Truth & Dare

by Liz Miles

  “I can’t use that credit card again, and I don’t have any money left,” Andy says. “Those drinks were expensive. I’m sorry, El.”

  I take out my wallet. I have Dad’s money, which I’ve barely spent, with the way I’ve been living. Plus he keeps giving me more. Euros upon euros, in cash. “I’ve got money.”

  “Oh, Ellie. This date was supposed to be perfect.” He sounds miserable. “And anyway, who’s hiring cars here at this time of night?”

  “This is Italy,” I say. “The country that never sleeps.”

  Andy looks doubtful. “I’ve never heard that before. I mean, seriously, I’ve never seen any evidence of that at all.”

  “Leave it to me,” I say.

  I am not a mouse.

  There’s a group of men by a scruffy car on the other side of the road. The car looks like one of the junkyard ones from Pixar’s Cars movie—the little yellow one called Luigi—but it will do.

  I dart across the road, leaving Andy where he is. I force out my best Italian—which isn’t very good—for the longest time, and punctuate my persuasive argument by waving wads of my Dad’s euros around. Eventually I cross back to Andy, who’s at one with a lamppost.

  I’m triumphant.

  But Andy looks more worried than before, if that’s possible. “Ellie, what was all that about? I shouldn’t have let you go over there—”

  “You couldn’t have stopped me. Here. We have a car.” I hand him the keys to Luigi. A skeletal cat prowls past me. I stare right at it, but it ignores me.

  Andy drives Luigi through the moonlit darkness, phutt-phutt-phutt. “Your dad’s so right about you,” he says after a while. He smiles a tiny smile, like he’s just allowing it to creep through.

  I eye him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “At the cafe. When he told his girlfriend—”

  “Adelina?”

  “Adelina. He told her you were fiercely independent. So much so that he didn’t know how to be your dad.”

  I nearly gasp. “He never said that! Are you sure? Your Italian isn’t that good.”

  His smile broadens. “Oh, thanks,” he says sarcastically. “Well, okay, I understood the word ‘independent,’ and I know he was talking about you, and he was trying to field Adelina’s accusations. She said he should have invited you sooner.” He gives me a quick, shy look. “And I know you probably terrify him, because you’re a force to be reckoned with.”

  I doubt it, but I have to change the subject now because we seem to be approaching a wide stretch of beach.

  “Um, Andy, are we going the right way?” I ask.

  “It was signposted here,” he says.

  “Okay.” I pause. “It’s just … we live in central Italy, and if we go any further now we might fall right off the edge of the country. So it doesn’t seem very, you know, central, right now.”

  Andy grips the steering wheel tightly and pulls over to the beachfront with the engine still running. He groans. “You’re right!” He stares at the dashboard. “And there’s worse. There’s a red light on here.”

  “Let me see.” I crane my neck.

  “It’s the gas!”

  “The what?”

  “We’re out of gas.”

  “Okay.” I’m still feeling capable, even though I’m kicking myself that I didn’t think to ask those Italian men whether there was any petrol in the tank before I gave them all my money. “So we’ll get more.”

  “In the country that never sleeps?” He gives me a sideways look.

  I look around. The streets are deserted. Metal doors cover the nearby shopfronts—they don’t just look closed, they look fortified against nuclear attack. I have to admit Andy has a point. “Well, possibly I was wrong about that.”

  Andy grimaces.

  “Okay. So we’ll find a hotel.”Wow, a hotel. Me and Andy in a hotel. A thrill runs through me. I could do anything tonight.

  “Do you have any money left?”

  I could do anything that costs nothing. “Um, no.”

  He takes out his wallet. “I have two euros.”

  I think. We could sleep in the car. We could figure something out in the morning.

  Luigi is tiny.

  But Luigi’s headlights show that there’s a whole beach in front of us. Rows of empty black-and-white deckchairs on a stretch of black and empty sand. We have our windows open and the night is balmy.

  “Andy?”

  He taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “When Sofia went to Ibiza last year, she slept on the beach.”

  He looks out. “Isn’t there a law against that?”

