Dare Me (18 page)

“I’ve been trying to reach her, and she hasn’t been answering. So I finally called her house. Her dad said he thought she was with me.”

The hair on my neck stands on end. “What?” The question barely comes out.

“Exactly. I don’t know what’s going on or where she is. So if you hear from her, call, text, whatever.”

Clamps close around my chest and throat. All I can think about is what she said earlier. “Of course.”

Chantel sighs and there sounds like a sob might be attached. “Shit, Ben, I’m sorry I’m taking this out on you. I’m just worried about her.”

“It’s okay, I am, too.”

“I know. You’re such a good friend to her. She’s told me, you know, about you two growing up. It’s sweet.”

I cringe at the image, and honestly it’s not a topic I want to discuss when at the very moment the girl we’re discussing could very well be in some serious trouble. “Thanks.”

“I promise, once this is all straightened out, the two of us can get that sweet. Things just got in the way.”

I don’t know what to say.

“Ben, you haven’t given up on me have you?”

I offer a dry “heh” sound. My body is too overcome with hormones and fear for anything more.

“Good. Now, keep your phone with you. ’K?”

“Sure.”

She kisses the air and hangs up.

I grip my hair and stare at the floor. This is spiraling out of control.

My insides roil one last time, and I charge to the bathroom. I make it, just in time, and soil our new toilet with my nerves.

—

John and I head into school
and look for any signs of Holmes—Alexia crying, kids with broken necks. He’s not around that I can tell.

“Mr. Candido, come with me.” McNeil’s voice makes us jump.

I leave John, looking very concerned and follow our principal to his office. The bell rings. “Don’t worry, I’ll write you a pass.”

Being late to class ranks pretty low on my lists of concerns.

I sit and focus on breathing and not passing out.

“I’m sure you saw the news last night.” McNeil folds his hands over his belly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me what you know.”

The room buzzes and I feel a mile away from his desk, but his eyes are on me and I know I have to speak. “Only what I’ve heard from the news and around here. Probably the same as you. Why?”

McNeil leans on his elbows. “Yet you work at Pizza and More. I find your answer difficult to swallow.”

I shake my head and steady myself. I try to think like Ricky. “I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. If you want to check with the owner, I’m sure he’ll let you know he’s as confused about the whole thing as everyone else.”

McNeil stares at me. “I already have.” He pauses. Air whistles through his nose. “And he did. Claims not to know how all this is connected to him in the first place . . . and that you’re an excellent employee.”

Thank God for Chuck. “I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t understand what I can offer you that you don’t already know.”

McNeil nods into his tented fingers, frustrated. “Let me make this very clear. I’m not saying it’s you. You have only a smudge on your record from eighth grade. And considering the company you were with, I doubt it was your fault.”

That’s tough. I can only imagine what he would say to Ricky. His record isn’t smudged, it’s downright filthy.

McNeil continues. “But the only lead the authorities have shared with me is the one to Pizza and More.” He stares at me for a moment. “So if you hear anything, one of the employees talking about these stunts, whatever, would you pass it along?”

There’s only one acceptable answer. “Sure. Absolutely.”

McNeil says, “Thank you, Ben. I knew I could count on you.”

Out in the hall, pass in hand, I stand frozen in place. I could go back in and tell McNeil all of it and this would be over. We’ll never be able to reveal ourselves, anyway. Not without consequences. Big ones. We didn’t think this through, or went too far or never should have sold out Holmes. Or all three.

But I can’t. This isn’t only about me. It’s about Ricky and John and Trevor, and now Alexia and Chantel. And there’s the money. Who am I to shoot that down? Dad’s out of work. John needs a backup, and Ricky seems to need enough for a new beginning. This is larger than us, and we’re already in motion and gaining speed. The natural course is to let this run take us where it’s going. There are no brakes in freefall.

CHAPTER 19

“R
icky, this is beyond stupid!
One of us is really going to get killed this time. There are fucking hunters out there. With guns.”

Ricky laughs at John’s plea. “Are they fucking each other with the guns? Now
that’s
sick.”

