Truth & Dare

by Liz Miles

“I can’t confirm it,” Chelsea says, releasing her helium balloons to hover over the pile. “But Seb Mancuso says you appeared to him in a slice of Friday Pizza.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Oh, Evan.” Chelsea throws her arms around me, pretending to be playful. “When are you going to give it up and just walk on water?”

  It’s when she touches me that I realize the ache of cold again. She bands me with fire; I want to push my hands up the back of her shirt and pull her into my lap.

  I turn—maybe my body has decided for me, but the trophy case catches the light. Its transparency clouds, clear to silver; it becomes a mirror for the hollow, dead weight of my eyes.

  Yes, I stole a kiss, but I manage to peel Chelsea off before I molest her in the hallway. She’s almost my best friend, so I feel her deflate. I know the shadows that catch in the corners of her smile.

  No matter how warm she is, no matter how alive, I have to stop getting her hopes up. It’s never going to happen; we’re never going to happen. I love her like crazy.

  I want to keep her in my pocket; I love setting up stupid jokes so she can knock them down. We have the best time, as long as I ignore the crush, and she tries to hide it. We were a lot better at this before I died.

  “Oh my god, Evan’s back!” Shelby Howard cries from across the room.

  And in an instant, I don’t have to be good at pushing Chelsea away; a weirdly adoring crowd does it for her. I mean, these are my friends, or really good acquaintances—anyway, they come to my parties. I go to theirs. I have no idea who they are.

  I try to catch Chelsea’s gaze. Over Shelby’s head, I mouth, “Save me.”

  Chelsea presses a hand to her chest, echoing infatuated delight when she mouths back, “Oooh, Evan Todd!”

  I’m on my own.

  CUT TO:

  “Hey,” Tyler says. Hunched over his trig book, he inhabits his desk like he might ask for a toll to cross his bridge.

  I spill into the seat beside him; instead of answering, I stare at the board. In the milky cloud of dust that remains, I can see the ghosts of equations past—all stuff I missed while I was in the hospital.

  Tyler hooks his fingers under his book, raising one edge of it. He hesitates, then drops it, turning to me. “Hey.”

  “Oh, hey,” I say. I roll my eyes up like I’m thinking, like I’m trying to remember. “Oh yeah, Tyler. Tyler Ross, right?”

  The dark mass of his hair wavers when he ducks. His fingers twitch on the edge of his book; I want to angle on his pinkie—the one I broke in freshman year with a wild pitch. It bobs, flickering, like a spider sounding the lines in its web.

  “Sorry I didn’t come to the hospital,” he finally says.

  “Me too,” I say. I have no grace.

  Tyler sprawls back. With a monumental effort, he raises his head. “Olivia’s having a party at her dad’s cabin Friday, you in?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Fuck you, then.”

  “That’s what I told your mother,” I say, and I can’t help it. I crack the ice of a smile first.

  “Your mother didn’t say anything,” he answers. “I pay her to shut up.”

  We both smile, but we’re almost feral. Everything’s tight in Tyler’s jaw; my spine is steel.

  Yeah, I’ll go to his girlfriend’s party, and he’ll clap me on the back and throw me another beer—we’re friends. Best friends.

  He was there when I fell through the ice.

  DISSOLVE TO:

  FLASHBACK—MILLER’S POND

  All I remember is burning.

  My lungs burn. My thoughts burn.

  Scalding, I think I know that this is down, not up.

  I exhale silver, not breath.

  Where is up?

  Where the hell is Tyler?

  CUT TO:

  “Welcome back Evan,” Mrs. Golini says and jerks me back, to trig. Trig, on the first day back, one seat away from the Vipers’ star third baseman.

  “Thank you,” I say. I stretch out on my desk, sprawling elbows and knees and smile. Brightly, even.

  She slips a folder onto my desk, patting the top of it. “The lessons you missed; if you need help just let me know.”

  I nod and look at Tyler. “Ross can catch me up.”

  “Wonderful,” she says.

  Her voice melts into the background, something about haversines or tangents, but it’s all just noise. My gaze drifts from the board to the windows. Outside, winter rises in a silver haze. Snow swirls through the air; when it touches the pavement, it dies.

