Kiss Me If You Dare

by Nicole Young

  7

  The class sat speechless at the professor’s hefty assignment and hasty departure. The thought of fifty grand apparently wasn’t enough to generate enthusiasm for the year of grinding labor ahead. I couldn’t even fathom what to do with that kind of money. I supposed Brad and I could finish the renovations on my rambling lodge back in Michigan and fill the bedrooms with foster kids or something. But I sure didn’t know the first step toward saving the world.

  I rubbed the stitches on my arm as the room came to life with a purposeful rustling. Binders slammed closed. Zippers zipped. Students rose from their seats, as if about to leave.

  “Hold it.” Portia’s voice ricocheted off the walls. “Nobody’s leaving yet. Class is only half over. Get in your teams. Talk about how to tackle your project. Come on. Don’t waste time.”

  Almost reluctantly, the class split into the assigned teams. I stayed in my seat, waiting for my groupies to gather around me.

  On the other side of the room, Gwen, the blond from Team A, stared at the packet in front of her as if it contained the Twelve Labors of Hercules. The gangster guy scooted a desk up to hers and slouched into the seat, wiggling one leg impatiently. They were joined by a man in his thirties with a deep purple birthmark covering half of his face. The last to join them was a fidgety young brunette, playing with her pencil like it was a baton.

  When nobody from Team B turned up at my desk, I glanced over and saw my teammates hunched around Portia. I could already tell things were getting off to a bad start. With a resigned sigh, I brought my “leader” packet to the huddle.

  Not willing to meet Portia’s eyes, I smiled instead at the redheaded assistant from Dean Lester’s office.

  “I thought I recognized you,” I said to the woman in the wheelchair, glad to have a friendly face in such hostile surrounds. She introduced herself as Celia Long. I looked to the fourth member of Team B, a twenty-something youth with a cane.

  “Koby Rider,” he said with a nod.

  “Great.” Portia snagged the instruction packet from me and dug into it. “Now that we all know each other, let’s get this show on the road.” Quiet for a moment, she scanned the pages.

  My fingers gave an irate tap on the desk. Denton had assigned me to be team leader. Portia had usurped my authority in the first thirty seconds. I had a feeling this whole project thing was going to be one long, uphill battle.

  “Okay,” Portia said, straightening the stack, “let’s get over to the homesite and see what we’ve got ahead of us.”

  The other team was still bickering as we got up, gathered our totes and backpacks, and headed out.

  At the curb, we stood in silence, watching for the next bus. At some point I’d have to grab the reins from Portia. She seemed like she knew what she was doing organization-wise, but when it came to bricks and mortar, I’d have to reclaim my authority and get the job done right.

  The bus belched a diesel cloud as it drove up to the curb. Celia boarded via a wheelchair lift. Inside, the rest of us sat on adjacent benches. I dropped my black canvas tote on the floor, studying Koby from the corner of my eye. Light brown hair, a pensive aura, and a cane with a snake’s head on the handle.

  I cleared my throat. “So, what’s the meaning of the cane?”

  He tapped it once on the floor of the bus as if annoyed. “I don’t have any legs.” He looked down at his slacks. “These are prosthetics.”

  “Oh.” There really wasn’t a good response to a statement like that. “I guess what I meant was how come you have a snake’s head on your cane? Is there some significance?”

  He shifted his gaze out the window. “From the Bible. Moses put a snake on the pole and when people looked at it, they were saved.”

  “Oh.” At least he wasn’t a member of some violent gang called the Fangs or the Serpents or something.

  “How about you?” he said after a beat. “What’s your problem?”

  Blood rushed to my face. “I don’t have a problem. I was just striking up conversation.”

  “Yeah?” Portia said from her place across from me. “Everybody at Del Gloria has a problem. Just ’cause we can’t see yours doesn’t mean it’s not there.” She leaned back against her seat. “We’ll figure it out. It’s just a matter of time.”

  I looked down. The last thing I wanted was my muddled past to follow me to Del Gloria. At least here, I’d hoped to have a shot at a fresh start. But fibbing about my name, my hometown, and my relationship to the professor wouldn’t earn me any brownie points if people caught on. I’d better try to act more natural before Portia connected the dots and blabbed to the world that I wasn’t really Alisha Braddock.

