“Weren’t you just apologizing for being shitty to me?”

“Pointing out your conversational quirks hardly feels shitty.” He leaned against the wall, no longer tense.

“I don’t have time for this. Don’t you have practice?”

“It can wait.”

“Well, mine can’t. Thanks for the closure. I’ll let you know if I finish the song.” Anything to get him off my back and buy me some breathing room. The Dare Effect was back in full swing and my temporary booster shot was wearing off.

“See you later, Bay.” He backed away.

The way he said it wasn’t a casual goodbye. It was a promise. Fuck

11

Dare

I rocked back in the chair with my sketchbook balanced on my lap. The rhythmic scrape of my pencil against the textured paper calmed my nerves. I’d woken early, shooting straight up in bed.

Unbolting my door, I’d checked out the house to make sure I was alone. Early morning wake-up calls were never pleasant for me. But it was just me.

Shutting myself back up in my room, I’d stared at the ceiling for too long before giving in to my need to reach into the padlocked bottom drawer of the desk I’d found on the side of the road and dragged up the steps a couple years ago.

My fingers brushed against the smooth, bright cover of the sketch book I’d driven the next town over to buy. A stack of worn sketchbooks with ratty and weathered edges sat beneath it, bent and curled with time.

My mind blanked and the paper filled with lines and curves joining together, forming a shape. Abstract at first, it came alive with each pass, detail and shading making the picture pop off the page.

Bay’s song played in a loop during these quiet times; I was unable to leave it behind until it was finished.

Laughter broke through the driving bass of the music in my head.

I dropped the notepad and pencil on my bed and crossed over to my bedroom window.

Snow blanketed the neighborhood, making everything look like a Christmas card. It was all pristine and untouched, except for Bay’s backyard. There were footprints, trails scraped through the snow exposing the fledgling grass underneath.

Molly must have come home from her shift. Bay bounded back and forth, cheeks blazing red, small puffs of breath hung in the air in front of her face. She had on rainbow gloves she used to pack snowballs.

Bay’s mom’s scrub pants were darker at the bottoms, damp from the loose-packed snow. She rolled some snowballs of her own, flinging them at Bay. They dispersed in the air, showering them both with more flakes. They lobbed misshapen snowballs at one another.

They collapsed in the snow, sliding their arms and legs along the ground to make snow angels. Bay was covered in snow. Her nose was so red, I could see it from here. Snow clung to her coat and hair, dotting it like it had been placed there on a movie set.