The Dare (10 page)

I wanted to say something encouraging. But I had the feeling that Dennis was right.

I loved looking at Dennis, just gazing at him, even when he was unhappy and grumbling about Mr. Northwood. I liked his dark eyebrows, the way they formed wide, upside-down V's above his deep green eyes. I liked his smooth, straight nose and his toothy smile. He looked like a little boy when he smiled.

I often thought about Dennis and how he had acted the night Zack was shot. He was so calm, so quick-thinking.

Dennis was so determined to get what he wanted. He came up with an idea. And then he made it happen.

He acted with such confidence.

I wondered what it would feel like to
be
like Dennis, to feel like you can get whatever you want. That you can do anything—and get away with it.

“We'd better get home,” I whispered, wiping away a circle of steam from the passenger window with my hand. “I don't want to. But I have to.”

Dennis stared straight ahead at the steamed-up windshield. He made no move to start up the car.

“What's wrong?” I asked, placing my hand tenderly on his.

“Thinking about Northwood,” he muttered.

“Not tonight,” I pleaded. “I mean, what can we do?”

“Lanny dared me to kill him,” Dennis revealed, avoiding my eyes.

“Huh?” I wasn't sure I heard right.

“Lanny dared me to,” Dennis repeated. He squeezed my hand between both of his. “Then I dared Zack to do it.” He snickered, as if he had just made a joke.

“Zack's still all bandaged up,” I murmured.

“We were all daring each other to do it,” Dennis said, shaking his head. “In study hall.”

He turned to me. I saw that his chin was trembling.

Is he going to
cry?
I wondered, startled.

“I—I can't let Northwood wreck my whole life!” he declared in a trembling voice. “Somebody has to do something about him. Somebody has to!”

His eyes burned into mine.

I'm not sure why, but I think I loved him more than ever at that moment.

I wanted him to be mine. All mine. I didn't want to share him with Caitlin anymore.

I wanted to be
with
him. And I wanted to be
like
him.

“Maybe I should dare
you
to kill him,” Dennis teased, tenderly moving his finger down the side of my face. “You've always wanted to be included in our stupid dares, haven't you?”

“Maybe,” I replied coyly, smiling back at him.

“Well, maybe I should dare
you,”
he repeated, his eyes flashing.

“Go ahead. Try me,” I whispered, grabbing his hand.

His expression turned solemn. His eyes burned into mine. “I dare you to kill Northwood,” he said.

“Okay,” I replied, feeling my heart pound in my chest. “I'll do it.”

“G
ood luck, Johanna.”

I turned from my locker to see who was talking to me.

A girl with blond hair tied in a long, thick braid flashed me a smile. “Good luck,” she repeated.

“Huh?” I just stared at her. I didn't know what she was talking about. Then, slowly, it dawned on me. She was wishing me good luck on the dare—good luck on killing Mr. Northwood!

Hey, I'm getting famous! I thought. I wasn't sure if I was happy about it or not.

It was the following Monday. I had the feeling that kids were staring at me, talking about me all down the hall.

I slammed the locker shut and started to class, when I felt a hand touch my back. “Oh, hi, Margaret,” I said, turning to face her.

I hadn't seen much of Margaret lately. I knew she
didn't approve of Dennis and my other new friends. She and I just didn't have much in common anymore.

“Johanna—what's going on?” Margaret demanded. She had a fretful frown on her face, and she looked me up and down as if searching for fleas.

“Not much,” I replied casually. “What's up?”

“Don't pretend,” Margaret scolded. “I want to know what is going on.”

She grabbed my arm and dragged me into the girls' bathroom. She was breathing hard and kept staring at my face as if trying to find some hidden secrets there.

Suki Thomas was putting on lipstick in front of the mirror. Then Suki started brushing her bleached-blond hair.

Margaret stared at me without speaking, waiting for Suki to leave.

“I've got to go,” I said impatiently, shifting my backpack to the other shoulder.