  My bones ache. They splinter at the joints so ice can slip into the marrow; nothing melts there. Mrs. Golini’s voice warps, a slow wave that comes around me and I drown again. Down deep, there’s a pressure that slips hard fingers into my ears, and wraps around my heart—it doesn’t beat, it quivers.

  The gasping stops. Sometimes frigid is fire; as soon as I burn inside and out, I stop struggling. Up or down, doesn’t matter … there’s an awareness of drowning, but no urgency. It’s quiet, down deep. Still.

  The hook in my chest yanks me to the surface again. The deep, secret green of the water spills out of me, and suddenly, I smell—coffee?

  “Evan!”

  Waters clear, and I blink to see Mrs. Golini’s hazel eyes far too close to mine. Startled, I jerk away. Metal screeches in the distance as I scramble to my feet. “Get off! Get off!”

  Clawed fingers reach for me. “Evan!”

  “Don’t touch me!” I draw back, then my shoulders crack. My sternum splits. Some fire-hot grasp wrestles me down, but down is tile instead of a weedy sea of blue. My knees crack against tile and that pain wakes me.

  Twisted in their desks, everyone watches.

  “Shut up.” Tyler’s voice is behind my ear. His breath spills across my skin, and just for the heat of it, I do exactly what he says.

  Mrs. Golini trembles, but her back is straight. Her voice is firm. “Tyler, help Evan to the nurse’s office.”

  FADE OUT

  FADE IN:

  “I didn’t mean to scare her,” I say.

  Tyler, from the far corner, agrees. “He was trying to get away from her.”

  It’s not until now, now that I’ve seen myself from outside—not in a mirror, outside—that I realize my mother looks like me. There’s a ghost of my dark eyes there; her mouth is wide and shaded like mine. And right now, it’s turned down.

  “I was afraid this was too soon,” she says.

  From the nurse’s bed, I swear to her, “It’s not. I was going crazy at home.”

  This is the wrong thing to say, considering I just lost it in trig. The clinic is just off the main office, and I hear people talking beyond the door. My name floats to the top of conversation. People are concerned.

  Mom looks at the floor, tugging her chin in thought. “I wonder if Dr. Strickland has an opening?”

  “I’ll apologize. I was going to apologize anyway.”

  “Evan, your intentions are good, but if you had a seizure …”

  Tyler could help, but he’s leaning on the wall and watching the conversation I can only half hear.

  “They would have called an ambulance.”

  “Honey,” she says.

  I cut Tyler another look. Chewing his thumb, he drifts further away. I mutter, “I think I just fell asleep.”

  When Mom frames my face with her hands, her expression ripples. Instead of going on, quietly frustrated, she frowns. Turning her hands over, she presses one to my forehead, the other to the side of my neck. “Evan, you’re freezing.”

  An answer spills out of me; it pours out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Yeah, I know, I’m dead.”

  “Evan!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Get your things,” Mom says. She reaches for her bag, but I catch her hand.

  “I’m sorry! I’m fine. Mom, please.”

  To prove it, I stand. I clasp her hand between mine. I’m ready to beg.

  My memories of the E
R are insubstantial; ghosts of something that happened to me when I wasn’t there.

  But waking up in the hospital was agony, and it was real, and mine. At first, I was a twilight machine, fed by thick coils of tubes cut and thrust into my veins. I drifted toward awareness, vague and lost. But those tubes were gone when I woke up.

  It was dark.

  Swathed in tape and gauze, bound wrist and ankle with thick straps that cut into my skin, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even scream. The faultless rhythm of the ventilator demanded my throat for my next breath.

  I lay like that for hours; I thought it was hours. Inside, I screamed for hours, and no one heard me at all.

  “I promise you,” I say. “I fell asleep.”

  She hesitates. I don’t know what that is in her eyes, if it’s hope or fear, but finally she picks up her purse and says, “Dr. Strickland probably can’t fit you in today … but I’m calling her when I get home.”

  This is good; this is great. And I tell her that as I see her out, like she just stopped by to pay a visit. From the corner of my eye, I catch Tyler slinking back to class. He hunches his shoulders and hurries.

