Truth or Dare

by Non Pratt

  The only one that sprang to mind was how much we needed for the Rec.

  “What are you on about?” I muttered, logging on to a PC and clicking through to where I’d saved my work from last lesson.

  “For you to pull Milk Tits.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, reliving the split second I’d decided to keep up the act, so convincing I’d thought she might self-combust from embarrassment as she spelled it out for me. Worth it, though, for the way she’d looked at me like I was too good to be true…

  Too good to be trusted.

  Matty was still going on about it, slapping me on the arm, face lit up with mischief. “Ha! As if you would. I’m only messing with you.”

  So I laughed too, at Matty, at myself – at the thought of me and Claire – and it was there, then, I realized that there would never be any going back to how I was before. All I could do was pretend, perform yet another part in the play that was my life. I couldn’t share my problems with my friends, couldn’t give them a window into what sort of person I really was, skiving off the brotherly duties they assumed took up all the time I told them I was too busy to hang out.

  If I didn’t pretend to share Matty’s jokes, what else was there left?

  “Pretty tacky pimping me out like this when I’ve got a girlfriend, Matty,” I said.

  But he shot me a look with the piercing baby blues that all the girls go on about without knowing it’s down to his contacts. “Laila’s punching well below her weight with you. There’s already a queue around the block – you’d be doing the girl a favour.”

  Something I found hard to deny. It had been difficult for us since the accident, with me blowing hot and cold and confused. One minute I’d be calling round Laila’s house for nothing more than the peace of resting my head on her knee and having her stroke my hair, the next I was cancelling plans, avoiding the intimacy that comes from revealing what’s on your mind as much as what’s inside your pants.

  Friday night I realized I’d sent Claire more messages in the last three hours than I’d sent to Laila in the last three days, the girl I’d been joking about with Matty slowly creeping into my confidence ahead of the girl I was supposed to be going out with.

  It was all too easy to see the effect it was having on Claire when I met up with her the next morning, reminding me of what Mia had said at the cinema: It’s not friendly if they fancy you.

  Claire was my cake and if I wanted to keep her, I couldn’t keep nibbling at her like this. Flirting had to be guilt-free for me to enjoy it and I needed to draw a line where Dare Boy left off and Sef started.

  No idea why I decided to draw that line using the word “babe”.

  “What did you just call me?” Laila sounded both bemused and revolted.

  “Babe.” I lowered my voice a little.

  “How many girls do you have on the go that you have to refer to us generically?” Laila might have laughed, but I was glancing back towards the other room thinking of Claire. “Where are you, anyway? I called in on your house on my way past with Helen this morning and your mum practically cried when she had to tell me you weren’t in.”

  “I’m with one of those generic girls you mentioned.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Would she have laughed if she knew I wasn’t joking? “I might have to bail on seeing you later.”

  The silence that followed spoke volumes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s OK, Sef. I’m here when you need me as well as when you don’t.”

  “Thank you. If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure my mum would have you over whether I’m home or not.”

  Her laugh in reply was forced and when I ended the call, I slapped the screen of my phone to my forehead, feeling like the shit that I was.

  CHAPTER 8

  By the end of our session, Claire and I had clicked awkwardly back into the groove we’d carved for ourselves before Laila’s call.

  After filming, we talked about setting targets and Claire wrote down a figure of how many subs we should aim to get before the end of the month. A figure too low to make a difference, too high to be achievable. A figure that levered open the door to doubt.

  “OK,” I said, slamming shut that particular door. “How do we get there, oh media marketing guru?”

  Claire tutted away the compliment, and I enjoyed watching her colour rise to a petal-pink flush as she wrote some more numbers down on the sheet.

  “This is the formula Miss Stevens used for the ratio of views to take-up for online advertising.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “Shut up.” She was turning crimson.

  “Make me.” I’d leaned in then, elbow propped on the fold-out table in the caravan so I could rest my chin on my fist.

  Too much, too soon – and Claire sat up, leaning back to reclaim the space I’d invaded.

  “Are you like this with all girls, or just the ones you aren’t going out with?”

  “Charming, you mean?”

  Claire levelled me with a look.

  “I’d have used the word ‘shameless’, myself.”

  Running late for work, I asked Claire if she could email me what she wanted me to do on the social-media side of things and, like the conscientious student she is, I got an email breaking it down into chunks like a map to internet fame and fortune, with targets for finding and watching videos, commenting and building relationships with other YouTubers. She arranged them into categories: people who were starting out like we were; people who were already immersed in the community; rising stars to keep an eye on. Stars like Moz. She supplemented this with a list of tags then told me how many videos she’d watched when she was doing research into her plan for the channel.

  Challenged me to beat it.

  Kam was always the brainiac. Dad used to mutter that this was because he knew how to listen – a skill Dad thinks I lack because of how many times he and Mum have had to hear teachers say that I never sit still in class. For weeks afterwards, Mum would spend her evenings sitting over me as I fidgeted in my seat, finding it hard to concentrate. Whenever I gazed out of the window too long, Mum would poke me none too gently in the arm with the end of her pencil and tap it three times on the textbook or screen I was supposed to be looking at.