“Just wait,” Margaret replied. Suki finally left. She flashed me a wink as she passed by and gave me a thumbs-up. I hoped Margaret hadn't caught it.

I didn't really want to discuss the dare with Margaret. I knew she wouldn't understand. I wasn't sure I understood myself.

But I guess it was too late to play innocent.

“The whole school is talking about you!” Margaret declared.

It was supposed to be an accusation. But I have to admit I liked the idea of everyone talking about me. It was kind of exciting to be some kind of celebrity just once in my life.

“They say you accepted a dare,” Margaret continued,
pushing a strand of red hair off her freckled forehead. “To kill Mr. Northwood. Everyone's talking about it. But it isn't true—is it?”

I hesitated. I could see how upset she was.

“No. No way,” I muttered, avoiding her accusing eyes.

“Then why are Zack and Lanny taking bets?” Margaret demanded.

“Huh? They are?” My surprise was genuine. No one had told me that any bets were being made. I have to admit I was really shocked to hear about it.

The bell rang.

“Margaret—we're going to be late,” I said, edging toward the door.

She stepped in front of me and blocked my escape. “They're taking bets. Everyone is betting on whether you'll do it or not. This is crazy, Johanna. It really is. It's crazy!”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Yeah, it is. It's crazy.”

Margaret is right, I told myself, sitting in math class, staring out the window at a gray day. A light snow was falling, wet snowflakes clinging silently to the window-pane.

It's crazy. The whole idea is crazy. There's no way I'm going through with this. No way.

It had seemed like such a romantic thing to say that night up on River Ridge. It was so exciting to be up there with Dennis. I wanted to make him happy. I wanted so desperately for him to like me.

But I'd had a lot of time to think about it. In fact, I hadn't been able to think about anything else.

And I knew I couldn't do it.

I looked for Dennis after school. I had to tell him. I had to tell him the dare was off.

But I couldn't find him.

Lanny came running up to me in the hall. “Over a thousand dollars,” he whispered excitedly, grinning at me. “Do you believe it?”

“Huh?” I stared back at him, trying to figure out what he was telling me.

“A thousand dollars so far,” he repeated, whispering. “And you get half of it.”

“I do? I didn't realize—”

“If you-know-what happens to you-know-who,” Lanny added.

“But, wait—” I cried. I wanted to tell him he had to return the money.

“Got to run!” Lanny cried, trotting away. “Later!” He disappeared around the corner.

Five hundred dollars? I thought. I'd never had that kind of money in my life. I'd never
seen
five hundred dollars!

I looked down at the big moth hole on the sleeve of my sweater. Five hundred dollars could buy a few new sweaters, I thought wistfully.

But it was crazy. So totally crazy.

I wasn't killing Mr. Northwood for the money. I was killing him to help Dennis. Just for Dennis.

Dennis had dared me.

And you can't wimp out on a dare.

And—whoa! Whoa, girl!

What was I
thinking?

I couldn't do it—I couldn't kill Mr. Northwood even if I wanted to
—could
I?

That night Mom was home early for once. We had a pretty nice dinner together. I forced myself not to think about the dare and all that was going on at school over it.

When Mom asked me what was happening at school, I made up some things about class projects and the annual talent show. I felt guilty lying, but what could I do? I couldn't tell her what was really on my mind.

The phone rang a little after seven. I ran to pick it up. I didn't want Mom to get there first in case it was Dennis.

And it was.

“Dennis, Mom's home,” I whispered. “I can't talk.”

“Saturday,” he said. “The bets are all for Saturday. I'm counting on you, Johanna.” Then he hung up.

I
stared out the kitchen window at Mr. Northwood's backyard. The late afternoon sun had drifted behind large gray clouds. Yesterday's snow had stopped after a few hours, leaving only a powdery film over the grass and bare trees.

Two enormous black crows had perched on top of the tall woodpile in the center of Mr. Northwood's yard. They were bobbing their heads and cawing loudly. They seemed to be having some kind of argument.

