps. “Logan saw Mark in Lexington a few weeks ago. He asked about us.”
Mom becomes uncharacteristically still.
“Logan knows, Mom. So does Chris.”
Fury flashes over her face. “If your father finds out you told anyone…If anyone in town finds out…”
“They won’t tell.”
She closes her eyes for a second as she releases air. “Please remember what happens in this house stays in this house. Chris and Logan are your friends. They are not family.”
A simmering anger settles at the bottom of my stomach. How can she shut out her emotions for her oldest son? “Don’t you miss him?”
“Yes.” Her immediate answer catches me off guard. “But there’s too much at stake.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Mom scans my room. Her eyes linger on my posters. “I think I’m going to redo your room.
Blue isn’t your color.”
Beth
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. My eyes flash open and my heart pumps in my ears. The cops. No, the boyfriend. Sometimes he knocks in the morning to confuse me into opening the door. I blink when I see the shadow of curtains against a window. Curtains. I’m not home. I inhale and the fresh oxygen mixes with the adrenaline in my bloodstream. Old habits die hard.
“Elisabeth,” Scott says from behind the door. “Wake up.”
Shit. Six in the morning. Why can’t he leave me alone? The bus doesn’t arrive until seven-thirty. A half hour is plenty of time to get ready for school. I roll out of bed and pad on bare feet to the door. The bright light from the foyer hurts my eyes so I squint and barely comprehend that Scott’s shoving a bag into my hand. “Here. I got your stuff.”
I wipe the sleep from my eyes. Scott wears the same T-shirt and jeans from last night. “What stuff?”
He drops his I-mean-business glare and my lips tug up. It’s a look he gave me when I was little, especially when I wouldn’t eat my vegetables or when I begged him to read to me.
Scott’s answering smile is hesitant. “I went by your aunt’s and picked up your clothes.
That Noah guy was there last night and he showed me what was yours. I’m sorry if I left anything behind. If you tell me something specific maybe I can swing by one day after work.”
I stare at the bag. My stuff. He got me my stuff and he talked to… “How’s Noah?”
The hesitant joy on his face fades. “We didn’t have a heart-to-heart. Elisabeth, this doesn’t change any of my rules. I want you to settle here in Groveton and let your old life go. Trust me on this one, okay, kid?”
Okay, kid. It’s what he always said to me, and I find myself nodding without realizing it.
A habit from childhood—a time when I believed that Scott hung the moon and commanded the sun. A bad habit for a teenager.
I stop nodding. “I can wear my clothes?”
“Skin has to be covered and no rips in indecent places. Push me on this and I’ll burn every stitch in that bag.” Scott inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Breakfast in thirty.”
I cradle the bag in my hands like a newborn.
My stuff. Mine. “Thanks.” The gratitude is stiff and awkward, but give me credit—I said it.