  “I think she got moved on a couple of times. But that was in Spain.”

  He turns off the engine.

  “If we get arrested, I’ll tell them I’m Professor Minghelli’s daughter. That’s got to be good for something.”

  “Maybe in Perugia. You’re not in Perugia any more, Dorothy. This is a one-fish town.”

  We wait a while.

  Neither of us have any other ideas.

  “Come on,” I say. We head for our free Sands resort hotel.

  Andy and I walk past the deckchairs, listening to the sea churn and hiss. This sound, combined with the oddly pleasant smell of seaweed and fish, is the only signal of where we are. The rest is pure, deep darkness, with just a hint of moonlight.

  We head for the roar of the sea and stop when we feel the texture of the sand change under our combat boots. Behind us is a cluster of tall rocks, blocking the beach and the road from view, so we’re completely cut off from the man-made world. The air is warm and damp. I’ve adjusted to the darkness now so I shut my eyes to get it back. I hear the repetitive whoosh of the waves. I hear Andy breathing.

  “So … you never wanted to date Yoshi?” I ask. The night sky and the car bribery have made me bold.

  Andy laughs. “Did you think I did?”

  “No … yes.” I take a deep breath. “I thought tonight was your first date with her.”

  “You have to be kidding me, Ellie!” He plays with my hair, rubbing the ends between his fingers. “Why would you think I wanted to date Yoshi?”

  “Um.” Where do I start? “She’s gorgeous? She has an amazing sense of style?”

  “Okay,” he says. “That’s true.”

  My heart doesn’t even sink. I mean, it is true. But now, Andy is stroking my face.

  “She’s great,” he adds. “But you’re … you.”

  Oh?

  “I can’t stop thinking about you, Ellie.”

  OHHHH.

  I open my eyes. A sliver of moon shines on us as he reaches for me. He wraps an arm carefully across my shoulders. It’s like that comfortable warmth I felt when he put his hand on mine at the cafe, but it’s combined with something else. I feel strong. Better still, I realize this feeling isn’t new. I’ve always felt strong like this; I’ve just been stifling it, letting other people get to me. Getting at myself.

  I put my arm around his waist.

  He says, “Ellie?”

  Instead of answering, I pull him close. It makes his T-shirt ride up slightly and I reach under it, let my hand touch his skin.

  “Ellie …” His voice is croaky now.

  I wrap my other arm around him and turn so we’re face-to-face in the dark.

  I press my body against his. I find his mouth with my mouth, just for a second. He seems tentative. Nervous. I kiss him until he relaxes into me and we kiss and kiss and kiss until we fold back, grasping at each other on the sand.

  We don’t exactly stop, but we do slow down. Or rather he does, and I follow because I’m glued to him. We kiss as much as possible as we unravel. Then we sit on the sand, or rather in the sand—our clothes are filled with enough gritty stuff to make our own private beach. I lean my head on his shoulder and he strokes my hair. It makes me tingle all over again.

  I kiss his neck. “What philosophical thoughts are you thinking now?” I joke.

  His voice is low.
“You make it kinda difficult for me to think at all.” He leans his head on top of mine. “That day I first met you? In the bathroom?” A laugh creeps into his voice. “I thought you’d never leave.”

  “You wanted me to leave?”

  “No, I wanted you to stay and I wanted to do this.” He kisses my lips and my world spins. “I had to recite philosophical theory in my head to stop myself.”

  “Seriously? In my teddy-bear pajamas?”

  “They were super-cute. And you’re beautiful.”

  “This boy at school calls me Minger-Ellie.” Even as I tell him, I realize the nickname has completely lost its power. It says more about Mo than it does about me. “Minger is British for ‘ugly,’” I explain. “I had a crush on him. Before.”

  Andy sounds angry. “Sorry, but that guy’s an idiot.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and then I add, “What guy?” and I kiss him.

  He pulls away and says, “Listen, about the tattoo, Ellie …”

  “Oh,” I say, but I’m just so sure of this—of him, of us, of me, that I add, “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It really doesn’t,” he says. “But just in case. It’s henna. It’s fading. I got it done before we broke up. Last-ditch attempt to save the relationship. It didn’t work, and it hadn’t worked for the longest time. The relationship, I mean.” He sits up. “Jenna was seeing other guys. Our feelings for each other faded a long time ago. She just needed to give me a final push.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I take his hand.

