The Dare

by R. L. Stine

  “There’s going to be a quiz tomorrow,” she replied, making her way across the grass. “You weren’t there. I thought maybe you’d need the notes.”

  “What a considerate friend,” Mr. Northwood commented. “Where were you today, Johanna? We missed you.”

  “I didn’t feel well,” I told him.

  He tsk-tsked and returned to his logs. Margaret and I began heading back toward my house.

  “I have a tape recording of the class, if you’d like to hear what you missed,” Mr. Northwood called to me.

  I thanked him but said I’d borrow Margaret’s notes instead.

  “Do you want to come in?” I asked Margaret. I was studying her face, trying to figure out why she had come. She and I hadn’t been friendly for weeks. I knew she hadn’t come to deliver the history notes.

  “No. I have only a minute,” she replied. She brushed a ringlet of red hair off her forehead.

  The afternoon sun lowered behind the trees. A shadow rolled over both of us. The air grew colder.

  “Everyone’s talking about you, Johanna,” Margaret whispered, gazing over my shoulder to Mr. Northwood. “Everyone’s talking about the dare and about all the money that kids are betting.”

  “Yeah … well …” What was I supposed to say?

  I had a sudden impulse to explain it all to Margaret. I really wanted to tell her how Mr. Northwood was ruining Dennis’s whole life and how he was picking only on Dennis’s friends, and how he was ruining my life too.

  But I knew Margaret wouldn’t understand about Dennis and me. She would never understand about the dare or about Dennis and me and the kids in our group, because Margaret wasn’t one of us.

  She wouldn’t get it. She just wouldn’t.

  So I fought back the impulse to explain and just returned her stare.

  “So what do you want?” I asked sharply.

  She hesitated, chewing her lower lip. “Well … I just had to ask you,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “I mean … you’re not really going through with it—are you?”

  “No. Of course not,” I told her, squeezing the gun tightly inside my coat pocket. “Of course not.”

  chapter 25

  Saturday arrived gray and blustery.

  A perfect day for a murder, I thought, staring down at the bare maple trees from my bedroom window.

  I stayed in bed until I heard the car door slam and heard Mom drive off to work. Then I quickly got cleaned up and dressed, pulling on gray sweats. I brushed and brushed my hair until my scalp hurt. I think I needed some pain to wake me up.

  It was nearly lunchtime, but I couldn’t eat. I paced around nervously, walking from room to room like a caged lion.

  My stomach was churning. My throat felt so tight, I could barely swallow.

  This is crazy, I thought. Crazy.

  Mr. Northwood probably won’t even be home.

  I gazed out the kitchen window. No sign of him. The woodpile stood darkly in the center of the gray yard, like a hulking animal.

  A scrawny squirrel stood tensely to the left of it, its tail straight up in the air. A loud bang, a car backfiring, I think, made the squirrel dash frantically for safety.

  I had to laugh. That squirrel looks like I feel! I told myself.

  My stomach started to ache. I felt really sick.

  I began pacing again. One room blurred darkly into the next.

  Without realizing where I was going or what I was doing, I found myself in the basement. I was reaching behind the dryer, pulling out the loose stone in the wall, checking once again the place I was going to hide the gun after I had used it.

  Saturday afternoon. It was Saturday afternoon.

  Saturday. Saturday. Saturday.

  I repeated the word over and over until it had no meaning, until it made no sense.

  Until nothing made sense.

  And then back up in the kitchen, leaning on the windowsill, I saw Mr. Northwood appear in his backyard. His red and black wool coat was open, revealing a green turtleneck underneath. His gray hair stood up on his head, fluttering in the strong breeze.

  He carried an open can of paint in one hand, a fat paintbrush in the other.

  My heart pounding, I watched him make his way to the shed behind his garage, his head bobbing as he took his usual long strides.

  He’s going to paint the shed, I realized, pressing my hot forehead against the cool windowpane. He’s going to paint the shed in his backyard.

  And I’m going to shoot him.

  Because it’s Saturday Saturday Saturday Saturday.

