Truth or Dare

by Non Pratt

  Coming at the end of my first full week of school, I’m not capable of much more than doodling tapirs in the margin of my notepad. Once the session is over, it takes me a while to pack away my things because of how overstuffed my bag is.

  “Everything OK, Claire?” William’s come over for some reason.

  “Seems to be.” I give him a bit of a confused stare. Should it not?

  “I didn’t want to single you out because of your age, but –” he thought he would anyway – “I wanted to see whether you had any further questions about dealing with someone who has neurodisability?”

  This feels like a trick question.

  “I – er – I planned on treating whoever I’m with like they’re a person.” Because that’s exactly what they are.

  “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I understand you might know one of our patients – Kamran Malik?”

  I nod. “He was at my school. We had an assembly about what happened.”

  William does something weird with his rubbery mouth. It might be a smile. “Excellent. Well, his family have indicated they’d be interested in having a volunteer visit him and I thought perhaps I’d talk to them about that volunteer being you?”

  “I’d really like that,” I say. It’s what I’ve been hoping for since that assembly.

  I head back to reception, past frosted-glass signs to the aquatherapy pool and the physio suite – there’s even one directing me to a private cinema. On the ground floor, I pass a woman using a walking frame. She’s helped by three other people as she makes slow but determined progress towards the double doors that lead out onto wide, flat lawns.

  This place isn’t what I’d expect of a hospital and, while I’d prefer never to have to, I could imagine worse places to stay.

  Outside, I take a seat on the low wall around the car park and get my phone out. Dad was supposed to be picking me up at half past, but I can’t see his car anywhere. When he answers, there’s the familiar fuzz of him Bluetoothing it in the car and a brief “There in ten!” before he hangs up.

  Which would be fine if my father measured minutes the same way as the rest of us. I find the Recreare’s Wi-Fi, unable to resist the toxic lure of #MilkTits. Knowing I shouldn’t isn’t enough to stop me, and a broken, pathetic part of me is almost disappointed when there are no new comments to feel bad about.

  There’s a bang over by reception. The double doors have swung wide open and a boy about my age walks out.

  The one I was looking for in that first assembly.

  Sef Malik is tall – gangly – his glasses are hipster cool (if you like that sort of thing), his hair is brushed back in a soft quiff and he’s the sort of stylish that just about pulls off a denim jacket and skinny jogger combo. His skin is brown, hair black, and I like the curve of his jaw and the slight hook of his nose.

  I like him.

  So I look away. If school has taught me anything, it’s that hot boys should be seen and not heard, spoken to or even fleetingly acknowledged. And… Oh God, what if he’s seen the video?

  I desperately tap away from what I’ve been watching as Sef’s footsteps draw too close.

  Then they stop.

  “Hey.”

  When I look up, he’s standing in front of me, the faded print on his grey T-shirt showing where his jacket pulls apart as he drums his fingers lightly on the roof of the car next to him.

  I try a cautious “Hi?”

  “You go to West Bridge then?” Sef nods at my uniform.

  “Er, yeah.” And because it’s socially acceptable for me to recognize everyone in the year above, I add, “So do you.”

  Sef’s fingers drum a little harder, a smile emerging fast and bright. “Do I now?”

  “I saw you in West Side Story. You were great as Tony.” Which makes the whole thing sound more legitimate and less stalkerish. Our race-bent adaptation made the local papers with the headline WEST BRIDGE SIDE STORY.

  “Thanks!” His proud glow warms me through. “Are you going to tell me my name too?”

  “Your name is Sef.”

  “Yousef, technically.” He pronounces it differently to the way Mr Chung did last week, swallowing the second syllable so that it sounds more like “suff”. “But you can only call me that if I’m in trouble.”

  My palms prickle at the look that accompanies those words. Sef is someone I imagine gets into a lot more trouble than me.

  “And are you going to tell me your name?” he asks.

  “Claire Casey.”