When Mr. Northwood appeared in the yard, zipping up his red and black plaid wool coat, the crows gave a startled cry and flapped away.

I watched Mr. Northwood as he pulled a red wool ski cap over his bushy gray hair. Then he made his way to the woodpile. It was stacked so high, so many logs, it rose up over his head.

He bent down and picked up a couple of logs from a lower stack. Then, bundling them in his arms, he started back to his house.

I swallowed hard. I had a sudden idea.

Maybe I wouldn't have to shoot Mr. Northwood.

Maybe I could kill him another way and make it look like an accident.

“Yes!” I cried aloud, so excited my legs were trembling. “Yes!”

I heard his kitchen storm door slam. He disappeared into his house.

I ran outside. I didn't stop to get my coat. I knew I didn't have much time.

I had watched Mr. Northwood bring wood into the house before. He always carried two logs at a time. He always made three or four trips.

I knew he would be back out for two more logs in a matter of seconds.

I took a deep breath of the frozen air and started to run. I prayed he wouldn't see me.

I had to get behind the woodpile before he returned.

My legs felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds. Halfway across his backyard, I glanced at his house. No sign of him.

With a desperate gasp I forced my legs to move.

Got to get there. Got to get there!

I practically dived behind the tall wall of logs as I heard Mr. Northwood's kitchen door slam again.

Keeping low behind the woodpile, I struggled to catch my breath, listening to him humming softly to himself as he returned for more logs.

Could I do it? Could I?

The timing had to be just right.

I heard his footsteps. His humming grew louder. I knew he was just about at the woodpile now.

I tensed both hands. I raised them above my head and placed them against the rough wall of logs.

I suddenly felt weak, so weak, as if all my muscles were melting away.

No! I told myself.

Don't give in to that. Don't weaken.

Mr. Northwood was on the other side of the wood-pile. I could hear his whistling breaths. I could hear the scrape of his corduroy trouser legs.

So close. So close.

I heard him let out a soft groan as he bent over to pick up logs.

And I heaved against the tall woodpile with all my might. I shoved against it with both hands and then my entire body.

The logs toppled forward.

Yes!

I heard Mr. Northwood's startled cry.

The logs dropped onto him, buried him beneath them.

He uttered a curse and then cried out in pain.

I stepped around to see him struggling to climb out.

I froze as he stared up at me, his blue eyes cold and angry. I was disappointed. I had expected logs to fall on his head, to knock him out.

But he called out my name. He shoved a log
off
his chest and started to climb to his feet.

“No,” I said aloud. “No, no.” I couldn't allow that. He wasn't supposed to climb out.

I lifted a heavy log off the tangle of logs. It was covered with dark brown bark and had a sharp point on one side where a branch had been broken off.

“No, no, no.”

I swung the log down as hard as I could on top of his red wool ski cap.

A loud
oof
escaped his mouth. His skull made a disgusting sound as it cracked open.

Then his mouth dropped open, and his blue eyes spun wildly like marbles in his head.

Blood poured down from under the cap, like a red waterfall over his face.

Then his head dropped back, and his entire body sprawled backward onto the logs.

“Yuck. What a mess!” I whispered, shaking my head.

The sound of his skull cracking kept repeating in my mind. I wondered if I would ever be able to crack open an egg without thinking of Mr. Northwood.

With a shudder, I bent over him and placed my finger under his nose. I kept it there for several seconds, until I was sure he wasn't breathing.

Then I started picking up logs and arranging them on top of his body. I dropped the bloody one onto his face. I piled two or three more over his chest.

My heart was pounding as I stepped back to admire my work.

Did it look like an accident?

Yes.

What a terrible accident. Poor Mr. Northwood was killed when his woodpile collapsed on top of him.

That's what everyone would say.

Poor Mr. Northwood.

I took a last look, dropped one more log over his chest, and hurried to the house to call Dennis with the good news.

T
hat was another of my frightening fantasies.

Staring out my kitchen window at the woodpile, I imagined the whole scene with Mr. Northwood.