Truth or Dare

by Non Pratt

  “Like you wash your own clothes,” I say, with a grin. “Bet your mum does it.”

  Sef pauses for a moment, not quite looking at me. “Not any more she doesn’t – Mum’s got more important things to worry about than laundry.”

  It’s unusual for Sef to even mention something like this and I feel a fool for making the joke. It’s too easy to forget how different Sef’s life is from mine.

  There’s a nudge on my shoulder. “Had to google how to use the washing machine first time I tried, though.”

  After lunch we pay a visit to the National Portrait Gallery. Twenty minutes later we’re escorted off the premises. Doing the dares is addictive and I’m giddy on broken rules, my mood bubbling over, making me as silly as Sef, falling into him as I giggle along the pavement until we find somewhere I can pretend to busk.

  Half an hour of singing the theme tune to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on repeat sobers me up – having to perform in one place, where it’s obvious people can see me, is hard and I’m relieved once it’s over. Funny as it sounded on the card, I’m not sure anyone’s going to want to watch the full thing and already my mind is whirring away, trying to think about how I can edit it into something more appealing, more funny, more shareable.

  “We’ve got time for one more,” I say, looking at my watch and glancing up at Sef. “Why don’t you do a car walk?”

  Sef picks the road and fear pinches at my throat – these cars are expensive, but Sef is insistent. I set up with my back to the sun so Sef will come running along the roofs of the cars towards the light. Lifting my arm, I see him wave back in reply at the far end of the street before I bring mine down in a swoop to start filming.

  Halfway along the row, there’s a shout from one of the flats and Sef spins round on the roof of a shiny black Mercedes to look at the man hanging out of a second-storey window.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” the man bellows and I zoom in on Sef’s face as he turns back to camera, genuinely scared.

  “Run!” I yell at him, but instead of jumping off the car and onto the pavement, Sef bounds across the last few cars in the row. A door slams further down the street, voices shouting at us as Sef leaps from the roof of the last car.

  “Go, go, go!”

  In a scrabble of arms and legs, the pair of us pelt off round the corner, almost colliding with a mum and buggy. Our momentum carries us through a break in the traffic on the main road, my heart in my mouth as I dash out in front of a slow-moving taxi. My lungs burn, limbs turning to jelly when Sef slows abruptly and pulls me into a crowded pub. No one notices as we both pile into the first toilet, pressing ourselves into the tiny little cubicle.

  Neither of us speaks, hearts and breath slowing as we stand, tensed, listening for someone thundering in after us.

  “I think we lost them,” I whisper after a few minutes.

  “Best to be safe.” Sef pulls off his T-shirt so that I’m confronted by his bare chest before he turns round, balling his top up with his eye mask and stuffing it in his rucksack. I try not to stare at the curve of muscle on his shoulders, the soft sweep of his spine, but it’s hard when the only other place to look is the toilet bowl.

  I’m relieved when he tugs down his hoodie and I can stop pretending that I’m cool with being this close to a half-naked boy.

  “Reckon I’ll just zip my coat up,” I say.

  “Shame.” And he winks at me, the git.

  CHAPTER 13

  Saturday morning, I drive down to Devon with Mum to stay with Grandad and “Call me Nan if you want” Sylvia. Mum takes work with her, which means I get away with the same – no one needs to know I’m going through the London footage rather than actual schoolwork. In truth, I’m falling behind in that department without Seren around to guilt me into working harder.

  It’s been annoying, though, missing a session with Kam. My contact with Sef, Rich – even Seren’s silence – can coast along on my phone, but my friendship with Kam relies on time spent together. He’s only recently started to recognize me and I’m worried about the effect of having a two-week gap.

  We get back late the next Saturday and when I ask Dad if he’ll drive me to the Rec in the morning, he seems surprised.

  “Thought you’d want a lie-in?” His attention slides to the clock on the cooker while I appreciate the luxury of a coffee-machine hot chocolate before bed.

