Truth or Dare (24 page)

The locker room was empty except for one girl slouched on the bench in front of the lockers. Sydney cringed when she realized who it was. Emerson Cunningham. Emerson was wearing a long, slouchy gold shirt that looked great against her dark skin, and black leggings with studded ballet flats. It made Sydney feel as if she were wearing a garbage bag instead of her nicest jeans and a blue plaid button-down. Emerson’s
cheerleading uniform was discarded by her feet, and a pile of jewelry sat next to her on the bench, a tangle of gold and green and blue.

Emerson’s head snapped up as Sydney walked into the locker room. Her face was red and splotchy, several tears still rolling down her cheeks. When she saw Sydney, she quickly wiped them away.

“Are you okay?” Sydney asked hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” Emerson barked, wiping her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she stood up and began putting her jewelry back on—several expensive-looking rings, a pair of long, dangly green earrings, and a gold charm bracelet, which hung loosely around her wrist. A teddy-bear charm dangled from the bottom of the bracelet. Sydney had to choke back a laugh. What was fashion-plate Emerson doing wearing a bracelet with a
teddy bear
on it?

“Okay,” Sydney said with a shrug. She hurried over to the cabinet that housed the first-aid kit. It was fine with her if Emerson didn’t want to talk.

“It just sucks,” Emerson burst out suddenly. Sydney glanced over her shoulder, looking curiously around the locker room. But there was no one else there. Apparently, Emerson was talking to her.

“Uh, what does?” she asked carefully.

“How you can be so sure about something, you know? Just to find out it’s been nothing but an illusion the whole time.” Emerson slumped against a row of lockers, looking miserable. “I always thought I would never be that girl, that I’d be able to tell if something wasn’t real….” She trailed off, toying with the charms on her bracelet. “But I was completely in the dark.”

An image of her dad, shirtless and stunned, flashed through Sydney’s mind. How many times had he disappointed her and her mom over the years? She smiled sadly at Emerson. “I know what you mean.”

Sydney turned back around and stood on her toes, trying to reach
the first-aid kit. But it was on the very top shelf, just out of her reach. “Here.” Emerson came over, pulling it down for her.

“Thanks,” Sydney said softly.

“The benefit of being five-ten,” Emerson said. “You’re the same height as half the guys in school, but at least you can reach the top shelf.”

Sydney laughed a little as she put on a Band-Aid. She headed toward the exit, pausing in the doorway. “I hope things get better,” she offered.

“Thanks,” Emerson said. “Me too.”

Sydney shook her head as she headed down the hallway. She’d always thought of Emerson as this shell of a person: perfect on the outside, empty inside. But maybe there was more to her than she’d realized.

Sydney was so busy puzzling over that as she returned to the darkroom that she almost didn’t notice the folded-up paper propped against the bin of developer. But in the darkness of the room, the bright white of the paper caught her eye. “No,” Sydney whispered. Every cell in her body was screaming to back away. To turn and run. But instead she crept toward the note, unable to stop herself. Her name was typed on the front in all caps, in that same typewriter font. Inside, there was another message.

Think you can hide away in the darkroom? Think again. But you
can
keep your darkest secrets hidden… as long as you take the next dare.

Sydney crumpled the note up with trembling hands. Now even the darkroom—her one escape—wasn’t safe anymore. She had to get out
of there. Gathering her stuff, she cleaned up as fast as she could and jetted into the hall.

Her breath was coming out in fast spurts as she headed toward her car. She suddenly found herself wishing that her mom were home. But she was working yet another double shift.

Sydney pulled out her phone. She couldn’t be alone right now. Ignoring another text from her dad—
Please call me, Munchkin.
As if using her old nickname could sway her—she opened up a new text to Guinness.
What r u up to?
she wrote.

His response came quickly.
Hanging out w/u. Pick u up @ ur place in 20?

Sydney blew out a sigh of relief.
Make it 15
, she typed back.

Just before she reached her car, she noticed a commotion over by Winslow’s flagpole. “Only the first week of school, and someone’s already been poled,” Sydney heard a guy say. She whipped around, looking up at the flagpole. Duct-taped to Winslow’s purple-and-black school flag was a pair of striped boxers. Written across them in huge, neon-green puffy paint were the initials
HB
.