  The bus rolled to a stop and we got off at an oldendays train depot. A modern-day Amtrak was just pulling from the station.

  Portia glanced at the paperwork as we waited for the train to pass. “Just down a few blocks,” she said over the din of clanking metal.

  As the sound died, our group of misfits crossed over the rails to Del Gloria’s historic district. Rows of tiny bungalows lined the streets. Portia guided us down a block to Rios Buena Suerta.

  “Good Luck Street,” she translated.

  We paused at the crossroads, gazing at the line of dilapidated homes we had only eleven months to complete.

  I shook my head in dismay. “We’re going to need more than good luck. This will take a miracle.”

  “No way,” Portia said. “It’ll just take hard work.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Look at us. No offense, but half of us don’t have the use of their legs. The other half barely have arms.” I held up my bandaged bicep while nodding toward Portia’s fingerless hand. “How much can we actually get done before the deadline?”

  “Watch it,” Portia spat in my direction. “I’ve already overcome my handicap. You’re the one with all the hang-ups.” “It’s okay, Alisha.” Celia edged her chair close to me. “We’ll get done in time.”

  Koby lifted his cane in the air. “Announcing the winners of the Covenant Award… Team B!” he said in a dramatic voice.

  I shot a glance at the guy I had pegged an introvert, then looked at the row of homes. One had a dislocated front porch. Another had a roof caving in. Down the way, a foundation crumbled.

  I put a hand on my hip and mumbled under my breath. “I’m holding out for a miracle.”

  Celia led the way down the sidewalk to the first house. Portia and I team-lifted her in the wheelchair up a step onto the sagging porch.

  Celia drove toward the threshold and stopped. “Great. I wondered about this.” The width of the wheelchair exceeded the measurement of the doorway by a couple inches. “I’ll just wait out here.” Her voice sounded glum. “Not a chance,” Portia said. “Koby, collapse that chair and push it through while I pick up Celia.”

  I rushed to intervene. “Here, I better do it.” I grabbed at the back handles the same time Koby did. Portia hefted the tiny Celia into her arms and walked through the door.

  “I’ve got it,” Koby said, reaching in to take over my hold.

  “I’ll get it. You could fall.” I nudged him with my hip to back him off.

  “Somebody get that chair in here,” Portia ordered. “I’m not made of muscles, you know.”

  Koby practically body-slammed me out of his way. “And I’m not made of glass.” He pushed the chair over the threshold and opened it on the other side.

  Portia lowered Celia into her seat.

  Koby threw me a look of triumph as I rubbed at my hip.

  “Truce.” I put my arms up in surrender.

  He nodded. “Just don’t do it again.”

  With our first disagreement behind us, the hodgepodge members of Team B surveyed the project ahead, giving each house a once-over. Celia kept a list of major issues and ideas as we brainstormed a plan of attack.

  The last home was in the best condition. Nineteen thirties or forties with an updated feel. Ahead of me, my teammates moved with determination, performing their routine to get C
elia in the door. I hung back, wondering if I’d be up for the work ahead. From the looks of my ragtag team, I’d have to bear the brunt of it. And my motivation seemed to be missing. Financial strain had always been enough to hustle me from the end of one project to the start of the next. But here in Del Gloria, thousands of miles from everything that mattered, my heart felt like a lump of coal pressed against my lungs, robbing me of breath, stifling my inspiration.

  Inside came Portia’s voice, followed by laughter from Celia and Koby.

  “Face it, Tish. You’ve landed in Oz,” I whispered to myself. But like Dorothy, it was only temporary. Soon I’d get the phone call that would whisk me back home. And all would be well.

  I gave a sigh and followed the group into the dim interior. Nodding in robotic agreement to all of Portia’s suggestions, I kept a mental log of all the ones I’d have to do right when the rookies weren’t looking.

  The lunch hour had come and gone as we wrapped up our tour. Our gang had just stepped off the porch when a voice called to us from across the street.

