Dare (9 page)

“No, really, my mom is picking me up. You can even come out and meet her.”

Teddy waited with Brynna at the front of the school until her mother pulled into the roundabout. When the car came to a stop, Brynna linked arms with Teddy and pulled him toward the car.

“Hey, Mom, this is my friend, Teddy.”

Teddy waved. “Hey, Mrs. Chase.”

Brynna's mother offered a thin smile and a curt nod. “Nice to meet you, Teddy. Bryn, we're kind of in a hurry.”

Brynna turned to Teddy and waved. “See you tomorrow.” She tucked the daisy behind her ear. “And don't put me on your list of references for your new job.”

Teddy laughed then jogged across the grass while Brynna plopped into the passenger seat. “He gave me a flower.” She tossed her backpack over the seat and belted herself in while her mother stared at her, eyes wide.

“Uh, something the matter, Mom?”

Her mother took a short, quick breath and then pushed the window button, the driver and passenger windows sliding down two inches each. Brynna pulled her hoodie tighter across her chest and went to roll her window back up.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“You've been smoking.”

Brynna gaped as her mother calmly pushed the car into drive and pulled away from the curb. “No, I haven't.”

Her mother kept a careful eye on the road in front of them, refusing to look at Brynna.

“Mom.” Brynna tugged on her mother's sweater. “Hello?”

The light in front of them turned red. “Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying!”

Her mother turned in her seat. “Brynna, I can smell it all over you. Does that boy smoke too? Is that why?”

“Teddy? No, Mom.”

“Brynna Marie, I'm really getting tired of—”

“So am I, Mom.” A small flicker of anger in her belly turned into an overwhelming flame. “I was sitting on the bleachers and there were kids smoking underneath me.
I
wasn't smoking.
They
were.”

Her mother slowly stepped on the gas as the light changed but said nothing.

“Mom, I swear.”

“I want to believe you, Bryn.”

“Then you should.” She pressed her fingers into the dashboard. “It's not like I'm Dad.”

Brynna's mother's head snapped toward Brynna, her eyes shooting venom. “Your father is of legal drinking age, young lady. You will leave him out of this.”

“So forty-five, that's the legal age to be a functioning alcoholic?” She knew it was low, but the hypocrisy of her parents—her father, with the faint smell of bourbon on his minty-fresh breath, and her mother, pretending it wasn't there—infuriated Brynna.

Her mother took a deep breath, presumably to calm herself, and Brynna felt a stab of jealousy. When her father was drunk, out entertaining, Brynna wasn't the only one left behind—her mother was too.

“I'm not going to smoke. I'm not going to drink. You stuck me in that stupid rehab for six weeks. Do you think I would just go back to—” Brynna crossed her arms in front of her chest, the frustration hot in her cheeks.

“You father and I did not ‘stick' you in rehab, young lady. You did that yourself. And smoking, drinking, any of that violates your probation and our deal.”

“You think I don't know that? God!” Brynna slammed herself back in her seat, edging as far away from her mother as she could get.

“When we go home, you're heading straight for the shower. Leave your backpack downstairs on the table.”

“You're searching me again? Mom—”

“We had a deal.”

“But it wasn't me. I didn't do anything.”

Her mother kept quiet, dark eyes focused hard on the bare road in front of them.

“So if I happen to sit next to someone who smokes, then I go back into lockdown? This blows.”

“You know what? I don't want to have to search your stuff any more than you want it searched, but that's where we are, right? And if you were just ‘sitting' in the smoking section, you won't have any cigarettes or lighters in your bag, and you won't have anything to worry about, will you?”

Brynna was taken aback. Her mother's cheeks were flushed and she was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white.

“I thought we were past this, Brynna.”

A memory tugged at the back of her mind.

Everything
was
white
at
Woodbriar, white and sterile so that the few things that were supposed to be “cheery” or “inspirational” and were brightly colored stood out like circus elephants.

She
sat
out
on
the
verandah
on
one
of
the
white
wooden
rocking
chairs
and
looked
over
the
perfectly
manicured
lawn
and
the
snakelike
driveway
that
cut
through
the
boxwood
and
carefully
trained
roses. The garden was supposed to give the place a hotel, resortlike feel, but after six weeks of meetings and therapy and rehab and “activities,” Brynna knew that every branch and leaf at Woodbriar was cut according to a precise master plan to give the illusion of natural freedom while guiding “clients” along a specific path.