  “I want to see Kam more,” I say.

  Kam’s room at the Rec is not sympathetic to my lack of sleep. It’s warmer here than at home and I’m stifling unwelcome yawns every other sentence until one finally breaks free.

  Kam huffs out a phlegmy breath of a laugh and I catch his eye. He looks thinner and more tired than when I last saw him, but he’s still much more expressive than when I first met him.

  “OK, you got me, this book is boring,” I say. “You can choose a different one.”

  I’ve taken to bringing a bag of books from home with me every time I come. We never finish any of the ones we start, but so long as that doesn’t matter to Kam, it doesn’t matter to me.

  “Would you like this one…” I frown at the cover of what looks like it might be a detective thing and hold it up in my left hand. “… or this?”

  The one in my right has a more exciting cover with a silhouette of someone looking up at a colourful sky packed with stars.

  Kam holds his gaze steady on the second option for as long as he can.

  “The spacey one.” I hold it forwards. Then I swap the two around and wait for him to choose the same cover again, which he does. You have to do this in case the person you’re asking looked in a certain direction by accident – like so many other things, Kam’s eyesight has been affected by his injury.

  But when I reach into the bag to put the rejected book back, I find another that makes me smile.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer this?” I bring it out and show him the cover of a super trashy, super ancient romance book.

  Kam laughs.

  “Is the shirtless pirate putting you off?”

  He laughs some more, his head moving a little in what might be a nod.

  “No shirtless pirates, got it…” I say with a grin and when he looks at me, there are crinkles around his eyes like there are in the photo with his friends.

  Rich messages me after lunch while I’m posting the London videos on the channel. They’re unlisted for now – Sef can choose what order they go live.

  You back?

  Yes.

  Do you want to come out tonight?

  I frown at my phone. Rich knows full well that I prefer to stay in. “Out” implies strangers. That I might have to talk to. You can’t filter them in the real world the way you can online. In a bar or a house party or wherever it is Rich wants to go the conversations are private, you can’t just sidle up, listen in and then repeat someone’s joke back to them while crying with laughter or they’ll think you are weird.

  Not really.

  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.

  Why? Where?

  Gemma’s friend’s band is playing at some gig. She asked if I wanted to go.

  Well? Do you?

  Yes.

  Then what do you need me for?

  Company. I’ve missed you.

  However annoying he is, I’ve missed Rich too.

  The music that claws at my ears as we walk down the corridor gets swallowed up by soft bodies and the swell of half-shouted conversations in the main bar. I can’t see Gemma, but I’m distracted by a boy wearing a ski hat with a unicorn horn emerging from it, shouting, “I’m a NARWHAL!” and attacking his friend, who has FUCK THE WORLD DEAD written on his T-shirt.

  “Do you want a drink?” Rich asks. He’s already managed to smudge the stamp on the back of his hand that marks him out as underage.

  “No, thanks,” I say and he gives me a look like he thinks I’m not trying. “Fine. You can buy me a Fanta, but I’m coming with you. I don’t want to stand around on my own.”
<
br />   We queue in other people’s personal space by the bar until Rich hands me a warm can of Fanta that I sip through a straw.

  “What?” I say, noticing him frown.

  “Are you wearing make-up?”

  I’d applied a little of the knowledge I’ve gained from dressing up for the channel to tonight’s look. Possibly a little too much.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Weird.” On seeing my stare, Rich adds. “Good weird.”

  I think of sucking up a mouthful of Fanta and using the straw to spray it in his face.

  We find Gemma with some of her friends from outside of school and there’s a brief round of introductions that mean nothing to any of us. Eventually, after half an hour pretending I’m part of the conversation, there’s a squeal of guitars from the next room. The live music is so loud that conversation is (thankfully) impossible. In front of me Gemma keeps standing up on tiptoes and holding her mouth close to Rich’s ear to shout something to him. Each time, she rests her hands lightly on his back, as if to balance herself. Between songs, Rich leans in to say something to her and when he’s finished talking, he doesn’t move back to where he was, but stands with Gemma, arms touching, his finger tracing patterns on the skin of her wrist once the next song starts up.

