“Sorry,” he offers, even though it’s clear from the coy smile on his face that he’s not.
“Three! Two! One!” The room erupts in loud cheers as Katy and Jake finally break apart and wipe their mouths before plopping back down into their respective seats.
Jake catches my eye and grins. “Newcomer!” he shouts and suddenly every pair of eyes is on me.
I instinctively take a step back toward the door but Brian holds me in place. “Think of it as an initiation process,” he whispers into my ear as he places his hand on the small of my back and guides me farther into the room. He presses down on my shoulders until I’m sitting on one of the beds. I grab his arm and yank him down next to me. “Don’t you dare leave me in here.”
He chuckles as he scoots closer to me. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Truth or dare?” Jake launches into the question of the hour.
Seeing that I barely know any of these people, apart from Brian, I take the easy road. “Truth,” I say, prompting a series of disappointed boos.
Brian reaches over and gives my arm a squeeze. “Just ignore them.”
“Okay,” Jake says, rubbing his hands together sinisterly. “Truth.”
“Hey,” Brian warns. “Go easy on her. It’s her first time.”
I turn and give him a grateful look that he acknowledges with a wink.
Jake rolls his eyes, clearly disapproving of his captain’s orders. “Fine. How many guys have you slept with?”
My eyes grow wide. “That’s an easy question?”
Brian laughs. “You probably should have picked dare.”
I slump on the bed and glance around at the nine pairs of inquiring eyes directed right at me. I think about Shayne and all the times she lectured me about the power of perception. About all the times my experience in the bedroom was alluded to yet never confirmed. This is the way it was designed. For my personal life to appear shrouded with mystery. Because according to Shayne, mystery is always better than truth. I can hear her voice in my head now. “Don’t destroy the illusion. Who cares if you lie to these losers?”
But suddenly, I do. I care. I’m tired of lying. Tired of living my life by Shayne’s rules. I’ve spent the last five years trying to fit into her cookie-cutter mold of popularity. She’s not even my friend anymore and I’m still listening to her imaginary advice!
And for some reason, I feel like I can trust these people. That I don’t have to lie to them. I don’t have to rely on flattering façades to get their approval. I mean, here I am sitting in a hotel room with them at eleven o’clock at night with wet hair, sweatpants, and no makeup. As far as I’m concerned, the façade has already been destroyed. I’ve already been stripped clean.
The room is waiting. Every pair of eyes is on me, including Brian’s, who somehow seems more vested in my response than anyone else. I take a deep breath and deliver my verdict. “Zero.”
“Zero?” Jake repeats skeptically. “As in none?”
I confirm with a nod. “As in none.”
Katy echoes the sentiment of disbelief. “Are you telling me Brooklyn Pierce, the official co-captain of Queen Kingsley, is a virgin?” It’s probably the nicest tone she’s ever used to speak to me.
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
The room has gone dead silent. I’m honestly surprised. I had no idea my sex life was such a topic of interest for everyone.
“But,” she argues softly, “I thought for sure you’d…At least with Kyle Logue or Mike Paisley, or—”
I shake my head resolutely. “Nope. Never.”
It’s strange how good it feels to say it aloud like that. To shatter the illusion once and for all.
There’s another dead silence and I gaze around the room. Brian looks genuinely confused, Jake looks kind of turned on, and Katy flashes me a small, totally unexpected smile, as though she’s finally found something to like about me. I feel extremely uncomfortable under this spotlight so I clap my hands together in an attempt to break everyone from their stunned trances and exclaim, “Okay! My turn, right? Jake, right back at you. Truth or dare?”
The focus is instantly shifted, and within minutes everyone is laughing and jeering again as Jake peels off his pants and sets out to fulfill my dare of running to the end of the hallway and back in only his boxers. And before long, everyone has forgotten about my moment of truth.
That is, everyone but me.
Dancing in the Dark
The game continues into the early hours of the morning and I can’t remember ever having so much fun. Over the course of the evening, I’ve learned that Jake has nightly fantasies about his physics teacher; Brian walked in on his parents having sex when he was seven, thought they were wrestling, and asked if he could play; and during those two weeks when Katy was supposedly on a cruise with her family, she was actually getting a boob reduction.
