Truth or Dare

by Non Pratt

  “Who, then?”

  I’m rootling around in my pea tin, vaguely thinking about confessing to Rich that I’ve been talking to Sef Malik, when he replies, “Seren.” And then, “Stop looking at me like that.”

  Apparently my mouth has fallen open.

  “You fancy Seren?” I sound like it’s impossible to believe, but it’s not. Seren looks like an angrier, plumper version of a young Catherine Zeta-Jones and even the Cave Boys have been known to give her thoughtful looks.

  It’s just that Rich’s crush – anyone’s – is doomed to failure.

  Girls, boys, whatever, Seren just isn’t interested. She’s asexual and pretty political about it – Seren’s campaigning is the reason West Bridge has such comprehensive LGBTQ+ lessons in PSHE.

  “You can’t fancy Seren,” I tell him helpfully.

  “And yet, I do.”

  “Have you tried, just … not?”

  “Because it’s that easy.”

  I love how Rich thinks he’s the first of us to experience an unrequited crush, when they make up ninety-five per cent of my love life.

  “You’ll have to get over it,” I say, because that really is his only option.

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

  What I think he’s been doing is punishing Seren for the way he feels about her, but I’m not sure my pop psychology would go down too well. Instead, I put my peas to one side and shuffle over to give Rich a consoling hug.

  “Ignore it until it goes away.” I pat his back. “And in the meantime, try being nice to her.”

  “Rich is really starting to grow into himself,” Mum says later over the miniscule M&S meal for two that meant having him stay for tea wasn’t an option.

  “I guess.” Rich has always been passable, but his skin’s looking better these days and his hair’s grown nicely – along with his chesticles – but he’s still just Rich. I can feel Mum’s speculation regardless. “No, Mum. Don’t even think it. I would rather eat my own vomit than go there.”

  “Claire!”

  “Don’t give me those sorts of looks then.” I poke at a rubbery mushroom. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Busy with other things.”

  “Having an affair with the vicar?”

  “Assuming you’re using ‘the vicar’ as a euphemism for ‘his spreadsheets’, then yes.”

  There’s no high ground for the taking when it comes to work. Since Mum’s company moved offices, she’s been coming home late too. The pair of them have been arguing about her looking for a new job, forgetting that it doesn’t matter if I’m three rooms away on a different floor – I can still hear them if they shout.

  Once tea’s cleared, Mum goes to take a conference call while I head upstairs to research things Sef could do for his channel. The next I see of her is when she puts her head round my door on her way to bed, warning me not to stay online too late. I don’t see Dad at all, but I hear him creeping past my door, trying to hide how late home he is the same way I’m hiding the light of my laptop under the duvet.

  CHAPTER 5

  Saturday night and I find it hard to sleep, my mind flipping between what I’m doing tomorrow morning, when I visit Kam for the first time, and what I’ll be doing in the afternoon, when I meet Sef. Nervous as I am about spending time with Sef, imagining multiple scenarios that end up with him laughing at me, it’s his brother I’m more concerned about, trainer William’s words haunting my thoughts.

  It takes a certain character to withstand the confusion of the unfamiliar and see through to the person for whom such confusion is their life.

  What if I don’t have that character? What if I do something completely dreadful and insensitive? What if I find out I’m not the person I want to be?

  It’s William who meets me in reception, signing me in and pointing out where the cafe is as we pass, leading me through the building and up some stairs where there’s a sign for the BUELLER WING. I have to press a buzzer to enter and he hands me over to the charge nurse, Adele Goethe.

  “You’re Claire, are you?” She has an Australian accent and a firm handshake. “Let’s go find your friend, Kam.”

  “I – er…” I have to hurry to keep up. “He’s not exactly my friend, we went to the same school, but he’s three years older than me and we didn’t…”

  Nurse Goethe looks confused. “But you’re friends with his family?”

  “His brother.” Maybe. I’m not sure what we are yet, but my answer seems to suffice.

  Kam’s room is empty when we get there and Nurse Goethe leaves me in the doorway while she goes to find him.

  There’s a window opposite, a globe and some Lego on the windowsill and framed posters on the wall: nerd-boy classics Planet of the Apes (the original) and The Big Lebowski either side of Moon, one of my top films of all time. Edging inside to see what’s on the nearest wall, I find an enormous photo collage, with a few special snaps in individual frames arranged on the chest of drawers underneath.

  The first picture is of Kam’s parents with a younger boy that must be Amir. Looking at him now, I recognize him as being in the same year as Rich’s sister, although he looks a lot happier in this picture than I’ve ever seen him at school. They’re posing along the Thames with the Houses of Parliament in the background and Mr Malik looks like he wishes the photographer would get on with it. I can see where Sef gets his glasses and his height from, if not his looks. His mum is shorter, wider, rounder, with a girlishly pretty smile.

  Next to this there’s one of the three brothers. Amir is a child, arms crossed, smile broad as he takes pride in posing with his brothers and Sef’s stooping slightly like he’s not yet used to being tall. Between them stands Kam. Short and broad and strong, confidence rolling off him, hands resting on the picnic table behind him, ankles crossed as he cocks his head at the camera.