For a second Sydney just stood there, staring at them. In Sydney’s opinion, the Flagpole of Shame was the most barbaric thing about Winslow. The tradition had been going on forever; according to Winslow legend, the first person ever to be poled was Martha Baker, a freshman who stole a senior’s boyfriend back in 1903. As retribution, the senior hung a pair of Martha’s underwear marked with her initials up on Winslow’s flagpole.

The whole tradition was not just cruel, it was also completely sexist in Sydney’s opinion—stuck in the prefeminist century it came from. Until now. Sydney fiddled with the ring on her pointer finger as she stared up at the boxers.

“It’s about time a guy got poled!” some girl exclaimed, echoing Sydney’s thoughts.

“It’s about time
Hunter Bailey
got poled,” another girl chimed in. “He’s such a dick.”

“You’re just pissed he didn’t ask you to junior prom.”

“
You’re
just pissed he shoved his tongue down your throat and never called you again.”

Sydney climbed into her car, slamming the door on the girls’ giggles.

Fifteen minutes later, Sydney was waiting outside of her apartment building when Guinness swung his Lexus into the lot. She’d had just enough time to run inside and change, putting her new lacy bra on under her shirt. As she’d brushed her hair and dabbed on some lip gloss, she’d made a decision. She was
not
going to let the darer get in the way of her time with Guinness. She refused to think about it—or anything but him—tonight.

But Guinness knew her too well to let that slide. “Whoa,” he said as Sydney climbed into the buttery leather front seat. He put the car in park and turned to face her. “What’s wrong, Blue? You look ready to punch someone.”

“It’s nothing,” Sydney said.

“Since when do we pull the ‘it’s nothing’ card on each other? Come on.” Guinness stared at her sternly, crossing his arms. “Tell me what’s wrong or we’re not going anywhere.”

Sydney leaned back in her seat. “I don’t even know where to begin,” she sighed. A litany of wrongs ran through her head. The notes. The darer. Her dad. “I lit a match yesterday.” She hadn’t planned to say it, but it tumbled out.

Guinness’s dark eyes widened in surprise. “By yourself?”

Sydney nodded.

“How was it?” Guinness asked cautiously.

“It was… amazing. Surreal.” She paused. “Terrifying.”

“That must have been one hefty match,” Guinness said. But she could tell by the way he was looking at her that he understood. He reached over and took her hand. “Remember the smell, Blue.”

It was his safety phrase for her, something they’d come up with years ago at Sunrise. It was after he’d told her what the three winding lines tattooed around his wrist really meant. Not a symbol of mind, body, and spirit or a prank with his best friends, “the three musketeers,” as he was always telling people. But a mask, covering up the thin pink scar that stretched across the underside of his wrist.

“The worst part of it was the blood,” he’d told her. “I never realized how much I hated the sight of blood until I saw so much of my own.” That’s when they’d come up with the safety phrases, what they promised they’d say to each other if they ever teetered on the edge of their old ways. “Remember the blood,” she’d tell him, and he would say, “Remember the smell.” It was the only thing she hated about the fires: the raw, burning smell that seeped into everything, even your skin. After the fire that got her sent to Sunrise—the one that burned down her apartment’s entire kitchen—she’d felt as if that smell had followed her around for weeks, staining everything she touched.

“You want to talk about it?” Guinness asked gently.

Sydney looked down at his hand resting on top of hers. She could see her thin gold ring peeking out between his fingers. Her mom had given her that ring the day she got home from Sunrise. “A promise of better times,” she’d said.

Sydney sighed. “Not really.”

Guinness studied her for a second. “You know what you need?”

“What?” Sydney asked hesitantly.

“You need some
fun
.”

“There has seemed to be a shortage of that lately,” Sydney said with a half smile.

“Lucky for you, I came prepared,” Guinness replied.

She cleared her throat, forcing all thoughts of fires and matches and notes and dads to the back of her mind. “Uh-oh,” she teased him. “Is there an evil plan festering in that pretty little head of yours, Corona?”

Guinness tapped her on the nose. “We’re going to play some golf,” he declared. He nodded toward the backseat, where two golf clubs were lying next to a six-pack of beer.

“Where?” Sydney asked, confused. “The course is closed. The whole Club is.” It was off-season now, which meant that on weekdays the Club closed up tight at five
PM
.

