Dare Me (10 page)

Ricky points toward the ramp. Three guys showed up and built the thing after the crates were dropped off. Apparently O. P. paid them. “Start where I’ve spray-painted, because you need at least that much speed. Pedal until you reach the ramp and then coast. Remember,” his voice rises, “do
not
hit your brakes at any time! All you need to do is ride it out, and once you’re in the air, push the bike away from you. All right?”

I have a dozen questions. No, more. But it’s too late for the answers.

The only one that does is this: we’re doing this because we all believe in the premise of becoming legends. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

“Good. John, get in position. I’ll check with Trev, and then give you the signal.”

John pulls his mask on and buckles his helmet strap.

“Trev.” That’s what Ricky calls him, now. Trev. Like he’s some pet. In a way, he is. He hangs on Ricky’s side like one of those handbag dogs. I know they made up and all, but John and I didn’t exactly forgive and forget, so I’m not really sure what they are to each other besides former enemies.

Newton would find out the answer. He was too smart not to. But would he complete this dare?

“John, I’m going to do the intro and then it’s all you buddy. You good?”

John gives a thumbs-up but does not look at us. He stares down the hill, at the ramp. Ball starts in two weeks. I can only imagine what he’s thinking.

“In five, four, three . . .” Trevor gives the countdown and Ricky coughs once to clear his throat.

“Welcome to Dare Number Three, brought to you by Get Out There Adventure. Check out the website for all your outdoor adventure needs.”

Ricky rambles on talking about the ramp and the distance and the height and speed we’ll be traveling, but I tune him out. I can’t listen or I know I’ll balk. It’s like going on a roller coaster. I can’t watch the thing go round and round. I need to climb onboard and let it ride.

Ricky turns and extends a hand to John. “And now for the first ride. Ready?”

John gives no sign that he’s heard.

Ricky asks again.

John shakes his head.

Ricky coughs. “Let’s count it down.” He looks at me, and in his eyes I see a familiar and unwelcome sheen. “Ten, nine, eight . . .”

I join him and John’s head snaps up when he hit seven. He grips the handles at five, looks over at us at three, and never looks back after one. His long-ass legs pump so fast he churns up patches of grass. He skids once, and my stomach drops. John hits the ramp and looks like a kid who just came off training wheels. He tilts to the left, then right, and I bite my hand.

He corrects himself about halfway up the ramp, and begins to look steady. He gains speed, comes to the slope of the vert and . . . what the fuck? John squeezes the brakes and the bike comes to a dead stop. He flips over the handle bars and into the edge of the ramp. There’s a loud
crack
, followed by his scream, and then suddenly he’s gone, creating a loud wet slap.

We run and I almost fall charging the pond. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the end of the ramp. There’s a piece of wood missing. I get to the edge of the water, and John’s treading and gnashing his teeth.

“It’s broken. I broke my arm.”

My head is screaming unintelligible thoughts, but one point is clear. I jump in and paddle out to John. He’s crying.

“Benny. What am I gonna do?”

I don’t answer. Can’t. All that matters is that we get him out of this water. When I get a close look, though, I almost puke. From the middle of his forearm to his wrist, his arm is bent away from his body at a forty-five-degree angle. “Let me pull you in.” I swim around to his good arm and grab him under the elbow. It’s tough enough swimming in my clothes, but with his weight it feels like I’m moving through cement.

“Benny, I got you. Reach.” Ricky’s voice is right behind me and I turn. He’s anchored off the ramp, so I drag John to him and help pull John on shore and up onto the grass. I, like him, fall into a heap.

“We have to take him to the hospital, Ricky. It’s bad.”

“I know.”

I sit up and we both look over at John, who’s on his back. Ricky’s gotten his helmet and mask off and has put them under John’s feet. I look over my shoulder, up to Trevor. He’s still, watching, and I remember how creepy he is.

“Come on. Let’s go.” I stand.

“We have to finish.” Ricky says, still trying to make John comfortable, which seems impossible by the way he’s panting.

“The fuck’s wrong with you? We’re done. John’s going to the hospital. That’s it!”

Ricky pulls on his mask and straps his helmet.

“I’m not riding, Rick. We’re leaving,
now
!” I step toward John, furious at everything all at once.