  “Work first, play later.”

  “The sooner this gets done, the sooner you can do something else.”

  “I’m not putting the tea on until you’ve finished, Yousef Malik. We’ll be eating at midnight at this rate!”

  “For the love of all that is holy. Pay. Attention.”

  Reckon they should have been thanking me: if I hadn’t been so flaky about schoolwork, Amir wouldn’t have been such a keener. He’s a contrary little uglyfruit and working hard was something he’d proved time and again he could beat me at.

  So when I started spending every evening set up with Mum’s ancient laptop at the dining-room table, or on Dad’s armchair by the window – anywhere that wasn’t Kam’s old room – it got noticed.

  “It’s good to see you working so hard.” Mum sat down opposite me at the dining table and I pushed the laptop shut as she passed me a glass of water so fresh that the limescale hadn’t yet settled. She was always going on at us about staying hydrated and keeping our brains sharp. “But you’re not the only one with homework.”

  “Amir said he didn’t need it.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your brother – I meant me.” Mum smiled wearily and rubbed at her wrist where she’d taken her watch off. She was still in her work clothes, eye make-up faded from a day of meetings and interviews. A few weeks later and I’d hear her arguing with Dad about how much longer she’d be able to keep working if she had to hold everything else together as well.

  “Oh. I’m sorry – I…”

  Mum laughed and reached over to lay a hand on my cheek. “No need to apologize, Sef. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, I just…” She closed her eyes for a beat and sighed. “Th
e computer we bought your brother, to take to university—”

  “Mum…”

  “He doesn’t need it any more. Seems such a waste.”

  I wasn’t able to look at her. “Couldn’t we sell it, use the money for the things he does need?”

  It was the closest I’d come to asking about our money problems, opening a door to invite Mum to treat me the way she would have treated Kam if he’d asked.

  Instead, she brushed her hand down my cheek. “There are some things you need too, Sef.”

  I nodded and stared at my water glass until she got up, kissed my head and left.

  Later that night, Cheddar nudged open the door to the bedroom and settled into a bony little tea cosy on my sternum, her paws tucked away under her chest. It was the first time she’d been in there since I’d moved in. The last of Kam’s things left to inherit.

  “Is it because I’m the one giving you biscuits now?” I rubbed a finger behind her ear and the cat blinked at me, a phlegmy purr rattling in her throat.

  There was a noise out on the landing as Amir padded back from the bathroom. The look he gave the pair of us was one of complete betrayal before he went into his room and shut the door.

  So much for Kam’s idea of a package deal.

  CHAPTER 9

  Finn was my first passenger after I passed my test. We both had a free before lunch and I drove him home, the way I’d always imagined doing, music blaring, windows down. And yet I felt hollow.

  Claire had messaged me.

  How’d it go?

  For some reason this had pleased me more than Matty letting off a party popper in the common room.

  Only three minors, baby!!! I replied, adding every emoji applicable and some that weren’t.

  Does this mean I don’t have to get the bus up to the caravan?

  Only if you upgrade your congratulations.

  WELL DONE. DRIVING A CAR IS AS IMPRESSIVE AS DRIVING A ROCKET.

  You’re surprisingly sarcastic in text form.

  Sorry. Have a biscuit. Complete with emoji.

  I tapped out a reply: Didn’t say I didn’t like it…

  “All right, trippy – you paying attention over there?” Finn threw a Mini Babybel at my head as I sat on the kitchen counter looking at my phone instead of answering his questions about what I wanted to eat.

  “You’re gonna regret that.” I deleted my message and went for Finn, pushing him into the fridge and trying to shut the door on him, the jars in the door rattling as he fought back.

  Ten minutes later, we were sitting at the table as I fed his dog slices of ham from the packet. She’d been young when we were first getting to know each other, but now there were flecks of grey in her muzzle and a portliness to her middle.

  “So, congrats on the test.” Finn raised his can. “What else has been going on?”

  “You mean with Kam?” I just assumed that’s what everyone meant.

  “With you.” Finn tipped his head back to drain the can before looking at me again. “Seems like when you’re not with family, you’ve not got much time for anyone from school.”

  He picked the ring pull off, pushing it into the can and rattling it a little before putting it back on the table, avoiding looking at me.

  “What are you trying to say?” I asked.

  “That we don’t see you much. This is the first time you’ve been round in ages.”

  “I see you in school.”

  “I see my teachers in school. Doesn’t make them my friends.” Finn still wouldn’t look at me. He doesn’t like confrontation and I can count on one hand the number of times he’s been pissed at me. For him to have said any of this meant it was a big deal.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been hard, you know, with Kam and stuff.”

  “I get it – and I’m not having a go – it’s just, we’re here, OK? Me and Matty.” There was a pause as he screwed his mouth to the side, chewing on his next word. “Laila.”

  I flicked my head up and down in a nod. “I’ve been round to see her a few times.”

  “I know.” Something about the way he said it made me think he knew more than just that. “She’s worried about you, mate. We all are.”