  And nothing makes sense.

  My stomach churned. I pictured waves of molten lava rolling around inside me. I’m a volcano, I thought, about to erupt.

  I swallowed hard, trying to force back my nausea.

  I was in the living room now. I glanced down and saw the pistol gripped in my hand.

  How did it get there?

  I didn’t remember walking from the kitchen. I didn’t remember crossing the living room, opening the table drawer, lifting the gun.

  But I had.

  I had the pistol in my hand now.

  Because it was Saturday Saturday Saturday.

  And Mr. Northwood was in his backyard. Waiting to be killed.

  Holding the pistol in one hand, I rubbed my aching stomach with the other. Then I started to the closet to get my coat.

  And the doorbell rang.

  chapter 26

  Startled, I dropped the gun. It hit the carpet and bounced toward the couch.

  The doorbell rang again.

  The sound sent a chill down my back.

  With a low groan, I bent and grabbed the gun. I stuffed it back into the drawer, pushed the drawer shut, and hurried to see who was at the front door.

  “Dennis!”

  He didn’t smile. His eyes burned into mine. “Did you do it?”

  “Not yet,” I said. I stepped back so he could get into the house. “I—I’m not sure I can,” I admitted.

  He didn’t seem to hear me. “Is Northwood home?”

  I nodded. “In the backyard. Painting his shed. Do you believe it? He picks the coldest day of the year to paint.”

  “That’s great!” Dennis exclaimed, his eyes studying me.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “You’re not very friendly,” he replied, pretending to pout.

  “I’m a little nervous,” I told him. “And my stomach—”

  He interrupted me by moving forward and pressing his lips against mine. His face was cold from the outside, but his mouth was warm.

  “That was for moral support,” he said when the kiss had ended.

  I trembled. My entire body was shaking. I felt as if I were made of rubber, as if I had no bones at all.

  “Let’s get it over with,” Dennis whispered in my ear, “so we can celebrate.”

  “Celebrate,” I repeated numbly. That word didn’t make any sense either.

  Nothing made sense. Nothing.

  “Where’s the gun?” Dennis demanded, staring intensely into my eyes.

  I pointed to the drawer in the green table.

  My stomach churned. “I’ll be right back,” I told him, rubbing it with one hand over my gray sweatsuit.

  “Where are you going?” he asked shrilly. I could see that he was nervous too. Beads of perspiration formed a glistening line across his forehead.

  “Just upstairs. I need to get some medicine. For my stomach. You know. The pink stuff.”

  I hurried up the stairs, feeling dizzy and about to puke. I dived into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

  I splashed cold water on my face and forced my breathing to slow down. Then I took a long swig of the pink stuff.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, leaning over the sink, staring at my pale, frightened face in the medicine chest mirror, waiting for my stomach to stop churning and aching.

  I heard another car backfire somewhere outside.

  I heard the
wind rattle our old bathroom window.

  I splashed more cold water on my hot face.

  I wanted to stay up there. I didn’t want to go back down. But I knew I had to.

  Because it was Saturday Saturday Saturday.

  And I had accepted a dare. And you can’t wimp out on a dare.

  I made my way downstairs on rubbery legs. My stomach still ached, but I forced myself to ignore it.

  “You okay?” Dennis demanded, eyeing me with concern. His entire forehead glistened with sweat now. And he had bright beads of sweat over his upper lip.

  He looks as pale as I do, I realized. He seems just as tense and afraid.

  That’s so sweet, I thought. He cares about me. Dennis really cares about me.

  Somehow his being nervous for me gave me new strength. I crossed the living room and pulled the pistol from the drawer. Again it felt so warm wrapped inside my cold, wet hand.

  “Good luck, Johanna,” Dennis whispered. I felt his warm breath on my ear.

  I hesitated at the kitchen door. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him for a long, long time.

  There will be time for that … after.

  That’s what I told myself as I stepped outside.

  It was so gray, so dark. The sky seemed to hover right over my head. The air was cold but dry.

