Truth or Dare

by Non Pratt

  “We’ve a way to go before someone pays for our hotel room,” Sef says with enough of a grin to make it cheeky rather than bitter.

  “Just the one room?” Moz cocks his eyebrows. “With just the one bed?”

  “Er. No.” I say and Moz throws his head back in a whoop of a laugh as Sef gives me a faux wounded look.

  The conversation has, at least, moved round to the reason we’re here and Moz turns serious – or at least, he shuffles to face us instead of sitting sprawled with his crotch out to the whole room.

  “So, any questions?”

  Neither of us wants to look a gift YouTuber in the mouth, but there is one question that I can’t find an answer for.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Why us?”

  “I like your channel.” He keeps a straight face for all of a second before a wolfish grin emerges. “OK, so here’s the deal. I have a massive audience that love me.” There’s a sardonic twist to Moz’s mouth as he says it. “I could write a book, drop a single, advertise an aftershave, print my face on a condom wrapper … whatever. They buy it, I’d make money. Big whoop.”

  Moz looks deeply unimpressed by the thought of this and I daydream about having so much money you don’t care about making any more.

  “Money doesn’t give me a kick. Do you know what does?”

  “Dares?” Sef’s guess lacks conviction. He’d take money over dares any day of the week.

  “Power. You’ve seen what a difference it makes featuring a video on Rate or Slate, right? Even the ones I slag off see a boost in numbers … but the few I’ve rated – the ones like yours?” Moz spirals his finger up into the air. “Got me thinking that maybe it would be fun to see how far I can take things.”

  “And we’re the ones you want to take with you?” It’s too good to be true.

  Moz shrugs. “You’re a bit different. All this secret identity intrigue, the dying friend—”

  “He’s not dying.”

  “Whatever. The way you do the dares. It’s like Jackass – you heard of Jackass? Only kinda cute and less gross. And you’re not all ‘don’t try this at home’, you’re like ‘do it do it do it!’ and it’s refreshing. You’re not pranking other people – it’s all about you.” Moz takes a sip of his drink and keeps going. “And, you know, I could do with people thinking I’m a bit more charitable. Good for the brand.”

  He stops, looks over. “I get my kicks, you get your money.”

  I watch Sef, trying to keep my thoughts from my face, but his are scrawled so bold he may as well have written them on his forehead with a Sharpie marker.

  And Moz is smiling like that’s all the answer he needs.

  “Come on,” he says, leaping up out of the booth with such vigour the whole seat bounces. “I’ve got my stuff set up in my room if you want to make it official?”

  The luxury upstairs is less in-your-face than the restaurant, but Moz’s room is still the size of our open-plan kitchen-diner, the enormous bed made up with a snowdrift duvet. While I’m drawn to the desk to inspect a camera more sleek and sophisticated than mine, Sef asks if he can bounce on the bed and a second later, I turn to find the pair of them leaping around, laughing, whooping and trying to shove each other over.

  I get bored of waiting before they tire of messing around and I’m worried we’re leaving it too late to get home.

  “So what’s the plan?” I call out and the bouncing slows to a stop, Moz executing an untidy forwards roll off the bed and onto the carpet, where he lies panting, looking up at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well – what are we filming exactly? Are you just … introducing us to your audience? Are we playing Truth or Dare…?”

  There’s a lot of things can come under the term “collaborating”.

  Moz narrows his eyes and I get the feeling that I’m being measured. “On your donations page there’s three dares, right?”

  “Right,” Sef says from where he’s still on the bed, face blotchy from exertion.

  “Shaving your head – done,” Moz nods at me. “Streaking across a pitch – that’s in the bag with the way your donations are going, right?” The glance he gives Sef has an undertone of amusement in it. “Assuming you get away with it.”

  “And?” I prompt and Moz gives me a wily smile.