  Sef walks between the cars to sit next to me on my wall, close enough that if I’m not careful, I might brush his arm with mine.

  “So, Claire Casey, what are you doing sitting on a wall outside the Recreare?” He smells like pencil shavings and ginger biscuits.

  “Volunteering as a reader.”

  “A what?”

  “They have a scheme where you can come in and read to the residents and I’ve just had my training.”

  “For reading?”

  “It’s very complicated.” I nod knowledgeably and he smiles again. It’s pleasing. “They’ve said I might read to your brother, actually.”

  Sef’s joy dims, smile slipping, and his attention turns away from me to the car park, to the sky, to a worn patch on the cuff of his jacket, where he starts pulling at a thread.

  “Yeah, well, you’ll have to wait a while. Kam’s not moving here till next week and the post-traumatic amnesia means it’s going to take a while for him to settle in.” He flicks a glance up that doesn’t quite meet my eye. “Sorry. I must sound like a textbook.”

  “Not really,” I say, wishing I knew what post-traumatic amnesia actually was. “But if you’re not here visiting Kam…?”

  “Drove Mum up to drop some of his stuff off,” he explains. “Get the room ready.”

  I get the impression that this boy, shiny and confident as he seems, would rather talk about anything else in the world than what’s happening with his brother, so I reach for a desperate, “You drove?”

  It’s like magic. The second the subject changes, he perks up.

  “I did indeed.” Sef gives the Honda next to him an affectionate kick and casts me a glance that’s approaching smug. “Impressed?”

  I notice the L-plate. “I’ll reserve my admiration for when you pass.”

  “Why wait when I can take you for a spin now?” Sef’s up and off the wall, the keys slipped from his pocket before I can blink. “You coming?”

  His grin is irresistibly wicked.

  “For a ride in a strange car driven by someone yet to pass their test? No thanks.”

  “Her name is Mrs Bennet.”

  “You named your car Mrs Bennet?”

  “My brother did. It was that or Bent.” He nods at the letters on the number plate by way of explanation. “So now you’re acquainted with her…”

  “There’s still the small matter of you not having a full licence.”

  Sef shrugs like laws are for other people. “Go on, live a little. I dare you.”

  But there’s the sound of an engine by the entrance and a familiar black Audi pulls through the gates.

  “That’s my dad,” I say, wishing it wasn’t. “Gotta go.”

  The bricks catch at the back of my tights as I slide off the wall and by the time I’ve picked my bag off the floor, Sef is ahead of me, stepping out to open the passenger door of Dad’s car.

  “See you around, Claire Casey,” he says in a voice that’s low and pleasant and has a strange effect on my heart rate.

  As Dad turns the car round, I look over to where Sef is leaning on the boot of his car, arms crossed, watching. When he sees me, he lifts one hand up in a casual farewell.

  We’re pulling out of the gates as Dad says, “That’s an interesting shade of puce you’ve turned there, Little Bear.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Three weeks back at school and the bickering between Seren and Rich has escalated. Yesterday’s vicious faux feminism debate starte
d during afternoon break and carried on over messaging, with insults flashing from my bedside table long after I’d turned out the light and put my phone on to charge.

  It’s been no better this morning. I’ve had Seren in one ear and Rich in the other.

  “Rich is such an entitled toadling.”

  “… she’s so arrogant…”

  “He never lets me finish – has to interrupt whatever point I’m making.”

  “… insufferable…”

  “You can’t seriously think it’s feminist to have a half-clad woman with no head as your screensaver.”

  “… winds me right up.”

  I can’t face it over lunch too and head, via the vending machine, for the relative peace of the Media Suite. Miss Stevens is too busy talking to a sixth-former to take much notice of my violation of the no food or drink rule, and my heart does a double bounce when I recognize the back of Sef’s head. He’s not someone I’d expect to see in here.