When
her
parents
drove
up
and
got
out
of
the
car, they looked too happy, too eager, and it made Brynna cringe against the hardwood back of the rocker and grip the armrests until her fingers ached. She didn't know if she was better yet. All she knew was that the “old Brynna,” the one they were so happy to see, didn't exist at Woodbriar.

When
her
father
picked
up
her
luggage, he looked down at it awkwardly, and Brynna knew what the staff at Woodbriar had told him about aftercare: “guardians” needed to check their children's bags and quarters daily because even though they've gone to Woodbriar, it didn't mean they were cured.

Brynna and her mother drove the rest of the way in silence, Brynna scrupulously studying the passing scenery as if the banks of trees and dried grass were something new and spectacular. As they entered the wrought-iron gates of the housing development, she stared at each house gliding by her window, even as she watched her mother's reflection watching her. When they pulled up to their house, a hulking, homey place that looked just like every other house on the block, Brynna was out of the car, skulking up the driveway and through the front door before her mother even turned off the car.

She went directly to the kitchen where the oven and stove still boasted the slip of protective blue plastic—her mother didn't cook—and slammed her backpack onto the granite countertop.

She stomped up the stairs, vaguely hearing her mother as she fumbled with the phone, no doubt calling to report to Brynna's father. The thought of her parents having a hushed conversation about her, about Brynna's “relapse,” sent a new wave of anger through her, and she slammed her bedroom door with a satisfying clap.

If she were a normal girl, she would have gone directly to the shower to scrub the smoke out of her hair, but the idea of standing under a spout of hot water shot her anxiety through the roof. Instead she slumped down on the carpet, with her knees tucked to her chest, and cried.

Dr. Rother would have said something about using this opportunity as a “learning moment,” but Brynna felt tortured and crazy and a dozen other flying emotions—none of them good. But somewhere, way in the back of her mind, she didn't blame her mother. Every other millimeter was equal parts seething and terrified.

Even if she wanted to go to her parents about the tweet and the phone call and now the stunt in her locker, she couldn't. They thought she was lying again, doing drugs and drinking. If she were to tell them that she thought Erica was still alive, they'd pat her knee gently and send her right back to Woodbriar.

Brynna crawled across her floor and pulled a cardboard box out from the depths of her closet. She upended it and watched as a shower of ribbons, most red, very few blue, fell out, along with swim meet stats, a few old pictures, and some forgotten trinkets. She picked up one of the photos. It was so old the corners were soft and bent, and Brynna and Erica grinned out at her, the massive blue expanse of swimming pool behind them. They were each holding their ribbons, Erica her bright blue first place and Brynna her blood-red second place, and they both looked so happy, arms entwined, sunlight glittering in their eyes.

Erica
was
always
better
than
me.
The thought niggled into Brynna's brain, and just as quickly, she chased it out.
Erica
was
my
best
friend. We were always happy for each other, no matter who won.

But
it
was
always
her
that
did.

Maybe
I
wanted
to
kill
her. Maybe I needed her to die.

Brynna pressed her fingers to her forehead as if she could pull out the errant thoughts. They ached behind her eyes.

“I didn't mean to,” she mumbled out loud. “Erica, I swear, I didn't mean to.” For fourteen months, Brynna prayed that Erica knew that. But here, in her new house and new life in Crescent City, she found herself wondering if someone else had heard.

Someone had left the sand—and the purple crepe paper—for her to find. Someone didn't just want Brynna to know that they were there that night. They didn't just want Brynna to know that they blamed her. This person wanted her to pay.

Brynna's mind spun as her blood pulsed.

Erica's name flashed in her mind and just as quickly was washed out by the pounding of the black night surf. Erica's hand was in hers, and Brynna was tugging.

“You are the biggest wimp!”

“Because I won't jump off a pier? Lame.”

“You're scared.”

“You're stupid.”

“I'll do it. I'll even do the real dare.” Brynna yanked off her bikini top and waved the hot pink scrap of fabric over her head triumphantly. The kids on the beach—figures half-illuminated by the dying firelight—hooted and hollered. Someone laughed; someone jumped up and danced in the sand. Far away, the music swirled, mellow from this distance.