  “And someone else gets to choose the next one. Right?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Sorting stuff for Granny’s, I heap some warm clothes, my cosiest PJs and an assortment of underwear on my bed before tipping the presents I got today out of my school bag. A neatly wrapped, weighty box from Gemma and Chloe, something no doubt small and silly from Oliver Martinez, whose birthday falls on the twenty-ninth and who sympathizes with me on these things, a rogue Secret Santa gift that I reckon is a bag of chocolates, and a badly wrapped squashy packet that’s more Sellotape than paper with “C” written on in black marker pen from Rich.

  Nothing from Seren. Not even a card.

  Like everyone else in our year, she was in McDonald’s this afternoon, but instead of sitting with me and Rich and grumbling about the egg-shaped McChicken fillet in the round bun of the sandwich, she was squashed over on a bench with a couple of girls from the other form. Opposite her, James Blaithe was watching her with the same kind of hunger as I was – like he wished she would notice him.

  Obviously we’re both going to be disappointed on that front.

  Getting out my phone, I scroll through to where we’d last messaged each other.

  I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.

  I don’t hate you, Claire. I just don’t want to talk to you. Please stop trying to make me.

  That was sent on the twelfth of October. Over two months ago.

  I’m still staring at my phone when another message pops up from Sef.

  All right, lover?

  Too much.

  Not really. There. As unflirty as you could possibly be.

  Want me to cheer you up?

  How?

  Birthday surprise. 8 by the bus stop. Dress warm.

  Half of me wants to stay home and wrap the emptiness of my house around me like a blanket ahead of facing a week of chaos at Granny’s house, but the other half… I can feel an excited sort of sickness twisting my stomach, a tingling in my blood at the thought of a Friday-night adventure with Sef. It’s nearly seven now and I’m feeling grubby from wearing the same after-school clothes three evenings in a row. I’d better shower. And eat. Sef seems to live on thin air and biscuits.

  “Where are you off to?” Mum catches me in the kitchen in my trainers and coat.

  I gesture at the Mini Babybel I’ve stuffed whole into my mouth, giving me time to think of something. I hadn’t realized Mum was even home.

  Lying in a note is much easier than lying face to face.

  “Film Club. Want to go and test my exciting new camera…”

  Sef actually has my new camera to use for Boxing Day.

  “Have you packed for Ireland?” she says, frowning. “There won’t be time tomorrow…”

  “Of course!” I shove more food into my face to prevent further questions and blow her a kiss as I pass her on the way out to the hall. Putting stuff ready on my bed counts as packing, right?

  Sef doesn’t tell me where he’s taking me. We bicker about the secrecy as he drives round the ring road, hand resting on the gearstick like he’s been driving a car his whole life. The effect is ruined when he nearly misses his exit and becomes all elbows and muttered curses and anxious glances in all the mirrors.

  “Smooth,” I say, trying to keep my face straight.

  The look he gives me shoots warmth up my body and into my cheeks.

  “We’re here.” Sef pulls over into what passes for a parking space – a slight widening of the road in a narrow country lane.

  “We’re where?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.” Sef gives me an irritating eyebrow waggle before opening his door. “Come on!”

  We follow a sign
for what I discover is the Forgotten Footpath. There’s no light but for the moon and the sense of an orange glow where the town lights aim for the sky.

  “Are we allowed here at night?” I say.

  “Why wouldn’t we be? It’s a public footpath.”

  “What about murderers?”

  “Or stalker weirdos who’ll follow you home and watch you sleep?” Sef’s teasing me and I give him a shove.

  “Shut up. It’s dark, we’re alone, I’ve seen enough horror movies to know this isn’t going to end well.”

  When he doesn’t reply immediately, I turn and catch him looking down at me.

  “Isn’t it?”

  We’re too close for me to be comfortable with the way he says it. Stepping away I call back, “When does anything involving you end well, Yousef Malik?”

  Sef hurries after me, giving me a shove and challenging me to race him up the hill. By the time we get to the top, neither of us is travelling at any speed and we collapse onto the grass, too exhausted to care how cold and hard and wet the ground is.