  “What about?” he asks lightly.

  “About your girlf—”

  “What girl?” he laughs, and he kisses me.

  • • •

  The sun rises, an orange ball over a shimmering gray-blue, and wakes us up even though we didn’t know we’d gone to sleep. I walk back to Luigi holding hands with Andy and floating on air. Well, crunching on it, really, seeing as my boots are filled with sand, but I don’t care.

  “So what’s next, Ellie El-raiser?” Andy asks, and I think he can call me whatever he likes and it will be okay, coming from him. “What’s your plan for getting us out of here alive?”

  “I thought I’d call my dad,” I say. I check my watch. “I’ll get the number for the university from Directory Enquiries, or whatever. I’ll call him there. It must be possible. Besides, he wants me to ask him for help, doesn’t he?” I realize it’s true the second I say it. “He’s been waiting. That’s why he didn’t invite me over until Adelina suggested it. He was waiting for me to ask him.”

  “I wondered about that,” says Andy. “But I knew you didn’t want to talk about it. You mean you’ve never even been downstairs?”

  What? “I’ve never been where?”

  “Downstairs. To your dad’s place, I mean. In our building.”

  “Wait a minute.” I look at him. “My dad lives in our building? You know he lives there?” Maybe that’s how Dad knew about the dripping tap. Maybe he heard it.

  “Sure,” says Andy. “Wait, you don’t?” He sounds amazed.

  I shake my head. “He didn’t tell me.” And actually, “How did you know?”

  “I guess the real-estate agency mentioned it. I didn’t think you didn’t know, Ellie! He always says you should call him if you need him.”

  “Well, yeah, but he meant I should phone him.” Even though I don’t have his number. “Didn’t he?”

  “I always thought he meant yell. You know. Like shout, ‘Dad!’ down the stairs. Like you would at home, if you lived in the same house.”

  I seem to remember he rarely answered, when we lived in the same house.

  “Or at least call at his door. He lost his phone, didn’t he? He’s the very cliché of an absent-minded professor.” Andy laughs.

  “He’s hopeless. He can’t manage to be my dad without an instruction manual. Written by me.”

  “I think he’s trying, Ellie. In his own, imperfect way.”

  So then I think about imperfection. The mess we all make, living our lives. The way we call each other hurtful names and put each other down and ignore each other and make each other feel bad, and it’s all so stupid, because we’re all human. We’re all as bad as each other.

  And as good.

  And as attached and alone at the same time. Prowling around each other like cats.

  Andy takes my other hand and I melt into our chocolate kisses and it feels perfect, but I know it’s not, not really. It’s awesome, but we’re just two people powered by a delicious moment. Embracing imperfection and making it shine.

  In our case, though?

  For the longest time.

  Orange Tootsie Pop

  BY CECIL CASTELLUCCI

  I HAVE ONLY been at Mayflower Middle School for three weeks and I already know a few things: Shoshanna and Brooke are the twin princesses of seventh grade and I am lucky to be their friend; on Thursdays Mrs. Gabriel our seventh grade homeroom teacher gives us treats; and I am in love with Kenny Kamil.

  Today is the first time one of Kenny’s friends, Eddie, passes me a note in class. He’s always smiled at me before and nodded in my direction, but we had never made contact. When the note comes my way I don’t think that it could possibly be for me, so I pass it to the girl next to me.

  “Uh, this note is for you,” the girl next to me whispers.

  “What?”

  “It says Donna on it,” she says, pointing to the very clear, underlined and in capital letters name on the folded piece of loose-leaf paper. “That’s your name, not mine.”

  “Oh,” I say and I take it from her, put it on my lap, and open it up.

  Donna,

  Kenny, Jonathan and I were wondering if you wore colored panties? Also, do you wear a bra?

  Please tick what style you wear.