  Ducking down behind a console, I take out the Fanta, Wotsits and Toffee Crisp that would have my mum sprinting for a NutriBullet and, with nothing better to read, I flip through the notes I made on viral marketing campaigns and admire the bullet point that consists solely of the word HASHTAG written in short savage strokes. Obviously I didn’t think there was much more to learn about the power of a catchy hashtag…

  “… talk to Claire.”

  The sound of my name has me knocking my Wotsits across the table and I look up, sheepish. Miss Stevens and Sef look down at me, one with a resigned arch of the eyebrows, the other suppressing a smile.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that,” Miss Stevens says. Then, to Sef, “If you want advice about starting a channel, Claire’s an expert on all things YouTube.”

  “Oh, me and Claire go way back,” Sef says, prompting a glance from Miss Stevens that would set Seren off on a rant about heteronormative assumptions.

  “Well, as I said, Claire’s an expert. I’ll leave you to it.” Miss Stevens nods at my crisps – “Don’t make any mess!” – and turns back to her desk.

  In one smooth and startling move, Sef sits down next to me and swipes a Wotsit from the table top.

  “Er, that’s my lunch you’re eating,” I tell him.

  “Nutritious.” He eyes the Toffee Crisp and Fanta. “And orange.”

  I nod, not really knowing what to say to that.

  “So what qualifies you as an expert?” he says, as he reaches for another Wotsit, from the packet this time.

  “A fierce YouTube habit, I guess. What did you want to know about starting a channel?” I’m surprised he’s not already into this, being a Drama type.

  Sef tuts, his leg bouncing a restless rhythm beneath the table. He’s wearing skinny jeans today. Dark purple.

  “Actually it was equipment I was after, not advice.” His leg is still going, but he doesn’t appear to want to say anything more.

  “Equipment for what?”

  “Something I didn’t want to tell Miss Stevens about.”

  “Or me?” I venture.

  “We don’t know each other.” His tone is so dismissive Sef may as well have backhanded me right in the face.

  “Right. OK,” I say, my voice tight, wishing Miss Stevens had never brought him over here.

  Sef’s leg has stopped moving, his gaze on me, eyes like needles. “Look –”

  “You don’t have to tell me—”

  “– it’s for Kam.” Sef pauses, weighing up how much more to say. “I want to set up a channel where people can donate to watch me do dares.”

  “OK.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “OK.” Maybe if I keep saying this Sef will stop looking at me like I’m trying to argue with him?

  “I’m sorry.” He runs a hand down his face like he’s tired of talking, but then he mutters something that sounds like, “Guess you should know.” Then a little louder, “He has six months.”

  “To live?!”

  Sef gives me a patronizing stare and I regret deviating from “OK”.

  “To get better,” he says.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “There’s no reason you would, but you asked, so…” Sef splays his hands like that’s all the explanation I’m going to get.

  What I gathered from training is that most brain injuries last a lifetime, one way or another, and from everything I’ve been told about Kam, his is a pretty big one. Like, change-the-rest-of-your-life massive. I don’t know what Sef means by getting better, but I can’t imagine much of it happening in under six months.

  “So … you want to raise money for his care?” I try.

  “If we want him to stay on at the Rec.” Sef glances up over the frame of his glasses. “Which we do.”

  “How much money?”

  “Sixty thousand pounds.”

  My mouth falls open and the words tumble out in a horrified whisper: “That’s loads.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sef says with a bitter twist to his mouth, as he stares down at the cartoon tapir Seren drew in my notebook.

  “I know you weren’t serious about asking for help…” I feel stupid for what I’m about to say. “But if you wanted any…?”

  “And what is it you’re offering, Claire Casey?” There’s a sceptical slant to his eyebrows. “You going to read to me, too?”

  That stings.

  “I’m offering ideas and time.” I pause before playing my trump card. “Equipment.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Do you think Rich has a problem with me? Seren writes in the margin of my French sheet.

  Did something happen at lunch? I write back.