  Our breath pools in hot little puffs above us and I enjoy the tingle of cold air on my hot cheeks.

  “Thank you,” I say, closing my eyes and bathing in the darkness.

  “What for?” I feel Sef shift next to me.

  “My birthday adventure.”

  “Is it everything you dreamed of?”

  “It’ll do.” And then, because I don’t want to talk about me, worried it will veer into making me sad about Seren, I ask, “When was yours?”

  “September.”

  “I meant what date, Sef.”

  There’s a pause. “The second. The day Kam woke up.”

  “Oh,” I say, because what other response is there? I reach over and give his hand a squeeze. “Guess there wasn’t much time for birthday shenanigans for your seventeenth?”

  “Not so much.” There’s a pause and then a shift in tone when he says, “The birthday before, on the other hand…”

  “Do I even want to know?”

  “Hit the clubs with Finn and Matty. Shenanigans a-plenty.” My eyes stay closed, but I know he’s smiling.

  “Drinking, dancing and kissing all the girls?”

  “Two out of three. I don’t drink.”

  “Just dancing and kissing then?”

  “And presents. That’s the three things birthdays are for, surely?”

  “Yours maybe. I usually only manage one of those.” Not that I’m complaining. Some people don’t even get presents...

  There’s a rustle of movement next to me before the chime of a piano chord rings out and my eyes flick open to see Sef holding up his phone, the screen displaying the name of the song.

  “Moondance” by Van Morrison.

  “Let’s see if you can manage more than one…” Sef says, standing up and holding out his hand. “Care to dance?”

  No one’s ever asked me to dance and although I take his hand, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with my feet, so when Sef takes a step in time with the beat, I’m half a second behind him. It’s not until halfway through the first verse that our feet start to move in roughly the right direction at roughly the right time. At first, I’m looking down at my trainers, then at a button on Sef’s jacket, but when the chorus kicks in, he sends me away in a spin and pulls me back so close that there’s no space to look anywhere other than at Sef.

  “Are you singing?” I say and he nods, smiling as he raises his voice so I can make out the words, but low enough that it feels like he’s singing only to me.

  It is impossibly romantic.

  Every part of me seems more there, more present, more alive than ever before, my skin blazing beneath my clothes, heart beating out of my chest, each breath I take a lungful of cool air, infused with the beauty of the night.

  I wish I could tell where flirtation stops and feelings begin, because right now, it seems a lot like we might kiss… The song ends and there’s a few seconds of silence in which the mood is preserved, our hands still linked, bodies close.

  Then “Uptown Funk” blares out, too loud, too brash and I step back.

  “What are you doing?” Sef tugs me gently back towards him.

  “You want to dance to this too?” I wrinkle my face up. This song belongs in a nightclub, not a hilltop.

  “I thought we were aiming for a hat-trick of birthday goals?” he says, his eyes on my lips a moment before they move up to meet my gaze.

  Three months I’ve known him and I still can’t tell when he’s serious, but his eyes don’t leave mine as he reaches up to my hairline, fingers pressing gently into my scalp as he runs them through the soft fuzz of my hair.

  It’s unbelievably arousing. I close my eyes, concentrating on how it feels as he flattens his palms against my skull, his hands running from my crown, down the back of my head, the tips of his fingers pushing against the grain of my hair at the nape of my neck.

  I’m left breathless, barely able to open my eyes.

  His thumb is brushing down my hairline behind my ear. “I’ve wanted to do that ever since we shaved your head.”

  “Head-stroking should definitely be added to the list of things people do on their birthdays…” I murmur, still drunk on the feel of it.

  “I’m incorporating it into one of the others.”

  Gently, carefully, Sef kisses me on the cheek, leaving his lips on my skin for a moment. Then he kisses me again on the curve of my jaw, and on my neck. When he kisses me on the chin, I breathe out in a quiet laugh, my breathing speeding up as I think of where he’s sure to kiss me next.