  It’s an attitude echoed in the last picture, set inside one of those cardboard frames that comes with a school-endorsed photo. Kam and his friends – two boys I recognize, without knowing their names – arms round each other for the formal photo taken at the Leavers’ Cruise along the Lay.

  The sight brings a lump to my throat that I can’t seem to swallow.

  “Claire?” The voice at the door makes me jump and I flush pink with guilt as Nurse Goethe looks in. She frowns, then steps back to let someone in.

  To push someone in.

  Kam’s wheelchair is tall, supporting his spine, a cushioned brace stopping his head from lolling too far over and a footplate keeping his legs in a comfortable position. There’s a tray across the front of the chair, where one of his hands rests, the other crooked up towards his chest, fingers curled inwards. His hair’s shaved shorter than in the photo with his friends, an observation followed by a rush of comprehension when I see the dressing strapped to his skull.

  William’s words of warning about how a brain injury can affect someone’s appearance have not prepared me for the change in Kam’s face.

  There’s a doughiness to his cheeks, as if the muscles beneath have softened, giving his whole expression a lack of purpose. His eyes – a more distinctive bronze than Sef’s – have none of the same spark and when I try to meet his gaze, Kam’s attention slides off me to rove around the room.

  There’s so little of the Kam I knew in the one I’m here to see that it is impossible not to feel wholly and uncontrollably horrified.

  “Claire, this is Kam,” Nurse Goethe says. “Kam, this is Claire.”

  I swallow, determined not to cry. Not everything in this world is about me, and Kam does not want my pity.

  “Hi, Kam,” I say.

  An hour is a long time to read out loud. It’s also a long time for Kam to have to concentrate on anything and he falls asleep several times during our session – although given the book I was reading, I can’t blame him.

  “That went well,” Nurse Goethe says on the way out.

  I say nothing, still processing just how severe Kam’s condition is. When I’d
started reading, he’d been fretful, forcing out low, strained moans as I talked and each time he woke up, he seemed startled to see me still there. Apparently he won’t recognize me next week, either – new memories are hard for Kam to make.

  Sensing my mood, Nurse Goethe slows to a halt. “How do you feel about it?”

  “I thought Kam would be using communication aids?”

  Nurse Goethe looks at me with a gentle sort of pity. “He will eventually, but Kam has complex cognitive issues and he’s only been with us for a couple of weeks. Progress will be slow across many different aspects of his life, including his communication skills.”

  “Would he be able to choose what book to read next week?” I ask, thinking of how dull the book was that I’d picked off the shelf outside his door and wanting to give Kam some control over the session too.

  “Perhaps not next week,” Nurse Goethe says, “but in time you’ll be able to present him with options and see if he wishes to choose.”

  “Are you sure that went well?”

  Nurse Goethe sighs. “I thought this was what you wanted—”

  “I do.” My vehemence surprises her. “But I don’t want to assume that’s what Kam wants, just because it’s what I want.”

  “Then trust someone who’s been working with him, who knows his moods.” She softens once more. “If you spend time with him regularly, as you plan to, you’ll come to understand Kam better – and he will come to know you. It just takes time.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Sef said to meet him at the arts cinema at the end of Halstead Street, where all the edgier people from school buy one-of-a-kind second-hand clothes. Walking past windows dressed with vintage evening gowns under grandad cardies and racks of Georgian-era military jackets, I glance at my unremarkable checked-shirt-over-vest-over-long-sleeved-tee combo. Even my shoes are generic.

  The cinema itself is up two flights of steps, the walls lined with posters for the sort of films I can never persuade my friends to watch. At the top, I take a moment to regain my breath and my dignity before opening the doors to a foyer of flaking gold columns and a once-plush maroon carpet.

  Sef is sitting with his back to me at one of the tall tables by the window. The collar’s turned up on his black polo shirt and the afternoon sun cuts a slice of gold across his shoulders, highlighting the word STAFF.

  I like him too much for this to be a good idea, but last night’s feverish conviction that Sef is only humouring me doesn’t seem quite so important now that I’ve actually met Kam. It doesn’t matter whether I’m about to make a monumental idiot out of myself – I still want to try.

  Sef is charming and I blossom under the attention, smiling as he talks and laughing at his jokes. Flipping through my notes, he scans the things I’ve jotted down, asking questions like he’s genuinely interested in the answers.

  “Who’s Moz?” He points to where I’ve written a list of single-camera vloggers.

  “His channel’s called MozzyMozzaMeepMorp—”

  “That’s a ridiculously long name.” Sef twinkles with amusement.

  “He’s good at what he does…” I fizzle out with a shrug, losing confidence as rapidly as I’d found it. No one I talk to has ever watched his stuff, but Moz has hundreds of thousands of viewers and I find his videos addictive.

  On the next page I’ve boiled my plan down to three bullet points. It doesn’t look like much.

  Sef plays truth or dare to the camera (picks own)

  Invite viewers to donate and then copy the video, linking their post back to channel

  Grow audience and invite people to post challenges in the comments

  “How much am I asking them to donate?”

  “A couple of pounds.” He glances up, disappointed, and I add, “People won’t donate if you ask for too much. That’s all people had to donate for the Ice Bucket Challenge and that made millions.”