As the night goes on and we all get a little loopier from the lack of sleep, the dares get more and more outrageous, and despite my better judgment, at about two-thirty a.m., I find myself answering, “Dare,” when the question comes back around to me.
“Ha!” Katy squeals in delight. She appeared to have magically forgotten about her grudge against me hours ago. “I gotta come up with something really good now.”
I watch her face as she plots my demise and I’m fully expecting to have to shed at least one item of clothing.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” she finally says, tickling her top lip with her tongue. “You have to go into the bathroom, lock the door, and turn out the lights for a full five minutes.”
“That’s it?” I ask incredulously, thinking I’ve gotten off easy.
“Oh,” she adds nonchalantly, as if this next detail were just a casual afterthought, “and you have to take Brian with you.”
The room erupts with whistling and catcalls as I look over at Brian and feel my face get hot. “Katy…” I try.
“Nuh-uh,” she stops me. “A dare is a dare.”
So I reluctantly stand up and beckon for Brian to come with me. “All right, let’s get this over with,” I say, rolling my eyes and heading for the bathroom. Brian enters right behind me and closes the door. The tile is cold against my bare feet. “This is so stupid.” I cross my arms and lean against the counter.
He nods but doesn’t say anything.
“Lights off!” I hear Katy call from the other room. “We can see the light from under the door.”
Brian looks to me as he rests his hand on the light switch.
“Whatever,” I say with a shrug, and he hits the switch.
Darkness instantly surrounds me. The only sliver of light comes from the crack under the door, not enough to light Brian’s face or any of the fixtures around the bathroom.
There’s an awkward silence that falls between us, and for a second I wonder if he’s even still there. Then I hear a creak in the floor and I realize that he’s repositioning himself. To where, I have no idea. I can’t see a freaking thing.
“This is so stupid,” I say again, knowing full well that I’m just repeating myself. “What do they expect us to do in here?”
Brian chuckles. “Make out, I guess.”
This makes me laugh. Hard. Like I’m seriously keeled over. I’ve never heard of such a crazy notion. Make out with Brian Harris? Heimlich? Yeah, right. Why would I want to do that? I mean, he’s my debate partner. And…
And…
Well, that’s enough. Everyone knows you shouldn’t mix business with pleasure.
“Is it really that funny?” Brian asks. I can’t see his face but from the tone of his voice, it almost sounds like he’s offended. It’s then that I realize I’m still laughing. But it’s not like an uncontrollable fit of giggles. It’s more like this nervous, drawn-out stutter of a laugh. An empty sound with absolutely no emotion behind it.
Because in reality, it’s not that funny.
I’m just trying to fill the space.
“This is stupid,” I say for a third ti
me. “I can’t even see you. I don’t even know where you are!”
I reach my hand out into the void and it lands on the soft fabric of Brian’s T-shirt. Evidently, he was closer than I thought. I can feel his loosely defined chest muscles under the cotton. And despite the fact that I’ve now successfully established exactly where he is, for some reason my hand doesn’t move. Or rather, I can’t seem to move it. It stays there, planted on the front of his chest, as though it has a mind of its own. The proximity shoots tingles up my arm, across my shoulder, and right into my heart.
I can’t really explain what comes over me next. Maybe it’s the darkness. Or maybe the darkness has absolutely nothing to do with it. But I feel my fingers start to curl, the fabric snagging into my grasp until I’m literally clinging to his shirt. Then I just pull.
Despite the pitch blackness, his lips land right on mine. Like a magnet to metal. Drawn together by an invisible force. Our mouths are dancing. A perfectly choreographed routine. And yet it’s our first time performing it. Some things don’t require practice. Some things simply work on the first try.
I reach up and touch his hair. You would think, from the way it looks, it would feel coarse and wiry, but it’s nothing like that. It’s soft and thick and amazing.