  Only he kisses my nose.

  “Here.” I reach between us and rest an unsteady finger on my mouth. “Birthday kisses go here…”

  “Do they now?” he whispers, the breath of his words dusting my skin.

  And I catch the familiar, sexy curve emerge at the corners of his lips before he leans in and presses those lips to mine, just for a few seconds.

  When he pulls back a fraction I can tell he’s still smiling. “Dancing, kisses and what was next? Presents?”

  “I don’t care about presents,” I say, curling my hand round the collar of his jacket. “I want more kisses.”

  I pull him closer for a series of light, soft, questioning kisses that grow bolder and more impatient, until our mouths open and I get a taste of ginger biscuits and something that is uniquely and addictively Sef.

  His hands are still cradling my head, but mine are free to wander, venturing round his waist and up his back, pulling him ever closer so that our legs and chests and … other parts press together. I’m wrapping myself up in him, losing my doubts and sinking into my dreams of kissing the boy I’ve been burning for.

  It’s messy and beautiful and I never want it to end.

  CHAPTER 21

  Cars, planes, hire cars, Irish roads (or as Mum muttered, Irish drivers), but once we get to Granny’s it’s cuddling, drinks, nibbles and gossip. Everyone’s there and they’ve all got something to say about my hair while Kathleen, who’s only eight, sits on the arm of the sofa and strokes it.

  “So nice to see more of your beautiful face.”

  “Is it cold?”

  “I hadn’t noticed one of your ears poked out more than the other.”

  “Never pegged you for a rebel…”

  And I smile and say thank you and make jokes about the cold and my rebellious tendencies and my cousin Mark’s wonky nose in revenge for the ears comment, all the time itching to check my phone.

  In a quiet moment, Mark trades me the Wi-Fi code on the promise I’ll load the dishwasher after dinner. There are a few messages from Sef – the kind that should not be read casually around my family – and one from Rich grumbling that Gemma wants him to go round and meet her family. I’m a bit jealous of him for that – even if I was spending the holiday at home, would Sef invite me to meet his? Although looking through the door to the kitchen, where Mum is scowling silently in the corner with her third glass of champagne as
Dad does the prodigal son thing, I’m not sure I’d be that keen on inviting Sef to meet mine.

  Any news on Moz’s video??? I ask Sef. Although we only went to London on Wednesday, so much has happened since that it feels distinctly longer.

  Moz said it’ll drop about 9 tonight.

  Then.

  It’s a boost to my ego to know you’re more interested in Moz than me.

  I’m typing this in my grandmother’s utility room. Your messages are better suited for other locations.

  He replies with a photo of him raising his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Claire?”

  I put my phone away and hurry back to the living room.

  After dinner, I sneak up to my room and sit on the bed with my laptop. It’s after nine and I tut impatiently as the rubbish internet signal stutters to life and the video buffers on a freeze-frame of Moz’s face for about a million years before bursting into action.

  “MeepMorp, Mozzy here and…” Moz had his face right up to the camera, but steps back to reveal: mute waving and ridiculous face-pulling from two masked idiots. (Cousin Mark’s comment about my ears echoes in my mind and I can’t help noticing the one that sticks out more.)

  “… Truth Girl and Dare Boy, who you may remember from this video.” Moz points to where a thumbnail reminds the viewer of the Rate It or Slate It? video in which we starred. “Two of this old-timer’s favourite noobs.”

  And he leans back to sling his arms round our shoulders and give each of us a kiss on the cheek.

  “Never washing my face again…” Dare Boy says with mock reverence as I’m caught wiping it off on the shoulder of my T-shirt.

  Moz has inserted a split-second cut of all three of us in hysterics, which actually happened much later in filming, but the effect is instantaneous – this is not staged, not really, we’re friends, we make each other laugh, look at the way Moz’s hand is on my shoulder as he bends forward, Dare Boy wiping real tears from his eyes and muttering, “My eyeliner’s going to be ruined!”