We’re standing at the edge of the woods, near an open field where we’ve seen at least a dozen wild turkeys. Four trucks were parked on the shoulder a few miles away. At our feet are boxes, and in them, as Ricky just explained, are decoy turkeys. But not just any decoys. They’re like spyware for hunters. They have cameras in the eyes, and the idea is to put one in the field and then watch the monitor that comes with it. Instead, O. P.’s fitted them with straps so they wrap around our backs. They’ll catch every moment of our dare from an insider’s perspective.

I threw up a minute ago.

John kicks a box. “You know what I mean. This is plain stupid.”

Ricky’s shrugs. “You’ll have Kevlar body armor and a bulletproof helmet. All courtesy of O. P.”

John moves away and appears to be trying to blend into the trees. Maybe I should pretend I’m a shrub? Because everything John said is so valid. This dare is fucking ridiculous. Not like car-surfing nuts, or bridge-jumping crazy, but seriously-you-may-end-up-dead institutionalized insane.

Trevor raises a hand to the field. “Let’s review one more time.”

Ricky runs through it again, which I’m grateful for, because I want to hear it all, in case it’s not as crazy as it seemed.

Nope. This is stupid.

“Think about the money, boys. Everyone’s home today, looking for something to do instead of hanging out with their families. We’re going to get a ton of views.” He opens the first box and starts handing out the armor.

I know he doesn’t like his dad, but I would still like to have dinner with mine, even in our tiny apartment.

“Ricky, I have to ask.” I feel wobbly, but manage to continue. “Whose idea was this? Yours or O. P.’s?”

He tightens his jaw. “Why does that matter?”

John stands next to me. “Because if I live through this I’ll know whose ass to kick.”

Ricky shakes his head. “It’s a mix. Obviously I had some say like last time, with the location and such. But the decoys were all him.”

“So you’re the one who figured out an absurd way to use them?” I ask.

Ricky nods.

“I call bullshit on this!” John yells.

Ricky waves his hands for him to lower the volume.

“What, you don’t want me to scare away the turkeys?”

“Yes. Exactly.” Ricky’s eyes bulge.

John moves closer to him so he can whisper, loudly. “I still have a fighting chance to play ball.” He pauses, the words seeming to hurt. “But there’s no way that’s going to happen if I get shot and am laid up again.”

Ricky looks at me, as if for permission. I don’t know what he wants so I shrug.

“John, if you don’t go through with this, then we don’t get paid. Remember?”

John doesn’t dignify the question with a response.

“So if basketball doesn’t work out
and
you don’t have the money from this dare, or the next, how far is the five grand you’ve earned going to get you?”

John’s struggling with the points of the argument, but I’m not. “Hold up. Rewind to that third point. The one about no money from the next dare.”

Ricky scowls at me. “You read the contract, right?”

Shit. “Kind of?”

“Jesus, Ben, what the hell’s happened to you?”

“
This!
This is what’s happened to me.” I spread my arms to indicate the field and the gear at our feet.

Ricky runs his hands through his hair. “I have the option of writing either of you out of the contract if you refuse to complete the dares.”

“What?” I barely get the word out.

“It’s a fail-safe from shit like this. O. P. doesn’t earn if we don’t produce. Vice versa, obviously. So if one of the wheels is dragging us down, I can let it go.”

John steps a little closer. “What if you’re that wheel?”

“Never going to happen.”

I see the clenched fists, the gritted teeth, and think to put on the gear in preparation for the fight. Trevor has come to my side, and I’m amazed he’s not filming.

“Why’s that, Ricky? Because it’s all about the money?”

“I told
you
that I’d make right on what happened, so I don’t think you have a leg to stand on with that argument.” Ricky pauses. “And the hand you’re sticking out was already broken. Or did you forget that? ”

John stares at Ricky, who matches John’s glare and looks so much like his father.

“Come on, John. Stop being a bitch about the contract and the money. You need it. Ben needs it. I need—”

I don’t know what Ricky was going to say because John punches him square in the jaw with his good arm and Ricky falls straight to the ground.

John turns away and walks back into the bushes. Trevor sets down the camera and rushes to Ricky, who’s rolling on the ground, surprisingly not passed out.

I look up at the sky and wish it held answers. Then I walk over to John and try to help him find some.