  “Hey, you guys.” The brunette from Team A waved to us from the coarse lawn of a cockeyed bungalow. Behind her, Gangster Guy and the rest of the crew exited the building.

  “Hey! You finally getting to work over there?” Portia’s toxic tongue went to work.

  The girl on the lawn crossed her arms.

  Gangster Guy stepped to the curb. “Yo. Eat our dust.” Portia inhaled a deep breath, ready to fire back a response. I grabbed her arm. “Why do you provoke them? Can’t you just be nice?”

  She shook off my grip. “Back off, Miss Priss. Maybe you’ve got Uncle Denton to take care of you. But me,” she thumped her chest with a fist, “I’m on my own. I’m getting a piece of that Covenant Award. Whatever it takes.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m the team leader. And I’m telling you we’re not going to harass our competition.” I hoped I came off as having more gumption than I actually felt. Portia snickered. “Leader? Yeah, whatever.” She started walking back toward the bus station. “Come on, team. Follow me.”

  I brought up the rear, hoping Brad would hurry up with his plan to save me.

  8

  The bus pulled away, leaving me alone on the driveway. I’d ridden home in silence, putting an impermeable wall between me and my teammates. Celia had made an attempt at conversation, but gave up when all I offered was a cold shoulder. I hated to push her away, but the day’s overwhelming events had caught up to me.

  Across the road, the Pacific glared white in the sunshine. Gulls circled a rocky promontory down the way, beckoning for company. Cars zipped past on the twolane in front of me. I waited for a break in traffic, then crossed over, climbing the metal guardrail onto a flat shelf of rock.

  I eased close to the edge for a peek at the drop-off. A narrow trail, hewn over time, clung to the face of the cliff. Should I or shouldn’t I?

  Why not? There was no schedule to keep.

  I dropped my tote behind a clump of brush, then stepped down onto the narrow outcropping, slippery with pebbles. I picked my way along the zigzagging route to the patch of sand at its base. Sunrays beamed hot onto my newfound hideaway. I slid off my tennies and scraped my feet through the burning earth as I made my way toward the water’s edge. The sand buzzed with each drag of my foot.

  I stopped well back from the surf, watching the shoreline shift beneath the surging and subsiding waves. I’d take the pleasant pull of Lake Michigan over the powerful Pacific any day. I stared out over the endless expanse of water, feeling farther than ever from the places-and people-I loved.

  The sand cushioned my head as I lay with eyes closed, trying to imagine what Brad was doing that very moment back home. He’d have rounded up the bad guys by now, with help from the local and state authorities that had already been investigating the case. So today, Brad would be focused on tying up the loose ends, making things safe for my return. I pictured him settling in at the lake house after a good day’s work, hanging out in the living room with Puppa-my pet name for my grandfather- and Great-grandma Olivia, having a good laugh over the whole escapade. My temporary boarder Melissa Belmont and her two kids would be back in their own home, safe from her abusive husband. And Brad’s sister Samantha would soon be heading to her Coney Island diner in downstate Michigan, having outrun the bad choices of her past once and for all. With my last guest gone, the log cabin would be sitting empty, anticipating my return.

  I had only to wait for the convictions that meant jail time for Frank Majestic and his cronies. Then I could go back to Michigan. Back to Brad. Back to the time when it was just the two of us and one joyous, long-lasting future ahead.

  A swirl of sand choked me. I sat up, eyes watering in the glare. I rubbed at the bandage on my arm, hoping to brush away the feeling that there was no future with

  Brad to return to. Sure, this whole safe-house thing had stalled our wedding plans. But it was only temporary. Nothing would change between us. The next time I saw him, I’d run into his arms and we’d kiss, long and tender, just like we had that last morning in the woods.

  Still, the feeling persisted that things were different now. Would Brad meet someone new while I twiddled away time in California? Would he decide that Denton was right and I wouldn’t be the best choice of brides? I pitched a shell toward the water. I didn’t care for Denton Braddock. Not one bit. And I couldn’t shake the notion that Denton knew more about what was going on back home than he was willing to tell. The professor must have been in contact with somebody-Brad, the authorities, or whoever-since the day he’d claimed me at the hospital in Minnesota. His vague answers to my status checks had become annoying.