  I’m pretty sure I won’t see him again until Saturday.

  DISSOLVE TO:

  Tonight, Dad comes to my door after work. Straight to my door, too. I hear him come in, then heavy, blanket-familiar footsteps right to me. A while ago, he quit coming inside without knocking.

  Instead, he arrives, leans against the frame, crosses his arms over his chest. Casual, like he’s visiting my office before heading to the water cooler.

  “Big day, huh?” he asks.

  I spread my arms. “I’m going to my own funeral, check it out.” My desk is a haystack of cards and notes, little balloons on sticks and stuffed animals. “Chelsea helped me dump the flowers off the custodian’s dock.”

  When he’s nervous, my dad coughs out a laugh, heh heh. “Learning anything?”

  “Yeah, it looks like I’m 2 good 2 b 4 gotten.”

  “Wisdom for the ages.” Heh heh.

  A guilty itch starts at my edges; maybe I don’t know half these people, don’t recognize the handwriting, couldn’t match it with faces. But I fell through the ice and they caught their breath. They deserve some kind of respect.

  I swivel toward Dad. “Olivia’s having a party this weekend.”

  Dad sheds his discomfort with a smile. “Getting right back into it. That’s a Todd, right there.”

  “Since I can’t drive, I’ll probably stay over.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” I think he wants to call me Sport or Champ but he doesn’t because I’m not seven any more, which he knows. And I can almost mouth along with him when he adds, “You have protection?”

  He’s asked me that before every party since ninth grade. Sometimes, I wonder if he wants me to say no so he can hand me a twenty with a wink and a nudge. We’re pals, my dad and I. We never talk about anything.

  “I’m covered. Thanks,” I say with a thumbs up.

  “Good deal. I’ll tell your mother,” he says. Then he’s down the hall, off to change his work clothes.

  It seems like we’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Even when I came out to him, it was painlessly friendly.

  ME

  Yeah, Dad, I’m pretty sure I’m gay.

  DAD

  (Heh heh)

  That’s all right then. You have protection?

  ME

  Yeah. Uh, yeah.

  DAD

  Good deal. I’ll tell your mother.

  And he exited, down the hall to change his work clothes. Later, Mom asked a bunch of questions about falling in love. If I had. If I wanted to. Then, as she stood, she asked, “Did I do something …?”

  Before I could say no, she answered herself.

  “What a stupid question.” She kissed me, both cheeks, then brushed my hair from my face. “I love you, beautiful boy.”

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  Now she worries because I haven’t brought anyone home. Well, actually, now she probably worries because I drowned in Miller’s Pond and told her I was dead. I swivel my chair again, stealing a look at the darkened mirror in my bathroom.

  A silver bead of water streaks down my cheek.

  And on that note, I go back to my funeral.

  DISSOLVE TO:

  Though the air still hazes with frost, Olivia’s party spills out in rings around her father’s cabin.

  Up in the woods, everything’s barren; leafless branches stretch toward a bitter black sky. A haze hangs between us and the stars, so glittering white lights strung everywhere make up the difference.

  “Evan,” Olivia crows when she sees me.

  Olivia is gorgeous in a camel wool coat, two shades lighter than her skin. The buttons gleam, competing with the rhinestone flowers hiding in her hair. I swear, when she shakes her head, I see the blue part of my lips in every bauble.

  She swoops over and clasps the back of my neck. Two bright spots of crimson light my cheeks—not a blush, but her lipstick. Olivia loves that trick. “Evan, Evan, Evan Todd, look at you.”

  “Hey, sexy, you come here often?” I ask. I dip my head, but I don’t wipe off her kisses. They drive Tyler nuts, and I figure he owes me.

  Waving me off, Olivia tugs on my knitted hat. “Fail.”

  “It’s twenty degrees out,” I say.

  Her laughter is warm. “But there’s cider inside. Wine, a pony keg … mixers if you’re good to me.”

  “Aren’t I always good to you?” I ask, then slip my hands into her sleeves. She shrieks, barely saving her drink when she jumps back.

  “Oh, no, you are not freezing to death at my party,” she says. She grabs me by the front of my coat and drags me inside.