“Hey, you all right?” I ask.

“Kinda.” He’s rubbing his fist. “That felt good, but it doesn’t really help.” He looks at me, and he’s back to his regular self, no longer pissed. “You think that’s true, what he said about the contract?”

“Yeah. I’ll read it to be sure, but he’s smart enough not to lie about something we could go back and read.” I shake my head. “Which we should have read.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I guess there’s no way out of it now. I do need the money.”

“So do we all. Except Trevor.”

John looks over my shoulder and nods. “He’s on his feet.” He looks back at me. “So much for our legacy.”

“Something tells me when this year is over, we’ll be remembered.”

“But how?” John asks as we head back to Ricky and Trevor.

“Only time will tell. Until then?”

Ricky squares his shoulders. “We good or are we done?”

John puts out his hand for Ricky to shake. “We’re good. I’m sorry.”

Ricky takes it. “No big deal. I may have had it coming.”

Trevor grabs the camera and we move to the gear, no less confused.

I put the armor on and am surprised at how light it is. How is this going to stop turkey shot? The helmet’s much heavier, but I have no idea how I’m going to be able to hold up my head to see where I’m going. Ricky straps on the decoys as the sun sprinkles through the trees.

It’s go time.

Trevor helps Ricky with his decoy and slaps him on the helmet, whispers something. He steadies the camera and Ricky says, “Ready?”

John and I look at each other but we don’t speak. Instead, we fan out and make our way to our potential graves.

The grass is tall and wet and I’m saturated in minutes. All I can see are a few inches in front of me, a foot at best. My back is an inch or so below the field, which means the decoy is riding perfectly. Shit.

I can hear real turkeys around us clucking away. Some even sound like they’re purring. It’s like I’m a friggin’ field researcher. But in no way am I excited about this.

Ricky told us to move in slow, straight lines, but to stop every so often. I slide along and stop. Slide some more and stop. Does this look even remotely like the real thing? So what if it doesn’t? Maybe that way I won’t get killed? But then what if the hunters can tell what’s up? Is there a plan B? What could that possibly be? Attack the hunters while dressed like Native Americans?

Shit, something’s near me. The turkey clucks and darts its head forward. It seems to be looking at my decoy, twisting its body to understand. Its claws trample the ground inches from my head, and they are vicious-looking. I do not want to piss it off. I lie still and feel him pluck at the decoy. Fine. Let him. Or her? If a hunter sees a turkey eating one of its own they might run away. If any are out there.

Crack!

A flutter of wings and air rush over me.

Crack!

The turkey hops and cries out. It’s almost human sounding.

Crack!

Holy fucking shit, that’s gunshot!

I fight the urge to get up and run, and instead slink away. The turkey continues to flap and squawk. I hear distant voices, and the field sounds like a shooting range. The crack of gunfire is everywhere and I pick up the pace, charging, hopefully, back to the woods, so I can save my goddamn life.

Spray zips past me, the sound like insects flying at Mach 10. I freeze and feel like a fish on a line, being tugged toward the surface. I’m rolled to the side by the force, and then I understand. Someone shot the turkey. Shit. I get upright, only so I can continue crawling, but it happens again. A high-pitched hoot comes from the distance.

Again, I get upright and try to move away, but am struck for a third time. The voice who hooted now curses. I have to play dead or I’ll actually be dead. I have a feeling this guy will charge across the field and unload on this decoy and I’ll be turned to Swiss cheese beneath it. Fuck Kevlar.

Gunshot continues around me, so the rest of the guys must be getting the same treatment. How long am I supposed to wait?

The bullhorn sounds and Trevor’s voice booms around us. “Cease fire! I repeat, cease fire!” He sounds like he’s straight out of some police standoff and his voice scares me almost as much as the bullets.

The voices rise in the distance, their tone confused, but also angry.

“You are involved in a prank. There are three guys out in that field wearing decoys.”

A wave of voices rises up.

“Guys, stand.”

I’m afraid to. If they don’t believe us . . . shit, even if they do, that doesn’t mean they’re going to be happy about what we did—ruined their Thanksgiving tradition. I bet they come out here every year and do this.