  I lingered in the sand awhile, soaking up more vitamin D and deadly solar rays than I got in a week in Michigan. I dusted the grit off my clothes, tied my sneakers, and began the climb to the top of the cliff. Halfway up, I panicked. The task had been so much easier going down. Now, my shoes couldn’t seem to find a hold in the sliding pebbles. The narrow shelf left me clinging to smooth rock, fighting the pull of gravity that threatened to keel me backward onto the sand so far below.

  “Crazy flatlander,” I muttered to myself, frozen in place with sweat stinging my eyes.

  “Okay, God,” I whispered to the rocks, “this is where we start bargaining. You get me up this cliff and I promise never to do anything this stupid again.”

  Behind me came the scream of a gull. Or maybe a vulture. I was too petrified to turn around and look. The crushing din of the water, an occasional passing car on the road above, and the squeaking cries from my throat became the only sounds to register as the minutes passed. A stone bounced down from above, landing in my hair. A cramp crawled up my leg. It gradually occurred to me that God wasn’t going to send a host of angels to airlift me to safety. It seemed the most the winged beings would do was cheer me on while I figured my own way out of the conundrum.

  Eyes closed, I spread my arms against the rock, feeling for the slightest indentation. There it was. A small bump to my left, providing my fingertips with just enough leverage to let me hoist myself another twelve inches along the path. Then I found another hold, and another, until my knees were on fragments of asphalt torn from the road next to me. I clung to the guardrail and let my strength return.

  Cars honked as they passed, their blaring horns a substitute for the crazy-lady insults the drivers must have been hurling behind closed windows. I dropped to the ground and leaned against the hot metal.

  Such a close call. My hands were still shaking. I took a deep breath and stood, reaching for my tote.

  Gone.

  I dropped to all fours, patting the ground in disbelief. It had been here. Right behind that shrub. I glanced over the drop-off. No black bag in sight. Had someone pulled over and stolen the thing?

  I pondered the unlikely thought as I headed up the hill to Cliffhouse. Losing my tote was no big disaster. The project packet, my notebook, and the bus pass had been its only contents. I could always get a copy of
the packet from Denton. Celia could probably help me get a new bus pass from Dean Lester. And notebooks weren’t hard to come by.

  I entered Cliffhouse through the side porch. Voices came from the kitchen as I passed. I paused, lingering to identify the speakers. Two women. The one with the Irish accent was no doubt Ms. Rigg. But the other?

  My stomach growled. I used it as an excuse to snoop. “Hello,” I said, passing through the swinging door into the room.

  The visitor stood to attention, shoving her hands in her pockets and wiping a smile off her face. She looked in her late forties. Bright orange hair dye failed to hide the tell-tale gray. A pale blue shirt over jeans and sandals highlighted her tanned, freckled skin.

  “It’s Miss Braddock, Jane dear.” Commandant Rigg nearly clicked her heels at the introduction. “Miss Braddock, this is my daughter. She’s visiting from Los Angeles.” Jane offered a hand. I shook it. Behind her on the countertop was my missing tote.

  “Oh my goodness. I thought I’d lost that.” I stepped around the Rigg daughter and sifted through the contents. All accounted for. “Where did you find it?” I turned toward the women.

  Jane shrugged, hands in her pockets. “I spotted something behind the guardrail when I pulled in. I investigated,” she pointed at the tote, “and that’s what I found.”

  I thought about the pebble that dropped on my head and wondered if it hadn’t been Jane who set it loose.

  With a sheepish tilt of my head, I explained. “The bottom didn’t look so far down when I was standing at the top, so I thought I’d check out the surf.” An embarrassed titter. “But coming back up was a different story.” I grinned at Jane. “Wasn’t sure I’d make it up alive to claim my tote. Thanks for keeping it safe.”

  “No problem, dear.” Jane gave me a condescending city-slicker smile. “Try taking the stairs next time. They’re just down a half mile.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I nodded. “So, what do you do in LA?” She smiled like a baby boomer magazine cover model. “I’m an actress. I’ve worked with De Niro, Streep, and Barrymore.”