“Really?” Erica cocked an eyebrow and waved a thick lock of ink-black hair over her shoulder. “You're brave because you're standing on a public dock with your knockers out?”

Brynna
threw
her
head
back
and
laughed. Everything was funny and warm and coconut scented. It was Erica's shampoo, caught on a wispy ocean breeze.

“You and your knockers are coming with me.” Brynna clamped a hand over Erica's wrist, and Erica pulled back but laughed, collapsing onto the dock.

“Don't put those things near me!”

“Jump,” Brynna chanted. “With me. It'll be, like, our yearly ritual. The two of us against the world.”

Erica
was
sitting
back
on
her
haunches. She cocked her head, considering. “The two of us?”

“Together. For life.” Brynna spun.

“Until death do us part?”

Brynna
laughed. “We're not getting married, dork.”

Erica
tossed
her
head
back
so
that
her
long
hair
pooled
on
the
dock. “You and me, forever and ever, right?”

“Sirens of the surf.” She held out her hand.

Erica
stood
and
slid
her
hand
into
Brynna's. “Promise me.”

The
stars
blurred
before
Brynna's eyes. The punch she had drunk—something fruity laced with something fierce that burned its way down her throat—was making her whole body warm. “Promise what?”

“That you'll never leave me alone.”

Brynna was breathing hard, her eyes itchy and dry. She couldn't remember if she ever answered Erica's question.

Brynna padded down the stairs when her mother called her for dinner. Both her parents were already seated, and Brynna could see her bag, moved to one of the barstools. Her parents had clearly gone through it.

They said nothing to her when she sat; her mother just scooped a spoonful of whatever takeout she had gotten and plopped it onto Brynna's plate. Brynna was going to say something. She was going to wait for an apology, an admission that the only things they found in Brynna's bag were her books, her binder, and a couple of errant highlighters. But no one said anything.

Each day after the wardens at Woodbriar did their methodical check of Brynna's bags, her pockets, and her room and came up empty—or “clean” as they called it—they left without saying a word too.

Brynna stiffened and poked at the food on her plate.

After dinner, she was back in her room attempting to study. The new house was just a little bit bigger than the house in Point Lobos, but everything about the Blackwood house was brand new—new carpet, new appliances, even new landscaping that was perfectly watered and well maintained. The house should have been cheerful with its soaring high ceilings and model-home furniture, but it still gave Brynna the creeps. There were only a few families living in the neighborhood, and the “For Sale” and “See Me!” flags on the houses across the street snapped in the fall wind. During the day, the houses were occupied with families carrying brochures and hopeful-looking children. At night, the houses were unmistakably vacant, the windows gaping and black. Brynna squinted as a pair of headlights washed yellow light over her room and then watched out the window as the red taillights of the car traveled up her street, only to disappear around a corner. There was no one outside, but she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was out there, lurking in the dark, watching her. She yanked the blinds closed, but the feeling didn't go away.

She went back to her history book, but her mind kept wandering until she smacked it shut and peeked out the window once more.

No one there.

But something in her mind kept nagging her…

Finally, in a rare moment of bravado, she slid on her phone and dialed, vaguely surprised that her fingers still remembered Erica's number. She counted the rings until the familiar tones started chiming: “This number has been disconnected. If you feel you have reached this message in error…”

It should have been comforting. It should have been another bit of tangible proof that Erica wasn't alive, that she wasn't hanging around in the dark, calling and haunting Brynna.

She paused for a beat, then dialed a second time, listening to the shrill ring without holding the phone to her cheek. When someone answered, she snatched it up.

“'Lo?”

Brynna paused for a beat too long.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

She cleared her throat and worked to keep her voice as bright and even as possible. “Hey—hi—Ella, it's me, Brynna. From Lincoln?”

There was a long pause. “Seriously?”

Butterflies flapped knife-edged wings in Brynna's stomach. “Yeah, sorry I haven't really been in touch. With the move and all…”

“You haven't been in touch with me, you mean.” Ella didn't try to hide the bitterness in her voice, and Brynna felt trapped, wounded. She felt the need to explain—and defend.