  Didn’t see him. Seren isn’t someone who uses emojis on her phone or little faces in her notes and you have to actually look at her face to be sure what she’s feeling. She’s not happy.

  For all she acts like a crusading robot with a heart of tempered steel, my best friend isn’t quite as immune to insecurity as she pretends.

  Do you want me to ask Rich?

  Yes please.

  Rich and I have Art together next and after examining possible angles of subterfuge, I come out with, “So, what’s going on with you and Seren?”

  There. That should do it.

  Only Rich ignores me. He painstakingly adds a fraction of red to the blue he’s already got in his palette.

  “Rich? Did you hear me?”

  “We all heard you…” mutters Oliver Martinez from the other side of the table.

  Rich adds a touch more red before saying, “I’m just ignoring you.”

  “Well, don’t.” I reach over and brush a thick yellow line across his knuckles. “Or I’ll annoy you into talking to me.”

  He tuts and wipes off my brushwork, but he doesn’t blow up the way he would if I were Seren.

  “Fine. I’ll talk. Cease your torture. But not now, OK?” He makes his eyes go extra wide as if that’s supposed to mean something.

  “OK.” I make my eyes go wide too.

  “We’ve got a match tonight. Would you wait for me?”

  I had planned on going home to think about Sef and his channel…

  “Sure,” I say and Rich breaks out into the purest smile I’ve seen since term started.

  “It’ll be the first time you see me play as captain.”

  It turns out that Gemma Brogan’s at the match too, so while I sit on my coat and half-do some of my homework, she cheers and makes disparaging remarks about how useless her brother is in defence.

  “They should try a diamond formation in midfield,” Gemma says afterwards as we wait by the changing block.

  Since I did not pay enough attention to the match to know what this means, I go with a vague “Mm”.

  “Denver’s better with someone who can feed him a short ball.”

  Denver. I always find it funny when people use Rich’s real name. He hates it. Such a waste of a cool name.

  “Well, he couldn’t exactly have been worse, could he?” I say. �
�Strikers are supposed to score.”

  Gemma feeds me a short ball of a look and I shrug. There’s a swell of noise and a few of the players emerge from the changing room in a miasma of Lynx infused with the scent of mud and wet leather.

  Without even knowing whether James Blaithe is among them, I’ve crossed my arms, the stitches straining in the sleeves of my jumper as I pull it tighter around me.

  “Lads! We’ve a fan club.” James swaggers over and even Gemma, one of the more boy-confident girls in my form, shrinks away from him.

  “Go away, James. We’re not here for you.”

  “Speak for yourself, Brogues. Milk Tits and I are on intimate terms.”

  “No, we’re not,” I say, several decibels too quiet to be defiant.

  “That’s what you think.” And he bites his lip as he reaches down, pretending to jack off as he steps past. The rest of them – boys who aren’t even in my year – pat James on the back and laugh as my skin tries to crawl from my body and slither down the nearest drain.

  “I hate him,” Gemma says, leaning into me a little, offering comfort in solidarity.

  I nod along, thinking that what I really hate is how James makes me hate myself.

  At home, with no one more threatening than Rich around, I finally relax, pyjama bottoms on over my tights as I sit cross-legged on my bed with a tin of wasabi peas. My house isn’t the best for snacks and Rich has already fallen into a pit of First World despair at discovering the fizzy stuff in the door of the fridge is elderflower nonsense and not lemonade.

  “We should have got Mrs Brogan to drop us off at the corner shop,” I say as he picks out the sweet potato crisps from the bag of root vegetable crisps.

  “I fancy her,” he says.

  “Who? Gemma’s mum?”

  He gives me a look.

  “Gemma?”

  Rich frowns, tilting his head to the side. “Gemma’s all right, I guess.”

  All right? Gemma’s one of the most attractive girls in our year with a ridiculously stylish haircut and the sort of figure that makes me think (fleetingly) about taking up sport.