Dare: That’s nothing. I’m just glad you’re okay.

Me: Tomorrow is a new day.

Dare: You left your CD in my car.

Me: It’s probably better you keep it for now.

Dare: Goodnight, Bay

Me: Night, Dare.

I drifted into a headache-laced sleep where my nightmare unfolded in front of me. Standing center stage, I forgot the lyrics to the song I was supposed to sing. People were booing and throwing things at the stage until I spotted Dare in the center of the sea of people like there was a spotlight on him. With one look, the words sprang to mind. Not the ones I was supposed to sing, but totally new ones that quelled the writhing beast of the angry crowd until flowers fell at my feet. If only it were that easy. If only he’d always be my anchor in rough seas.

29

Dare

Not being able to see Bay was harder than anything else I’d ever done before. Her grounding lasted for as long as her mom wanted, and they’re hadn’t been any indication that it would end any time before Bay left.

Seeing her through my window, over the backyard fence, and texting had shaved the edge off my antsiness. In school, she wanted things to stay as they were. I hated not being able to hug her in the hallways or find a spot under the bleachers. I was left with hand brushes when we passed one another in the hallways or a long look in class and it wasn’t enough.

I was focused so hard on Bay I hadn’t noticed the street looked different. I opened the front door and the smell blindsided me.

My dad sat in his piece-of-shit recliner, already half a bottle deep. I’d have gone straight up to my room if the bright white of the paper in his hands hadn’t contrasted with the darkness around him.

My body went rigid, like a brick wall laid in seconds. My stomach was a churning cauldron of ill will.

A slosh of alcohol dropped onto Bay’s cheek, sliding off the edge of the paper and onto his shirt.

And just like that the brick wall was demolished.

“Get your fucking hands off that.” I stormed across the room. Cursing myself for leaving the sketchpad out, I grabbed for the pad. These were my private thoughts. Private moments. Thinking of him seeing even a sliver of who I was sickened me.

“Look at you, doodling pictures of all the little chicks you’re fucking. I’d have thought you’d go for prettier ones.” He blocked my grab for the sketchpad, his grip tightening on my forearm.

I was getting sloppy. A wild grab for the book opened my whole flank.

“Fuck you, don’t look at it. It’s not yours.”

Even now, after four solid years of lifting, he was taller than me. Or maybe I only felt like he was taller. I was suddenly an eleven-year-old kid when his whiskey breath hit my face, slowing me down, weakening me.