“I'm really sorry—”

“Whatever. Why are you calling me?”

Brynna knew she should ask after Ella, inquire about her life and about school, but all she wanted were answers. “So, I got this weird tweet the other day.”

“Wait. I don't hear from you for almost six months, and you want to talk about some weird tweet?”

“It's just that—”

“Brynna, you walked out on us. You just up and left. Of course, that was after pretty much dumping us at school.”

Brynna bit down hard on her lower lip. “I know. I'm sorry, it's just that—”

“Do you know what happened when you left? I mean, you just disappeared.”

“I was in rehab,” Brynna blurted, the humiliation burning all the way to her scalp. Her mind immediately reeled back to her crumpled car, the flashing red and blue lights, the police officer who helped her stumble along until he snapped the cold metal cuffs on her. She remembered the throbbing in her head, the way the whole scene swirled in front of her eyes. “I had to. I couldn't talk to anyone after. I couldn't see anyone.” She hoped that Ella wouldn't ask questions, would assume that Brynna “couldn't” see her old friends because her doctor or the parole officer told her so—not that she couldn't face them.

Ella was silent for a beat on the other end of the phone, and Brynna counted the seconds. When Ella spoke again, her voice had a slightly softer edge to it—but just barely.

“You just abandoned us. All of a sudden, you disappeared. And after Erica”—Ella sucked in her breath—“people started to talk.”

Brynna's hackles went up. “What do you mean, they started to talk?”

“People said you were dead, Bryn. They said that you offed yourself because you killed Erica.”

Pain sliced through Brynna's chest. “I didn't—”

“And then, know what? They started blaming Michael and Jay. People started to tell me that I was next. Or that I was in on it. My parents made me see a shrink, and the cops came to school asking questions.”

There was real angst in Ella's voice, but she tried to drown it out with spitting anger.

Brynna's lips felt numb. “But everybody knew that she—everybody knew that Erica—”

“Erica what? Drowned? Maybe. There was no body. You were the one who said she was dead. You said it. Maybe it was because you were the only one who actually knew that she was.”

Brynna's head started to throb. She pinched her eyes shut, trying to block out the images that came seeping in, but they were there, clear as day.

“Erica is dead, Brynna, you have to know that.”

Brynna
shook
her
head. “No one knows that. They never found a body.”

She
hated
the
way
Dr. Rother needled her with her gaze. It was like she wanted to cure her, to make her happy, by destroying her first.

“The police have declared Erica Shaw dead. Say it, Brynna. Say that Erica is dead.”

Brynna
shrunk
into
her
sweatshirt, angling her head so that her just-dyed, so-blue-it-was-black hair hung over her eyes. “I don't think she is,” she said to the scuffed toes of her black leather boots.

Dr. Rother let out a long sigh, making it obvious that Brynna wasn't grieving right. “Once you admit it, once you admit what happened—that Erica jumped into the water and was drowned by a riptide—then you can start letting go.”

Brynna
looked
up
at
that, the idea of being free of Erica's deathly pull holding some appeal to her. She had spent months trying to block out Erica's accusing eyes, the way her fingertips felt those last few seconds before she drifted away.

“Is that true?”

“Once you admit that Erica can no longer be alive—
is
no
longer
alive—then you can begin grieving her properly. This”—she gestured toward Brynna, almost shuddering with her distaste of her rumpled hair, oversized sweatshirt, and filthy jeans—“this isn't healthy. This isn't what Erica would want for you.”

Part
of
her
wanted
to
jump
to
her
feet
and
scream
at
Dr. Rother, to scream that she had no idea what Erica would want. But part of her started to break. Part of her was desperate and exhausted and wanted peace.

“Go ahead and say it, Brynna. Say that Erica is dead. You need to begin to accept that.”

Erica is dead.
The
words
felt
sour
on
Brynna's tongue. “Erica…” she started.

Dr. Rother's pale blue eyes were on her, an unwavering, expectant stare.

“Erica…” Brynna tried again. “Erica…is…dead.”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Wha—” Brynna sputtered, crashing back to the present.

“You said she was dead and then you started to hang with those—those
losers
—and we had to deal with everyone talking like we were criminals. Do you know what that's like, Bryn? Do you?” Ella's venom poured through the phone, and Brynna's heartbeat sped up. “I hope you're super happy throwing us under the bus so you could start a new life as a goodie-goodie in, where was it? Crescent City?”