  It’s an optimistic comparison, but the principle still stands.

  My phone goes before I can say any more and I step away to answer it, getting it in the neck because Mum forgot I said I’d be out all day and she wants me to help in the garden. Such is my vibrant teenage life.

  Sef’s been flipping further through my notes to the page where I brainstormed brand identity, but when I finish my call and see what he’s looking at, I want to reach over and flip the book shut.

  “Ignore that,” I say, trying to pull my notes back across the table. “I was just messing about.”

  I’d been thinking about how Sef could make his channel stand out and latched onto the idea of him having an alter ego, like a superhero, and started sketching a few designs – only I got a bit carried away with the superhero thing and added a sidekick.

  Me.

  “It’s good!” Sef keeps a firm hold of the notebook and levels me with a look. “We should do this.”

  “Are you serious?” I say, because it’s very hard to tell whether Sef means anything he says.

  “Why not?” The energy that’s been humming through him all through our meeting has increased frequency.

  “It’s just … you’re an actor and stuff. Don’t you want to be the star?”

  He waves the suggestion away. “I’m better with someone to spark off –” my lungs contract in a hiccup of excitement at the way he looks at me – “and me and you, I reckon there’s a spark.”

  “Is there?” I manage as my ears reach the temperature required to melt right off my head.

  “You don’t think so?” Sef tips his head to one side and gives me a rakish grin. “And you say in your notes that we need a good brand…”

  “It doesn’t say anywhere that I’m a part of that brand!”

  “But you could be,” he says. I can almost believe he means it.

  “Can I think about it?”

  “No. You’re very good at thinking.” Sef taps the notes I’ve made, then runs a finger down the page to where the two be-masked figures strike superhero poses with Truth Girl and Dare Boy written on their T-shirts. “This is about your gut, Truth Girl…”

  Hearing him call me that feels strange.

  “I was only messing about!”

  “Messing about with me would be better, though.” My senses are so overloaded by Sef that it’s hard to know what I really feel – whether he can really be trusted.

  My instinct is to say no. I haven’t got it in me to face another #MilkTits situation. Every other second I’m in school, I’m fighting against an anxious narcissism, convinced everyone’s looking at me, whispering about me, laughing at me…

  Yet maybe what Sef’s offering is a way to build myself up? With the channel, I could dictate what I will and won’t do in front of a camera, I would be the one editing the result. I’d be hidden by a mask … no one would have to know it was me.

  Since James posted that video, I’ve been struggling with making eye contact with the boys at school, but I can’t seem to keep my gaze off Sef for more than a few seconds at a time and when I look up he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  I have a feeling it’s very difficult to say no to Sef Malik.

  OCTOBER

  CHAPTER 7

  In the next week, Sef sorts out the biggest of our problems by suggesting we film in his Uncle Danish’s static caravan while he’s away working on a building contract in Oman. I get the impression Sef wishes his uncle wasn’t gone for so long, but at least we’ll have a private studio with electricity and running water from now until the end of February.

  That’s the date by which the Recreare needs guarantee of funds to pay for another six months of Kam’s care. Long-term – “Level 2” – care at the Rec is limited, and expensive. Whenever I press Sef on how unfair this is, asking what will happen if there’s no money, he gets testy, as if by questioning the system I’m questioning whether Kam needs the care and I soon leave off asking. It’s not like griping about it is going to change anything.

  There’s a lot to be done before Saturday, whe
n we’ve agreed to start filming. My phone’s on overdrive, messages firing back and forth with Sef about T-shirt designs and eye masks and channel names and social-media accounts and how we’ll structure filming to maximize editing efficiency and what we’re actually going to film.

  We’ve been discussing that one since last night and I’m on the bus, my screen angled away from Rich, when yet another message comes through from Sef.

  Right, so, nothing illegal, nothing dangerous and no nudity… You do understand the concept of a dare, don’t you, Claire???

  I do. I also understand the concept of *getting people to copy us*.

  People are a lot less bothered by these things than you think they are, Sef replies and I resist the urge to type back a slightly snarky Only people like you!, distracting myself by reading what Rich has written about tidal drifts as he does Geography homework on his lap. If he knew what I was up to, Rich would tease me about spending so much time with a boy from the year above and Seren would pick everything apart with a brutal kind of logic that takes no account of the need for hope. For now, I’m keeping them out of it.

  I return to Sef.

  1) We can’t make any videos if we’re arrested. 2) We can’t make any videos if we’re dead. 3) Even if the dangerous things we do don’t kill us, how would we feel if they killed someone else because they’d copied us?

  I send it then add, Case closed.

  Rich and I have Computing first thing. While I thought my coding on point, it seems my grasp of error handling is so far off point that Mr Lester is unable to locate it. Still, he spends so long looking that by the time he’s done with me, everyone in my class has left and the sixth-formers who are in next push past me as I leave. When I get out into the corridor, I find there’s one who’s yet to make it into the classroom.

  Sef’s leaning nonchalantly against the wall, faffing with his phone.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” he says with a lazy sort of grin that does unprecedented things to my insides.