“True,” Guinness agreed. “But you, as a diligent summer Club employee, know the code to get in.” He gave his eyebrows an exaggerated wiggle and Sydney couldn’t help but laugh.

“If someone catches us—”

“Then I’ll take care of it,” Guinness promised. “My dad pretty much owns that Club.” Sydney knew it was true. Lanson Reed owned most of Echo Bay, in one way or another. “Come on,” Guinness pressed. “Think about it: just the two of us, alone on the golf course… Plus, what better way to blow off steam than hitting some balls?” He gestured toward the six-pack in the backseat. “I even brought refreshments.”

Sydney thought about it. It did sound tempting… “All right.” She pointed her finger at his chest. “But if we get caught, you’re taking the fall.”

“Scout’s honor,” Guinness pledged.

The Country Club building was dark and deserted when they got there. Just days ago, lights would have been pouring out from the restaurant
and twinkling over the pool, the air thick with laughter and voices. But today everything was closed up tight. Sydney glanced at the golf course through the slats in the Club’s iron fence. The sun was starting to set, sunlight spiraling into darkness.

“How are we going to see out there?” Sydney asked, keeping her eyes trained on the course. It seemed to stretch on forever, nothing but grass and sky. In the daytime, Sydney loved that about it: how, when there weren’t golfers out, it felt as if all that space belonged only to her. But at night… She felt a tremor run through her as she watched the darkness slowly roll in, sweeping across the green. At night it was the kind of place where if you screamed, no one would hear you.

Guinness brandished two flashlights from the glove compartment, holding them up triumphantly. “We’ll use these.”

“Golf by flashlight,” Sydney mused. “I can’t decide if that’s romantic or creepy.”

Guinness crossed his arms against his chest as if he was insulted. “Definitely romantic.”

Sydney laughed. “Romantic,” she acceded, leaning over to kiss his cheek. As she did, something caught her eye. A purple-and-black name tag, sticking out of his pocket, a single
G
visible at the top.

Sydney pulled back with a start. It was the name tag all visitors to Winslow had to wear. “Were you at Winslow today?”

Guinness gave her a strange look. “What?”

She pointed to the name tag, and he looked down. “Oh. Yeah. Tenley left her Spanish textbook at home, so I, as the dutiful stepbrother, dropped it off for her.” He smiled at her. “I’m family-oriented like that, Blue.”

Sydney twisted her ring, thinking of the note the darer had left for her in the darkroom. “You had to get a visitor’s pass for that?” Her
voice cracked a little, and she quickly cleared her throat. “Why didn’t she just come out to the parking lot?”

Guinness shrugged. “Why does Tiny do anything she does? She made me bring it all the way to Spanish class.”

Sydney stared at Guinness, her palms growing sweaty in her lap. Her mind was suddenly spinning with a thousand wild thoughts. Guinness knew about Sunrise. Guinness knew about her addiction to fire. Guinness knew that after school she often went to the darkroom. What if she’d been wrong before? What if Guinness
was
the darer?

“Syd? You okay?” Guinness reached over and squeezed her shoulder. Sydney blinked. Guinness was watching her with pure concern in his eyes, his mouth curling down at the corners the way it always did when he was worried. “You look a little pale. Are you feeling okay? Do you want me to take you home?”

“No!” It burst out of Sydney forcefully, and Guinness raised his eyebrows.

“Okay.” He lifted his hands in defeat. “Sorry I asked.”

Sydney took a deep breath, composing herself. The darer was not Guinness. Guinness cared about her. And besides, there were other things he couldn’t have known: like the fire that
no one
knew about. She cleared her throat. “You just wait. I’m going to kick your ass in flashlight golf, Corona. But first, speaking of Coronas…” She reached into the backseat, grabbing two beers out of the six-pack. “I need a drink.” She passed a beer to him, then popped open the tab on hers. Guinness watched in amusement as she tilted the beer back, taking a huge gulp.

Two beers later, Sydney typed the code into the Club’s locked gate. As the gate opened with a creak, she and Guinness slipped inside.

“So,” Guinness said, bending down to kiss her neck. His camera, hanging from a strap on his shoulder like always, knocked against her. “You really think you can beat me, Blue?”