  ___ Thong

  ___ Bikini

  ___ Grandma

  ___ I don’t wear underwear

  We are perverts. Ha. Ha. Ha.

  For a guy that gets a 99 percent on every algebra quiz, Eddie could sound pretty stupid sometimes.

  Shoshanna and Brooke meet me outside after school by the gymnasium entrance.

  Shoshanna always looks so pretty. Today she’s wearing her pale pink shirt, the one I love, with a cool-looking fairy on it outlined in glitter. Her hair, a honey-golden blonde, is woven into tight little braids, and her skin is a coffee-with-milk shade of brown, like she’s been in the sun all day. I wonder if her mother takes her to a salon to get the braids done so perfectly, or if her mother does it for her at home.

  I love braids. I wish I had the kind of hair that stayed in braids. But I don’t.

  We have the sweets Mrs. Gabriel gave us in homeroom today in a brown paper bag Brooke saved from lunch. I notice her name in cursive in light-blue pen on the fold. BROOKE. It’s not her handwriting, it’s her mother’s. I know it to be impossible to forge. All of us have tried to copy Mrs. Farley’s handwriting. All of us have failed. Brooke can never be counted on for an authentic-looking, adult-like note. That’s the one thing Shoshanna doesn’t like about her.

  Even though it’s the end of October, it’s hot outside, so I take off my sweater.

  “Oh, look, Donna’s finally at the button stage,” Shoshanna says to Brooke, pointing atmy non-existent boobs. Even Brooke has tits. They are small—speed tits, she calls them—but, she always points out, at least she can wear a bra.

  “They are an A cup,” she says.

  I look down at my flat chest and see what Shoshanna’s talking about. My nipples have kind of puffed out and they are poking through my T-shirt like two sewn-on buttons.

  I’m embarrassed, so I put my sweater back on.

  “You should get a training bra, even though they’re for babies,” Brooke says.

  “Boys like boobs. They like big ones. Like mine,” Shoshanna says. Then she thrusts out her chest a little more to show me her boobs. Like everything about Shoshanna, even her boobs seem perfect to me.

  We are hanging out at the basketball courts
after school with one thing on our minds: Kenny and the boys and when they will get here. We all know that they’ll be here soon to play their pick-up game and that we’ll watch them, because they are the cool boys and we are the cool girls, and that is what we do.

  We hang out and watch them.

  “I heard Eddie passed you a note today and you didn’t respond,” Shoshanna says.

  “It was a stupid note,” I say.

  “No, Donna,” Shoshanna says. “No note a boy passes you is ever stupid.”

  “Yeah,” Brooke says. “They might want to be your boyfriend.”

  “I don’t want Eddie to be my boyfriend,” I say.

  “Oh,” Shoshanna says. “I know you like Kenny, but Kenny is out of your league, Donna. No offense.”

  I have a sneaking suspicion that she is right. Kenny is out of my league.

  “Probably he’s going to ask me to go to the Halloween dance,” Shoshanna says.

  “Probably Shoshanna is going to be his girlfriend,” Brooke says.

  “Probably I’m going to let him feel me up. Or finger me,” Shoshanna says. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  I think about Kenny’s hand snaking up Shoshanna’s shirt and cupping her breast. I bet it would fill his hand and then he would squeeze it a little. I wish I had a breast that he could squeeze, instead of a button. I think about him sticking his hand up my shirt and feeling my button nipple. Then I get depressed.

  “You should maybe settle for Eddie,” Shoshanna says. “He’s a brain, like you.”

  “I don’t want to date a brain,” I say.

  “Me, neither,” Brooke says. “That’s why I’m going to go for Jonathan.”

  “Look, here they come,” Shoshanna says, poking Brooke with her elbow. “Pretend you don’t care.”

  Shoshanna and Brooke start pretending that they are very interested in something on the ground by their feet. Maybe they are looking at something, like an anthill. Or a special rock. Or some fall leaves that are a pretty color. I don’t know, because I’m not looking at the ground with them. I’m looking at the boys.

  I’m not a good pretender.

  “Donna’s peeking,” Brooke says.

  “Look busy,” Shoshanna commands.