His hands wrap around my hips and slip under the back of my tank top. His fingers dig into my sides and suddenly I’m in the air, being lifted. My butt lands on the countertop. I can feel the hard porcelain of the sink basin digging into my left thigh. All the while, his lips never leave mine. Our dance never stops.
He leans into me and I wrap my ankles around the back of his legs, pulling him closer. His hands are still tightly clasping my exposed waist, pressing into my skin so hard that I can feel the white imprints of his fingertips start to form.
I am completely lost. I can’t remember where I am or how I got here. My body feels separate from my mind. In fact, I can’t even remember what my mind is for. Time no longer exists.
I don’t even hear the click of the bathroom door as it opens. I don’t even see the light from the hotel room as it floods the room. I don’t even feel the eight pairs of eyes on us. That is, until the heckling starts. Followed by the catcalls and the whooping sounds and the laughter.
Brian pulls away from me with a chagrined laugh and I untangle my legs from around him and attempt to hide my face behind his shoulder, mortification paralyzing my entire body.
Meanwhile the jeering never stops. I have a feeling it won’t for a long, long time. I guess I should have known that any good dance routine is eventually going to attract an audience.
BFF, WTF
Truth or Dare is not cheating.
It’s only a game. A bunch of people, milling around in a hotel room in Colorado Springs with nothing better to do than dare each other to steal away into darkened bathrooms. Besides, it’s not like Hunter and I are officially a couple or anything. I mean, we haven’t even gone on a first date! So really, I have nothing to feel guilty about. Absolutely zilch. Especially because that little escapade with Brian was completely insignificant. It didn’t mean a thing. If you place any two people in a darkened room—whether it be a coat closet or a supply room or a hotel bathroom—something is bound to happen. It’s only natural.
I chalk up the whole thing to simple biology. And peer pressure. Lots and lots of peer pressure. We were practically expected to make out.
But I do think it’s probably best that I quit the debate team. For everyone.
I know I didn’t poll my blog readers or make an official “choice” about it, but I’m just not sure the debate team is really what I should be doing right now. And let’s face it, it’s not like I joined because I was actually interested in debate. I joined because I was given the choice to join and my blog readers thought it was a good one. And I fulfilled my obligation to them. I went for it. I tried it. I had some good times in the process and now that’s that. I’m grateful for the opportunity but I don’t see why I have to continue doing something I was never really all that keen on doing in the first place. There’s nothing wrong with trying new things, but eventually there comes a time when you have to take a step back and be perfectly honest with yourself and say, “Yes, that was fun, but it’s really not for me.”
I have no doubt Brian will understand. In fact he’ll probably even be somewhat relieved. I can’t imagine this has been very fun for him. I mean, the endless hours of coaching he’s had to do. I’m sure I’ve been quite a burden over the past couple of weeks. He deserves a debate partner who will help him move forward, not hold him back.
When I get downstairs on Monday morning, I find a note from my mom explaining that she and my dad both had early meetings and I’m going to have to take the bus to school. With a frustrated sigh I grab a granola bar from the pantry, sling my bag over my shoulder, and tromp out the door. I pull my jacket tight around me to stave off the mid-November chill and the small flurries of snow that have started to fall and brace myself for the long walk to the bus stop.
But I don’t get very far. In fact, I don’t even make it to the curb. Because idling in the driveway, with the motor running, is a car I’ve never seen before. A shiny silver SUV (one of those expensive kinds) with tinted windows and dealer license plates that indicate it’s fresh off the lot. I squint into the windshield, trying to make out the identity of the mysterious driver. I see flashes of long blond hair and before I can try to match them to a name and a face, the driver’s-side door swings open and a pair of designer red leather boots clack onto the pavement.
And there’s only one person I know who owns shoes like those.
“Brooks!” Shayne choruses as she flounces around the front of the car and pulls me into this very awkward, zero-body-contact hug. I stand there with my arms hanging limp at my sides and my mouth slightly agape as she air kisses my left cheek.
“How do you like my birthday present?” Shayne bubbles as she turns around and motions to the oversize vehicle in my driveway like one of those bikini-clad spokesmodels standing on a revolving platform at a car show.