  Standing on the back stoop, the pistol gripped tightly in my hand inside my coat pocket, I raised my eyes to Mr. Northwood’s backyard.

  I looked for him first at the shed. But to my surprise, he had moved to the woodpile. He seemed to be leaning over a stack of logs. Rearranging them, I guessed.

  I sucked in a deep breath and began moving quickly, silently, across the grass.

  The pistol was burning hot in my hand.

  The dark sky appeared to whir by overhead. The ground rolled beneath my sneakers. The grass appeared to buckle and bend. The tree trunks shimmied as if made of rubber.

  Everything moved. Everything roared past me. The ground, the sky, the bare trees. The wind.

  I shut my eyes, blinked several times, opened them again, trying to force the world to return to normal.

  Normal?

  This was Saturday.

  Not a normal day. A day when nothing made sense.

  Mr. Northwood leaned over the pile of logs. His arms were outstretched. The back of his coat glared at me like a target.

  I pulled the pistol from my pocket.

  I clicked back the hammer.

  I slipped my finger over the trigger.

  I stepped closer. Closer.

  Could I do it?

  Could I?

  chapter 27

  I tried to aim for the middle of Mr. Northwood’s back.

  But the gun began to shake in my hand.

  I gripped it with both hands, trying to hold it steady.

  Mr. Northwood’s wool coat flapped behind him in a sudden gust of wind.

  I knew I had to shoot. Now. Before he climbed up. Before he turned around.

  Before he saw me.

  I struggled to steady the gun.

  Shoot it! I ordered myself. Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!

  I had to shoot. Because it was Saturday.

  But I couldn’t shoot.

  I knew I couldn’t shoot.

  Everything started to make sense again.

  I couldn’t do this, I knew.

  I’m me. I’m Johanna.

  I’m not a murderer. I can’t shoot someone. I can’t shoot anyone.

  I’m Johanna. And everything is starting to make sense.

  What was I thinking of? I asked myself. What happened to me?

  I lowered the gun. I moved it behind my back.

  I began to feel better immediately. My stomach stopped churning. My throat loosened. I began to breathe normally again.

  I’m not a murderer. I’m me. I’m Johanna.

  I’m not going to do it. Not!

  It’s Saturday. But I’m not going to kill him.

  Mr. Northwood didn’t move.

  Everything made sense again. Except Mr. Northwood didn’t move.

  The wind gusted. His red and black coat flapped.

  He didn’t move. His arms hung limply over the stack of logs.

  “Mr. Northwood?” I slipped the gun into my coat pocket. “Mr. Northwood?” My voice, weak and trembling, blew back at me in the gusting wind.

  He didn’t move.

  I stepped closer. Closer.

  I gasped when I saw the dark stain on the back of his coat. The dark purple stain.

  The dark purple bloodstain.

  “Mr. Northwood?”

  Why didn’t he answer me? Why didn’t he move?

  I stared at the round purple stain on the coat. As it came into focus, I saw that the stain surrounded a deep hole, a hole through the coat. A hole in Mr. Northwood’s back.

  Then I lowered my eyes to the dark puddle of blood on the ground in front of the woodpile.

  “Mr. Northwood? Mr. Northwood?”

  But of course he didn’t answer me.

  As I stared in open-mouthed horror, I realized that he had already been shot to death.

  chapter 28

  My knees started to shake. I fought to stay on my feet.

  The gray sky seemed to lower over me, forcing me to see everything through a thick, swirling cloud.

  Suddenly I became aware of footsteps behind me. I turned my head to see Dennis running across the grass, a smile on his face.

  “Johanna—you did it!” he exclaimed.

  “N-no,” I choked out. “No, Dennis.”

  He stepped beside me and slid his arm heavily around my trembling shoulders. His eyes were locked on Mr. Northwood’s body, sprawled facedown over the woodpile.

  “You did it!” Dennis repeated happily. “I can’t believe it! Wow! You did it!”

  “But I didn’t shoot him!” I screamed, pulling out from under Dennis’s arm. “Listen to me, Dennis! I didn’t do it! I didn’t!”

