Dare Page 8

  It snapped off as Brynna approached it.

  Swallowing hard, she peeked into the basin where a single tube of lipstick lay, cap off, the bright red color leaving streaks on the white porcelain. Brynna didn’t need to check the label to know what color it was or what brand. It was Erica’s color, Erica’s brand.

  Across the mirror, written in the candy-apple red that Erica adored so much, were the words, I haven’t forgotten you, Brynna.

  A starburst of heat exploded in front of her eyes. Her whole body went rigid. She doubled over and dry-heaved, the image of her sneakers below her swirling and blurring with her tears.

  “I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here!”

  Brynna crossed the locker room like a shot, at some point having enough presence of thought to snatch up her bag and continue to breathe. She burst through the double doors and peeled through the now-crowded halls. All around her, kids were talking and laughing and yelling, but it all faded to a cacophonous din in her ears. She walked with purpose but aimlessly, as the halls of Hawthorne High bowed in different directions. Everywhere she looked were faces she couldn’t recognize, faces that clearly didn’t recognize her. The crowd, the walls, all started to close in on her until she burst through the double doors that led to the back quad, doubling over and desperately sucking in huge gasps of air. Pinpricks broke out along her fingertips and palms, and Brynna closed her eyes, feeling a single bead of sweat drip down the center of her back. Her chest was tight. Her heart slammed against her rib cage so hard that she was sure it would crack.

  “Panic attack,” she whispered to herself. “I’m having a panic attack.”

  She heard Dr. Rother’s voice echoing in her head: “Concentrate on your breathing, Brynna. Focus.”

  Focus, Brynna commanded herself. Focus on your breathing and your shoes and the cement in front of you and not the sand, not the churn of the surf that seemed to always crash. Concentrate on the here and now. You’re here, at Hawthorne High, and Erica is dead.

  That last word—dead—echoed in Brynna’s mind, and she couldn’t concentrate. She fisted her hands and stepped forward, trying to focus on something, some stupid rote action that would free her mind from the panic cycle. She took another forward step then started a slow jog toward the football field and the back forty, concentrating only on her footsteps, only on covering ground.

  She climbed up the bleacher stairs and pinned herself into a corner, the high walls of the structure guarding her against the wind. She crumbled, letting the tears fall rapidly now, not caring when her soft cry went to spastic hiccupping.

  Why would Erica do this to me?

  The sound of muffled laughter and someone coughing snapped her back to reality. Heat washed over her cheeks, and she used the heel of her hand to wipe away the tears that were already drying. Muffled voices went around again, and bile climbed the back of Brynna’s throat—was she really going crazy?

  When a snake of cigarette smoke wafted up from the open slots between the bleachers, she glanced down, her heart speeding up as she noticed a group of kids sprawled out on the hard-packed earth, smoking. One was holding a water bottle that Brynna knew wasn’t water. The girl took a large swig and passed it to the guy next to her who mumbled something and took a swig of his own.

  Brynna glanced down at the broken face on her phone while her mind shattered into millions of images—all of them Erica, all of them her and then not her—one minute laughing, splashing, the next minute, gone.

  Numb the pain…

  Brynna’s mouth watered. Her head pounded. She could dull the pain again, just this one time. She swung her legs down, but everything froze when she heard the laughter. It was high-pitched and funny, the kind of laugh that made you giggle too. It was too loud, too distinct.

  It can’t be Erica.

  She was on her feet then, vaulting over the metal guardrail of the bleachers. Her feet hit the hard-packed ground with a thud, and all the kids huddled under the bleachers—there were three of them—stopped what they were doing and glared at her.

  There were two scrawny boys that Brynna vaguely recognized from school and a tall girl with fake platinum blond hair. She was holding a cigarette a half-inch from her pale, chapped lips, and Brynna watched, mesmerized, as smoke curled up in a lazy trail.

  The taller boy shoved the blond behind him and gestured to Brynna. “Want something?” His voice was sharp but not unkind as his dark brown eyes went up and down Brynna’s body.

  Her muscles tightened, and the back of her neck pricked with sweat.

  The blond peered around the boy. “Travis, who’s she?”

  Brynna could smell the sharp tang of vodka mixing with ash on the girl’s breath. She immediately recognized the glossy sheen in her eyes, the unfocused stare of someone who just got high.

  Hours seemed to pass as Brynna stood there, thinking, until Travis hitched his chin. “Hey.” His eyes went over Brynna’s shoulder and she turned, seeing Evan cutting through the grass, coming right for her. When she turned back to Travis and the two others, they had shrunk back into the shadows of the bleachers, their backs turned on Brynna as they walked away.