  The music’s so loud, I feel every filament of the beat on my skin. Bodies crush close, to talk, to dance, begging me to slip into the teasing heat. The coats are shed in here, revealing tropical cuts, bare backs, bare arms. I feel like a vampire. I want to drink them all up.

  Caught in currents, I spin around to say, “Hi,” or to surrender hugs.

  “Brrrr, sweetie!” Sinjai says, clasping both my hands between hers.

  Morgan pulls me close. “So good to see you!” She rocks me against her chest until Olivia peels me away.

  “You’re a whore,” Olivia says lightly.

  Shrugging, I smile. “I’m just friendly.”

  She pulls me into the kitchen. We don’t stop at the impressive array of liquor bottles or red party cups filling the counters—she leads me into the pantry.

  It sounds intimate, but it’s not. The pantry is almost as big as the kitchen; instead of appliances, it has shelves. Lots and lots of shelves, filled with jars of homemade jam, fruit and pickles. It smells of cinnamon and of something vaguely earthy in there, and as Olivia turns, her spiced perfume slips into the mix.

  “So what’s going on with you and Tyler?” she asks abruptly.

  I watch her rise on to her toes, slipping fingers into dark reaches. With a shrug, I start to rub out the smear of her kiss off my cheek. “Wish I knew.”

  Olivia ticks her tongue. “Don’t give me that.”

  “I don’t know!”

  Producing a dark bottle, she twists off the cap. Slow, deliberate motions, the metal band flashing between her fingers. “He’s been worrying himself crazy. Have you seen the circles under his eyes?”

  I laugh. “I haven’t even seen him, let alone his fucking circles.”

  “He’s been sick over this,” she says. She takes a sip from the bottle, then hands it to me. “Sick over you, texting me at all hours. Having nightmares.”

  The smooth, golden burn of Jamaican rum is almost as good as drawing heat from touch. It’s like a swallowed ember, glowing dimly in my chest. “Well, I can’t tell it from here. Did he move his locker?”

  With pursed lips, Olivia waits for the bottle before she answers. “He’s been using mine.”

  “He’s skipping t
rig, too.” I point at her. “He was there on Monday, haven’t seen him since. And he’s gonna get busted off the team if he flunks it. I can’t help him there.”

  Rubbing the bottle against her lower lip, Olivia shakes her head. “I don’t know what …”

  “Liv,” Tyler says behind me. His voice shimmers like oil on water.

  “Look who’s here,” Olivia says.

  He answers with a kiss, dipping her back until she has to scramble to keep the bottle upright, propped on his shoulder. The air arcs electricity when he rights her, when he tosses me half a glance. “Hey, Ev.”

  Olivia starts, “Maybe you should—”

  “Dance with you?” He slings his arm around her shoulder, then kisses the back of her neck. It’s the only skin her coat reveals. “Any time, let’s go.”

  Wedging past me, Tyler shrugs, as if to say, “Hey, when the lady says she wants to dance …”

  With a touch, Olivia palms the rum into my hand, and she’s spirited into the pulsing body of her party again.

  It’s funny; she actually takes warmth with her, and sound. The pantry makes a hollow echo of my breath. Before the walls can close around me, jarring me up with green tomatoes and apple rings, I slip into the party, too.

  I used to know how to do this. I can fake it.

  CUT TO:

  “No,” I say, raising my voice. With a finger pressed into one ear, I lean closer to Sinjai. “I’m still in physical therapy now, but I should be able to play by spring.”

  Her nails press into my arm as she presses closer. “Oh! We were all wondering!”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ll be good by then!”

  Before I can elaborate, Chelsea sweeps by, and in a tangle of high-pitched greetings and partings, she extracts me from Sinjai’s company and rushes me through the patio doors.

  “I’m so cold,” she complains, huddling me into a dark corner. The stonework wall bites into my hip. I steady Chelsea’s shoulders to keep her from shoving me onto the lawn, and she shoves both hands up the back of my sweater.

  Serpentine heat streaks across my skin, and I pull her closer. “Then why did you bring me outside, loser?”

  “Quieter,” she says. She lays her cheek against my chest, and absurdly, I want to ask her if my heart’s beating.