“Ben, no!” Ricky pulls me back. I struggle, but he shoves me to the ground. “If we don’t ride, we don’t get paid. Understand?”

I feel like kicking him in the nuts. “I don’t give a shit about the money. John’s hurt, you asshole!”

“And what good is it going to do him to be hurt and without cash? Adding insult to injury? Least he had the balls to do it. Now his scholarship’s fucked. You know that.”

Ricky says the last part low, I think so John doesn’t hear. But it’s too late for that. It’s too late for anything.

I stand and look over at John. He’s writhing and punching the ground with his good hand. What have we done?

I look at Ricky and again at Trevor, and know somewhere we’ve taken a turn. We put this thing in motion with good intentions—I think—but we’ve slipped toward some negative trajectory. Plain and simple, this sucks. And again, I feel like I’ve been played. Question is, how much longer am I going to let that happen?

—

The ER’s pretty dead
when John’s parents walk in. Seeing them, I remember that they’re getting divorced. Sometime. And when I watch them move to the desk and ask about their son, it’s all I can think about. The nurse says something and then disappears. John’s parents wait by the desk but do not speak to each other. His mom looks over at us and our eyes meet for a moment, but she turns away and the nurse returns with a doctor. He speaks and goes through the motion of what looks like some kind of operation. There’s a lot of twisting and pulling. John’s dad looks up and closes his eyes. I manage to read the one word that comes from his lips:
Basketball?

I look away but hear him cursing and John’s mom crying.

I’m all alone here. Ricky and Trevor took off to edit. I didn’t try to stop them, was actually glad they went. I hit the ramp and was out of the water in seconds, leaving the bike to sink, but Ricky vaulted like a showman, like he had something to prove. Then we hopped into Ricky’s car and took off like we’d robbed a bank.

John didn’t speak. He stared out the window with his eyes glazed over. Trevor rewound and played the footage and conferred with Ricky over the driver’s seat. Least the little shit had the courtesy to give John shotgun.

“What were you doing?” John’s dad’s voice is low and raspy. He’s standing in front of me.

“We were riding our bikes.”

He reels back. “John’s bike’s too small for him.”

“He borrowed one of mine.” I know this sounds ridiculous considering John’s almost seven feet tall and I’m not even six-foot.

“Jesus! But you don’t fuck up your arm like that by falling off a bike, not at his age.”

I turn away because John’s father is downright scary—as tall as John, but thicker, with a personality 180 degrees from his son’s. “We were on the trails. Off-roading. It was pretty steep. I think he might have hit a rock.”

John’s father stops the pacing he had begun. “What were you thinking? Why did you let him? You know about his scholarship, right? So how could you let him?”

All good questions. And I don’t know how to answer any. Fortunately, John’s mom wisps over and says, “Tom, enough!” She glares at her soon-to-be ex-husband. “We can go see him now.”

John’s father rips down the hall, muttering about his stupid wife and his son’s stupid friend. His mother touches my shoulder. “Ben, forget about whatever he said. That’s how I stay sane.” She tries on a smile, but it doesn’t fit. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not your fault. John’s a big boy and makes his own decisions.
I
know that. And I know you wouldn’t do anything to intentionally get him hurt.”

She moves away before I can answer. As if I could say anything that would be close to the truth. Because it is my fault. John’s following my lead, not making his own decisions. And I did intentionally risk his safety.

Yet at the same time, I’m also pissed at John. Why did he hit the brakes? If he hadn’t, none of this would have happened. We all would have gone home and waited for a message from Ricky and kept the positive, positive.

I stand and think to call my parents. But they may or may not be home, and I don’t really want to lie my way through some explanation if I do make contact. Getting picked up at a hospital soaking wet in my all-black “uniform” isn’t something that can be easily ignored. Unless the person driving doesn’t care.

I call Pizza and More. Alexia answers, and I ask for Chuck.

“What’s going on?” she asks. “Weren’t you meeting up with Chantel?”

It may be my exhaustion, or my eagerness to talk to Chuck, but it sounds like there’s a bit of happiness in Alexia’s voice over the fact that I’m not with Chantel. “I was, but something came up, which is why I need to talk to Chuck. Is he there?”