  Bored, I open up my phone and message Sef.

  Which video did you go with?

  Check the channel yourself!

  Can’t. Am at a gig.

  A GIG? Who even are you?

  A dark horse … who does not want to be at this gig.

  There’s the Claire I know and love.

  What you up to?

  Work. Yawn. You could come and distract me?

  If only. Maybe next time.

  I glance over to where Rich is brushing Gemma’s hair away from her ear.

  I send another message. One tapped out a little more savagely than any I’ve sent to Sef.

  Good to know that ruining your friendship with Seren hasn’t put you off making the moves on Gemma.

  I watch as Rich feels his phone go, before turning round to give me a wounded look. Rolling my eyes, I turn away to go and treat myself to another lukewarm Fanta, leaving him to it.

  NOVEMBER

  CHAPTER 14

  Kissing on Sunday, kebab shop on Monday, awkward “So, would you, um, are we like … do you want to be my girlfriend?” conversation on Tuesday and Denver Richards and Gemma Brogan are a bona fide, blue-tick couple.

  Ruin a friendship and reap a relationship – that’s Rich for you. I’d like nothing more than to talk to Seren about it but she blanks me during Thursday’s registration and when she gets up to walk to Maths, it’s with Vijay and Isaac, not me. I watch as James Blaithe bounds up to join them, stung that Seren can forgive my worst enemy, but not her best friend.

  In French, later, Madame Cotterill gets us all to research different medical maladies, then invites us up to the doctor’s desk. James, who thinks that saying English words in a French accent is enough to get by, says he has “an ’orrible cold”, which he demonstrates by sneezing all over the place and annoying the teacher.

  Next to me, Seren flicks through the textbook, writing down phrases I barely recognize as French.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

  She looks up sharply, then sees that I’m talking about the work.

  “Malaria. I’ve just been on holiday to the Côte d’Ivoire and didn’t take my tablets properly.”

  “I have a broken leg,” I say, even though she didn’t ask.

  Seren looks a bit irritated with me and I know it’s because she thinks I’ve gone for the easy option. All I’ve got written on my notepad is “Mon jambe est cassé”.

  “Je me suis cassée la jambe,” she corrects. “And think of how you did it.”

  There’s a tap on my shoulder and someone hands me a note. Gemma wants to know if I’m going to be watching the West Bridge game tonight.

  Wasn’t planning on it, I reply, passing the note back. When I twist to face the front, Seren’s returned to her textbook and, without looking up, she says, “You two seem to be getting friendly now Gemma’s going out with Rich.”

  I could point out that I’ve always been friendly with Gemma, but I’m willing to sacrifice the truth in favour of conversation.

  “Pretty weird, huh?”

  Seren’s pen pauses halfway through the word “oublié”. “You mean, pretty weird that one month ago Rich’s supposed love for me was so overwhelming that he had to tell me and now he’s chuffing along with someone else?”

  Before I can tell her that yes, that’s exactly what I meant, she’s called up to the front. All the time she’s up there with her malaria, I try and work out what I can do to make this right, when I should be more concerned about my broken leg. Madame Cotterill isn’t impressed that I respond to her question about how it happened by adopting the James BlaitheTM approach and replying, “Je ne sais pas!” accompanied by a Gallic shrug.

  The bell goes as I return to my desk and I pack up deliberately slowly, trapping Seren while everyone else files out.

  “I know what you mean about Rich,” I say. “About it being weird that Gemma’s just slotted into his life—”

  “And yours.”

  There’s hurt in the way she says it.

  “Seren—”

  Seren tips her chin back as if to indicate there’s someone behind me. “Good to know I’m so easy to replace.”

  When I turn and see Gemma waiting for me, Seren squeezes past without another word.

  “What’s up with her?” Gemma asks, watching Seren’s curtain of hair swishing with every step as she strides off down the corridor.