“I'm sorry, Ella. I—I—was going through my own thing. I should have—”

Brynna was cut off by Ella's slicing breath. “What do you want anyway, Bryn?”

She paused for a beat, everything inside of her telling her to hang up, to stop feeling. She steadied herself. “I got this tweet. It came from Erica's Twitter account. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. I mean, probably someone just took over the account or the handle or something. Her account was probably deactivated last year.”

Ella's lack of concern didn't lessen Brynna's. “You don't think maybe—maybe that Jay or Michael were playing a joke or something?”

There was a long pause on Ella's end of the phone. Every millisecond it went on ratcheted up Brynna's tension.

“Jay doesn't go to Lincoln anymore. And, well, you know all about Michael.”

Brynna sat on the edge of her bed. “What do I know about Michael?”

“Did you call just to lie to me and play the super innocent chick? You have a lot of fucking nerve, Brynna.”

“Please—tell me. What happened to Michael?”

There was a long pause, and Brynna dug her teeth into her lower lip, willing Ella to respond and praying that Michael was safe.

“Michael. The
anonymous
phone call to his parents? I bet you thought that was pretty damn funny. They sent him to North, you know. That wilderness camp? It's supposed to be for super messed-up kids—real druggies and, like, psychopaths. But now, thanks to you and your middle-of-the-night tips to his parents, he's stuck there. For
six
months
. I really didn't think you had it in you, Brynna.”

“I don't! I didn't!”

“Who else then?” Ella snapped. “Someone else with your caller ID?”

Brynna gaped. “My caller ID? It wasn't me. It didn't come from me. I didn't even have my phone the whole time I was at Woodbriar.”

“Sure. Another girl must have taken your phone to make the call. That makes sense.”

Terror and confusion pricked at Brynna's skin. “I don't know—I don't understand. But I know I didn't make any anonymous call. Why—who—what happened? What did they say?”

Ella sucked in a razor-sharp breath. “Are you one of those—what do they call them? sadists?—who like to re-witness their crimes? Okay, sure, I'll play. The Peytons get an anonymous call in the middle of the night saying that Michael has been doing drugs—like, hardcore drugs.”

Brynna closed her eyes, a lump growing in her throat.

She
got high.
She
did the hardcore drugs. Michael just wanted to be with her—and he wanted to stop her.

“You—I mean, Ms.
Anonymous
—even told them where Michael supposedly hid his stash. Of course, they looked and voila, Oxy. Speed. Even some coke, I think, not that we would really know what that even looked like because none of us really did hardcore drugs. None of us except you, I mean. Nice work on getting the police involved too; that was really awesome of you. Was that all part of your twelve-step program, Bryn? Making amends?”

Brynna wanted to fire back that Michael had done drugs—hard stuff, like she did. Oxy, speed, ecstasy, coke—she knew because she did it with him. The weeks after Erica died. She made him do it.

She
was
drunk
and
high, and the sick was crawling up the back of her throat, but the rest of her felt fine. Not fine—nothing. Her body was there—probably—but she was a tired, slightly smiley mess, curled up on her bed.

And
then
Michael
crouched
down
in
front
of
her.

It
was
hard
to
get
her
eyes
to
focus
completely—or maybe the edges of Michael had grown soft and fuzzy anyway—but Brynna tried, noticing the downturned curve of his mouth.

“I'm not doing this with you, Bryn. Not anymore. I basically threw the whole match. I wasn't even messed up, but that shit stays with you, I know it does.” His voice got soft as his lips pressed together, hard. “Look at you, baby, you're a mess. You've got to stop this.”

There
was
a
soft
weight
on
Brynna's leg, and when she looked down, she saw that it was Michael's hand, pressing warmly. The sensation was nice at first, but then it sent the bugs crawling—tiny feet hammering through her veins, skittering across her skin. She brushed him off and yanked her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. There was blood on the heel of her hand. She couldn't feel any pain, didn't remember any, but there was a thick, red scratch there, a thousand tiny lines cross-hatching through her skin, each crossing oozing with its own bubble of velvet, red blood.