  “Talk about me lots when I’m not around, do you?” Words frosted with hurt.

  “We get stuck for topics of conversation without you yakking twenty-four seven.” Finn has always known how to defuse an argument and he lifted his foot to give me a gentle shove in the side, the smell of his socks wafting towards me. “You should probably come out with us tomorrow, stop us from talking about you then.”

  There’s no mirror in Kam’s room, so I’d been checking myself out in the mirrored wardrobe next door the way he always used to do. I’d tried two tops already, and grown bored by number three. It would do. I’ve always been someone who takes care of how they look, but I could barely summon the energy needed to go out, let alone give a shit about what I wore to do it.

  I’d rather have stayed home and hung out on the internet with strangers than hang out with the people I called friends.

  Thumping on the stairs and Amir walked in before I could leave.

  “Get out of my room,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if that was a reflex at finding someone in his room or seeing me.

  “Already gone.”

  I could feel the heat of his glare on the back of my head as I left, refracting round the corner to follow me to the room I was supposed to call mine, wondering whether I would ever belong there. Whether I belonged anywhere any more.

  After I picked the lads up, we headed to meet some girls from school. Girls that included Laila. We’d been messaging a bit beforehand and she’d sent me a couple of pictures of what she was planning on wearing, camera held high, angled down for a view of what I could look forward to.

  There were hints in those messages. When Laila broke up with her nice boyfriend to hook up with me, it had been for more than kisses and flirty messages.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said, sidling up to me at the bar.

  “Looking good.” I flicked a gaze down the full length of her outfit, kissed her cheek and murmured, “Beautiful, in fact.”

  It wasn’t a line.

  “Likewise.” That was. She gave my third-choice T-shirt a dubious look. “How you feeling?”

  I didn’t want her to ask so I pretended she hadn’t. Bought her a Coke – Finn and Matty had given me excess petrol money and I felt bad about it. A feeling that only grew worse the more the night went on, squashed on the sofa with Laila pressed against me on one side and Helen on the other.

  We moved from the pub and Laila fell into step beside me. As we turned the corner, the wind funnelled up the high street to hit us with a slap so strong it felt as if we’d been blown into that darkened doorway rather than stepped in there ourselves. Beyond, the others carried on towards the club, Matty’s drunken attempt at beatboxing echoing round the square.

  And we kissed, because what else are you supposed to do?

  “This is nice,” Laila whispered, running the flat of her palm up my chest, smoothing the scratch of stubble on my jaw and running her fingers through my hair.

  Something inside me had died the night of my brother’s accident, and it had taken my feelings for Laila with it, but I carried on kissing her anyway. That’s what you do in darkened doorways with girls you think are beautiful.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Ow! Get off! Mum – tell him to sit on his own seat…”

  Mum looked across the table at us with a serene smile and shrugged. She’d made Kam sit next to me on the train and we’d had a fight about who got the window seat. He won, but the way I was clambering all over him made it seem like he’d lost. Amir was across the aisle with Dad, the pair of them oblivious to the backs of the houses marching past the window as our train slowed through the city, too busy playing cards.

  Not like me. I loved coming to the city, the ceremony of catching the train, the buffet trolley where I was allowed to pick one t
hing for the journey, the blocks of flats and converted warehouses, offices and houses an incomplete jigsaw against the sky, the announcement that we were coming into London…

  No matter how many times I’d been before, London was the city I wanted to go to again and again.

  Being there with Claire fired me up, the tall buildings narrowing the roads and pushing the sky higher above our heads, stepping out of the Underground into a city that was both past and future. By the time we got to Covent Garden, I was buzzing off the energy of the crowds and the promise of being watched, too caught up in the thrill of it to realize the effect it was having on Claire.

  First I knew of it was when she made a bolt for it down one of the little alleys. Surprisingly quickly.

  “Claire! Stop! Please. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t do this. Not in front of an audience.” Her head was down the way it was whenever she thought someone was looking at her, but with her hair tied up into Truth Girl’s twisty little buns, there was nothing for her to hide behind.

  “But all the stuff we’ve filmed—” I began.

  “… has been in the safety of the caravan.”

  “And recorded for the whole world to watch.” I waved her own camera at her like she might need reminding of what it did.

  “We have thirty-one subs, Sef.” She didn’t smile, knowing there wasn’t anything good to be taken from that fact.

  Because there wasn’t. All those hours she’d spent twiddling the videos and I’d spent watching vloggers I wasn’t sure I really liked, all for thirty-fucking-one subscribers. I’d have had a better result if I’d just sent an email to all my contacts and asked nicely.

  It wasn’t enough.

  It didn’t matter what Claire wanted, not now.

  Claire’s eyes are the grey-green type that change with the light, her make-up and her moods and I stared at the sunburst of deep green bleaching to grey round the edges of her irises. “We don’t have enough subscribers. We don’t have enough donations. But you made me think we could do this and we can. You can.”

  “I can’t.” And I could hear it then, the same doubt I’d been shutting out every time I looked at our donations page, the prelude to a failure I couldn’t face.