“Yeah, he’s here. But what came up?”

I hear Chuck in the background and then the phone rumbles and Chuck’s voice scruffs through, “Doc?”

“Hey, Chuck. Listen. I’m kind of in a bind, could you give me a lift?”

Chuck doesn’t respond and I almost repeat myself, but he cuts in and says, “Where are you?”

“Saint Hilary’s.”

Chuck takes a sharp breath. “Jesus, Doc, ain’t that priceless. Are you hurt?”

“No, my friend.”

The phone crackles and Chuck says something I can’t hear, but then is back on. “If I do this, you’ll get me in with those kids. Pronto. Deal?”

I want to scream at him for using this moment as leverage, but I also can’t help thinking,
if there is a next time?
“Deal.”

—

The entire ride
Chuck’s said one thing, “You owe me.” As if I could have forgotten. But now we pull up to my house and stuck in the ground is a for sale sign. “What’s the deal, Doc?”

Chuck’s voice startles me. “Um, well, we’re moving,” I say.

“Moving? Where to?”

I don’t really want to get into this, but he drove me home and he is my boss. “It’s complicated, but hopefully around here.”

“
Hopefully?
Doc, what’s up?”

I sigh. No point in trying to hide. I give him the summary and avoid making eye contact.

“You’re in it up to your eyeballs, huh?”

I nod. That’s a pretty fair assessment.

“Let me know if I can help.
Capeesh
?”

“Thanks, Chuck.”

“I’d say
anytime
, but you’d know that’s complete bullshit.” He pulls away.

I walk in and slip off my soaked sneakers. If I can get to my room and change, I’m set. I climb the stairs, listening for my parents, but don’t hear them. I rip off my wet gear and change quick, and head back out into the hall. Still nothing. I peek in their room and the office, and then head downstairs to the kitchen, where there is a note on the table.

Ben,
Sorry, no bacon this time. We’re in a rush. Had to go look at some apartments ASAP. We’re already getting bids on the house.
We’ll talk later.

Mom

“Bids?” I say to the empty kitchen. “How?” I look around at my worn-out house and wonder who in their right mind would want this place. And isn’t the economy supposed to blow right now? People not buying homes? Or is it not selling them? My head spins, and I grab the chair in front of me. I should eat. It’s after 3:00 and I haven’t had anything since breakfast. But my insides are too twisted for food. I need to lie down.

I head back to my room, and climbing the stairs feels like I’m scaling a damn mountain. My legs are shot. Thank God I don’t have to work until tomorrow or I’d be throwing pizzas onto people’s lawns from the Jeep like some newspaper carrier.

I crash onto my bed and check my phone before putting it on my nightstand. Nothing from Ricky, but I do have a text from Ginny:
Did you go through with the dare?

I grind my jaw and close my eyes. The other night floods back, the part after my parents left us to go finish their own conversation.

Ginny said she found the video while doing research for her paper. I didn’t believe her at first. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

I couldn’t answer because the truth was too painful. Ginny was like Alexia in school: popular and attractive, lots of friends. She wouldn’t have understood.

“You better have something better for Mom and Dad. They won’t take the silent treatment.” Her face turned ugly then. “How could you do this to them, anyway? Now? When they’ve got so much they have to deal with? Important things. You’re so immature.”

I kept my mouth shut because she was right on all counts. I am immature and this is the kind of shit my parents will kill me for and they deserve better. But I felt like I needed the fun the dares provided. Or used to. It sucks trying to live up to her Goody-Two-shoes nature and I wanted something for myself, something she would never do. Couldn’t say that, though.

Then an idea crawled across her face and spread like a rash. “I could go show them this video right now, and you’d be screwed from here to eternity. But . . .” She paused and looked back at the screen and then at me. “But if you agree to let me interview you and your friends, I won’t say a word.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“The research I’m doing. I need a project for my adolescent psych course, and this is perfect. I can use the YouTube videos and the interview, and piece together research about the effects of peer pressure on males in our culture. . . .” And she rambled on, and I spaced out because it was all way over my head.

I agreed so she would stay silent. But now? She wants the passwords and updates and wants to come home next weekend to interview us. After John’s accident, I don’t know if that’s possible.