  Dennis’s grin didn’t fade. His green eyes flashed excitedly as he turned to me. “Of course you did, Johanna. You shot him.”

  “No—please! Listen to me!” I begged.

  “Check out your gun,” Dennis instructed calmly. “Go ahead, Johanna. Check it out.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?” I hesitated, staring at him through the thick gray mist that refused to lift from my eyes. “What do you mean, Dennis? Why won’t you listen to me?”

  “Check out your gun.” He pointed to my coat pocket.

  I pulled the pistol out, the pistol I had never fired.

  Why was Dennis insisting that I had?

  “Look at it,” Dennis instructed me, still grinning. “Your gun has been fired. See the powder on the barrel? Go ahead. Smell it.”

  I obediently sniffed the nose of the barrel. I smelled gunpowder.

  The gun, I remembered, had felt so warm when I had lifted it from the drawer in the living room.

  “But, Dennis, I didn’t—”

  “I called the police,” Dennis interrupted, his smile fading, his expression turning cold.

  “What?” I cried, startled.

  “I called the police,” he replied casually. “They’ll be here any second. I’ll tell them it was self-defense, Johanna. Don’t worry. I’ll tell them that Northwood attacked you and you fired in self-defense.”

  “But, Dennis, why—” I started to say. And then I stopped.

  It was all making sense. Even through the thick gray cloud that had lowered over me, it was all making sense.

  The car backfire while I was upstairs in the bathroom—it wasn’t a backfire.

  “Dennis—you shot him!” I cried in a hushed, shocked voice I’d never heard before. “You shot him, Dennis!”

  Dennis took a step back, his eyes on Mr. Northwood’s body. “I’ll tell them you did it in self-defense, Johanna,” he said softly.

  “But you shot him!” I shouted. “While I was in the bathroom.”

  I could feel my fury grow. The volcano was about
to erupt. I grabbed his shoulders. “Dennis—why?”

  He jerked away from me, his eyes lighting up angrily.

  “Why, Dennis?” I demanded. “You set this all up, didn’t you!” I accused him. “You set me up! Why?”

  “What’s happening?” A girl’s voice called from the driveway.

  I turned to see Caitlin hurrying over to us.

  “Oh, Caitlin!” I cried, so happy to see her. “Caitlin—help me! Please?” I went running to her.

  But she sidestepped me and hurried over to Dennis.

  “It went perfectly,” Dennis told her, grinning. He pointed down to Mr. Northwood’s body.

  She kissed him on the cheek. “We did it!” Caitlin cried.

  chapter 29

  I froze.

  Caitlin slid her arm around Dennis’s waist, holding him close.

  The trees along the back fence suddenly came to life, their branches trembling, their slender trunks leaning in a strong burst of wind. Fat brown leaves raced over my sneakers as if trying to flee.

  “I don’t get this,” I muttered.

  “It was all a dare,” Dennis explained casually. “Caitlin dared me to let you take care of our Northwood problem.”

  “You mean—” Too many thoughts ran through my mind at once. I felt as if my head would burst.

  “It was easy to get you to volunteer,” Dennis continued. “You seemed so eager. And you made it so easy too.” Caitlin nodded in agreement, her eyes on Dennis.

  “I could hardly believe it when it turned out that you of all people owned a gun,” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t even have to try to think of a clever way to kill him. You had the perfect weapon right in your own house.”

  “You went out with me just because you wanted me to kill Mr. Northwood?” I demanded, ignoring the chills that ran down my back, ignoring the blood throbbing at my temples.

  Dennis nodded. “Pretty much. It was a dare, see.”

  “Dennis is going with me,” Caitlin murmured, staring hard at me. “Didn’t you wonder why he was suddenly so interested in you?”

  “I can’t believe you planned this whole thing,” I said, shaking my head unhappily.

  “I have to get back on the track team,” Dennis replied softly. “Northwood was ruining my whole life. You seemed so eager to take care of Northwood for me.”