“But your birthday’s not until next month,” I point out because it’s really the only thing that’s coming to mind right now. Even though “What the bleep are you doing here?” would probably be the more appropriate combination of words.
She shrugs at this and giggles mischievously. “I know, but my dad bought it for me early. And I’m allowed to drive it as long as my mom doesn’t find out.”
“But you don’t have a license yet” is the next lame thing that exits my mouth.
She shrugs this off, too, as though it’s just a technicality. A typo. As insignificant and unremarkable as accidentally adding an extra period to the end of a sentence..
Although, honestly, I’m not surprised by the fact that Shayne’s dad bought her a car even though she’s too young to drive it. Her father indulges her every desire. It’s his way of winning her over. One-upping his ex-wife. Buying his daughter’s love. And he certainly can afford it.
What does surprise me, however, and what I still can’t figure out, is why she’s chosen to drive this particular indulgence here. Although I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with my instapopularity around school lately.
“So, do you want a ride?” she asks, strutting back to the car and nodding her head in the direction of the passenger seat.
She asks the question as though it’s nothing. As though we’re still the very best of friends—the high-ranking general and her second in command—and nothing has ever happened or could happen to tear us apart.
I continue to stand there, my shoulders slightly hunched, feeling like the world around me has been translated into Japanese and I don’t have a dictionary.
“Come on,” she urges me, making a shivering sound. “It’s cold out here. Get in. We have loads to catch up on.”
I look up right in time to see the big yellow bus drive by, effectively leaving me with very few other options than to obey the order Shayne has cl
everly disguised as a request. Because now it’s either this or walk to school. And that would probably put me at the front entrance around the end of lunch…with a mild case of hypothermia.
I shuffle hesitantly over to the passenger-side door and reach out to test the handle for booby traps. You know, just to make sure this is not some kind of hidden-camera prank designed to humiliate me on YouTube. But apart from the frosty metal stinging my fingertips, the door appears to be relatively harmless. So I open it, toss my bag on the floor, and climb up into the seat. Like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole, I allow myself to be lured into this strange upside-down dimension. If for no other reason than genuine curiosity.
Brooklyn in Wonderland
“So, how have you been?” she asks as soon as she’s backed out of my driveway.
I shrug and glance out the window, still not sure what to make of the fact that I’m sitting in Shayne Kingsley’s car. “Fine.”
“You look good,” she says, peering at me out of the corner of her eye. “I like your hair that way.”
As much as I hate myself for it, the compliment feels good. Comforting. Like when you get a phone call from an old friend you haven’t talked to in years.
“I heard about you and Hunter,” she continues, flipping on her blinker and taking a left out of the subdivision. “I think it’s awesome.”
I turn and gape at her. What is she talking about? I tell myself to just ignore the comment. Not to engage myself in whatever game she’s playing. But my mouth speaks without permission. “What did you hear?”
“That he asked you to the winter formal,” she explains. “He’s really hot. You know, for a high school guy. You two make a cute couple.”
She turns and flashes me a smile. What astonishes me most is not the smile itself, but the fact that it doesn’t appear in the least bit fake. It’s not the same one I saw a month ago in the cafeteria when she dismissed me in front of everyone. And believe me, if anyone can recognize the difference, it’s me. As hard to believe as it is, her smile appears to be genuine. The kind I used to see on her, back when we were just two friends hanging out in her room, gossiping about boys. And suddenly I feel a pang of nostalgia. Because despite the fact that she totally ditched me without a second thought, despite the fact that she can be manipulative and conniving and completely insufferable, we did have some really fun moments together over the years. And Shayne is not all evil. There are some good parts about her, too. For instance, if someone wrongs you—like a teacher, or a parent, or another student—you can always count on Shayne for sympathy. She’s the first one to make you feel better by calling the offender dirty names and telling you why they’re not worth your time. Or if you’re having a bad day, Shayne’s the first person to offer to ditch class with you and treat you to a mani/pedi or spa treatment compliments of her dad’s platinum Amex. I mean, she’s certainly not perfect, but she was still my best friend. And I still feel her absence.