  “Ask your boyfriend…” I mutter darkly. I’m willing to take responsibility for being an idiot about what happened between him and Seren, but if my best friend won’t talk to me, she can’t be angry with me for talking to someone else.

  Have you seen this?

  I click on the link Sef’s sent. Onscreen two girls run around a park chasing pigeons on a speeded-up film. It’s almost exactly what I did when editing DARE: Catch the Pigeon! – right down to the Benny Hill background music – only I’d pause the sound every so often so the viewer could hear Sef cursing the pigeons he was trying to catch. Their video has loads of views and comments, but no credit.

  Did they donate?

  Sef’s in charge of monitoring the donations page, but the last time I looked, there was more money in the change pot on our kitchen table than in Kam’s fund.

  What do you think?

  And then:

  This isn’t working, Claire.

  I know, I say, not wanting to.

  Today is the twelfth of November and Kam only has four more months before his level of care changes. I think of the progress he’s made since I’ve known him – and how much more there is yet to be made. An additional six months of the kind of care that the Rec can provide could make a huge difference to how fast that progress is made.

  Another message comes in from Sef:

  You want to meet up?

  Now? It’s gone nine on a school night.

  You free?

  Hurrying downstairs, I poke my head in the sitting room to find Mum with a glass of wine and her laptop. Dad’s in the study. “Can I pop round to Rich’s? He only lives two roads over.”

  She glances at the bottom corner of her screen.

  “Bit late, isn’t it?”

  “Girlfriend trouble,” I lie. Rich and Gemma are probably at Rich’s house right now getting into a very different kind of trouble from the one I’m implying.

  “Home no later than eleven. Just this once.”

  Sef picks me up from our usual layby. I’m muffled up in one of Dad’s scarves and the heat of the car knocks the breath out of me so that I struggle to unwind myself as fast as possible. When I finally escape, Sef’s watching me, lips curled up in amusement.

  “You quite finished there?”

  “It’s cold out,” I say defensi
vely.

  “Where shall we go?” he asks.

  “Somewhere that means I’ll be back by eleven.” I notice the look he’s giving me. “Some of us aren’t allowed out on a school night.”

  Sef just laughs at me and pulls out in the direction of town. We go, surprisingly, to the arts cinema. The foyer is empty but for the girl working there, quietly wiping down the tables by the window. She’s the same one who was here before, with stylishly scruffy hair and a tattoo of a needle and thread stitching something along her collarbone.

  “Last showing went in thirty-five minutes ago,” she says with a sardonic slant to her eyebrows.

  “Just here for a drink, Mia.”

  She gives us a shrewd look and finds something to do over on the other side of the foyer.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Sef says, and I guess by the intensity of his fidgeting that he’s reluctant to actually tell me his thoughts.

  “About the channel?”

  “Yeah…” He starts plucking at the ring pull on his can of Coke. “So. Here’s the thing. We do the dares and ask people to pay to copy us. But that’s all the wrong way round. People need to pay first, then see the dares.”

  “Why would they pay, though?” That’s kind of the point of YouTube – it’s free.

  “We give them an incentive…” He’s refusing to look at me.

  “What kind of an incentive?”

  “Offer up dares worth paying for.”

  “Sef…” So far the most exciting dare I’ve done is licking a slug – and a human statue. Apparently Fate wants me to lick things.

  “The amount we’ve raised averages out at fifty-four pence per video. The money you’re planning on spending on a GoPro is more than we’re ever likely to make if we carry on like this.”

  This is the closest he’s ever come to acknowledging the privilege deficit between us and I’m hurt by the resentment that laces his voice.

  “I don’t mind you doing dares…” I start, wanting to change the subject. I only mentioned the GoPro idea to Sef the other week because we’d been talking about how cool it would be to have a head-cam. My parents spend money on me because it’s cheaper than time and I figured I could ask for a new camera as a birthday and Christmas present rolled into one.