  “What are you doing out here? Seriously, we sent out a search party.” Evan stayed just outside the shadowed border of the bleachers, arms crossed over his chest. “You know the only people who hang out here are the freaks and stoners.”

  Brynna’s stomach shifted. “Yeah, well…”

  He held out a hand. “Come on.”

  It was like the first day of school all over again, and Brynna wondered whether Evan thought that too. She took his hand and let him pull her onto the grass. He immediately squeezed her palm and they began to walk.

  The almost-tardy bell rang and students buzzed around, rushing toward classes, and Brynna, strangely, felt herself looking forward to walking into a room crowded with students. She was ready for some normalcy in her day, and the din of student chatter calmed the constant questions that pinballed through her mind.

  “Hey! I was hoping to run into you,” Teddy said, his face lighting up when he saw her.

  Brynna could feel herself blush and hoped she no longer looked as ghoulish as she did in the locker room.

  “We were taking a breather,” Evan answered.

  Teddy tossed him a noncommittal glance then went back to Brynna. “Walk to Fallbrook’s with you?”

  “Yeah.” She turned to Evan. “See you after?”

  “Yep.”

  “So, Bryn—”

  “I’ve been looking all over for you!” Darcy cut right between them, her slick pageboy nearly slapping Teddy in the face. “Sorry, T.” She turned back to Brynna. “I went looking for you in the locker room and you, like, poof, were gone. What happened to you?”

  “Oh, I—”

  “Look, Darcy, I need to talk to Brynna,” Teddy cut in.

  The final bell cut them all off.

  “Into class,” Principal Chappie yelled as he zigged through the hall. “That means you three,” he said, pinning Teddy, Darcy, and Brynna with an authoritarian glare.

  Brynna tugged on the back of Darcy’s sleeve as they pushed into Mr. Fallbrook’s class.

  “Hey, when you were in the locker room,” Brynna started.

  “You’re in my classroom, guys, zip it.” Mr. Fallbrook looked slightly annoyed, but Brynna knew it was more for effect than anything else. Darcy was already ignoring her, sliding primly into her seat and batting her eyelashes at Mr. Fallbrook.

  Brynna slid into her desk and tried to catch Darcy’s eye. Her pulse throbbed with curiosity: did Darcy see the lipstick on the mirror in the locker room too?

  Teddy leaned toward Brynna. “Hey, I just wanted to ask you—”

  Mr. Fallbrook tapped on the blackboard. “Ms. Chase, apparently Mr. Higgins has something so important to tell you that it trumps whatever I was p
lanning on teaching.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the edge of his desk, hitching his chin toward Teddy. “So, go ahead, Mr. Higgins. We’ll all wait.”

  Brynna’s skin burned white-hot as every eye turned toward her and Teddy, eyebrows raised expectantly. Teddy glanced at Brynna, his cheek pushed up in that half smile, then leaned toward her.

  “Oh no.” Fallbrook stood. “If it’s that important, we should probably all know.”

  Brynna closed her eyes, the embarrassment total. Teddy stood up. “Thanks, Mr. Fallbrook, it is important. I need to know if Brynna will go to the homecoming dance with me.”

  A ripple of laughter and “awws” went through the room, and Brynna glanced around, nervous. She caught Darcy’s eye, and Darcy immediately looked away, her mouth held in a hard, thin line.

  “Well?” Fallbrook asked.

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah, Teddy, I’ll go with you.” Giddiness washed over Brynna, and she could feel little pops of warmth thrumming underneath her skin.

  “All right, fantastic. Now everybody get to work.”

  •••

  The rest of the school day passed uneventfully, and Brynna was glad. By sixth period biology, her stomach had de-knotted itself and her heartbeat was back to its normal, non-rib-slamming pace. When the final bell rang, she made a beeline for her locker and grinned when she saw that Teddy was already there.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  He held up a sad-looking daisy. “Flower delivery guy.” He offered Brynna the flower, which flopped when she took it.

  She smiled anyway. “Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not very good at your job. Aren’t you supposed to keep these in water or something?”

  Teddy clutched at his chest. “You’re breaking my heart, lady!” He straightened. “Would you like a ride home?”

  “In your refrigerated flower truck?” Brynna mimed thinking hard. “It would be a treat. But no thanks. My mom is picking me up.”

  “Ah, the mother. Much like the fake phone number.”

  “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 i
n 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.