I turn into the shop and instantly think of a dozen reasons.
CHAPTER 7
T
hursday morning,
and John and I are quiet. It’s been crazy at school ever since Ricky posted the video. Which is what we want, but it’s exhausting waiting for something to happen, for someone to figure us out. I scratch the skin around the scab over my cut, careful not to get near the middle, which is still a little goopy.
John turns and watches me. “We should get you a helmet for the next dare.”
“Funny. Did Ricky tell you what it is?”
“No. Remember, we’ve got to pick from a list now. But you know him. He’ll see how much he can one-up that jump. Helmets might be a good idea for all of us.”
“Wonder what it says in the
contract
?”
I meant it as a joke, but John shakes his head. “We should have read it.”
“Why? You think something’s up?”
John looks over. “With Ricky anything’s possible. But don’t you think it’s weird how we went from surfing for fun to signing a contract and getting paid?”
“We’ve haven’t gotten paid, so let’s not hold our breath on that. Yeah, it was fast, but like Ricky said, we had to prove ourselves.”
“I understand that. Why
us
? If it was a Craigslist ad, then the guy’s local.”
I hadn’t considered this.
“So why did he choose us? What did Ricky say to him?”
I sigh. “Good question. We should ask.”
“Go for it,” John says, and we walk into school and the middle of some kids’ conversation.
“Did you see that jump?”
“Of course I did.
Everyone
has.”
“Right, but did you really watch it? INSANE! Those guys are awesome. We have to figure out who they are.” I look at John and he seems as concerned as me, but we don’t speak, just cruise to Ricky’s locker.
We pass Alexia and Chantel, and they wave. Jesse is with Alexia and he sets his jaw and says something in her ear. She shrugs and he leans in and says something harsh. I can’t hear the words, but I watch her face. She’s pissed, but scared too. Yeah, I totally need to talk to Chantel.
We pass kids still buzzing over us, talking about the jump. Some are miming what we did, while a group is clustered around a laptop.
This is exactly what I thought would happen. But at the same time, it’s surreal. I’m watching others watch me, but they don’t know it’s me. Unnerving. But beyond that, another idea emerges:
What if we get caught?
Why haven’t we had a conversation about that?
We reach Ricky and he’s looking around the hallway. “This is what four thousand views does for you, boys. Can you imagine what will happen after our next dare?”
My brain shifts from freaking out to processing the numbers. Four thousand views in sixty hours is impressive. I remember the stats those kids presented on average views for YouTube. I think something like only 11 percent reach that many in the first month. Holy shit.
“Yeah, but they’re going to try to figure out who we are. Do you have everything locked up online?” I ask Ricky. “We can’t get caught.”
“Yeah. What’s O. P. doing to keep us safe?” John asks, his voice tight.
Ricky smiles his enormous wolf smile at our questions. “Relax. We’re fine. And O. P.’s ecstatic. He’s sending the check any day, and he’s going to create an ad to promote our third dare.”
“That’s not what I asked.” John leans in.
Ricky’s face hardens. “Look at the two of you. Things get a little edgy and you turn into pussies.”
John leans in a bit more. “You really want to go there?”
Ricky’s eyes bug and then he looks at me. “All I’m saying is that the two of you need to relax. We haven’t done anything illegal, and I’ve got this figured out.”
“Heard that before,” I say.
John straightens and folds his arms over his chest. Ricky looks at the two of us and then down at the ground and mutters to himself.
The bell rings but I don’t want to scatter. I want to know more, to know what Ricky knows. What’s the online safety? How much money? When will we get the list for the next dare? But the grace period for being late to class has worn off. Teachers are no longer minding their beginning-of-the-year manners, if they had any to begin with.
We split and I head to calculus, where we discuss the logic of the relationship between differentiability and continuity—things are more likely to be different than continuous. I almost laugh out loud at this, but instead look around at the class. They’re spellbound.
In PE we learn how to throw a football. Seriously. At least the kid I’m paired with doesn’t make fun of the way I throw. However, he keeps a stream of ideas flowing for what he’d like to see in the next dare. The irony almost kills me, but his visions are worse—all weird, sexual, perverse shit, like stripping down and whipping each other, or covering ourselves in plastic wrap after we’re naked and then going grocery shopping. I lob the ball and say, “unh huh,” while the kids around us laugh so hard they miss passes and footballs bounce every which way.
I head to study hall and have to do a check on the room number. Chantel’s here. She wasn’t last time. I’d remember. I take a deep breath and move down the aisle and try to quiet all the panic alarms going off in my head. I need to talk to her. She’s close to Alexia, and it’s worth fighting my fear to have this conversation. I sit and force myself to be brave. “Chantel, right?”
She crinkles her nose. “Yeah.”
“You’re Alexia’s friend.”
She doesn’t answer, but looks at me blankly and my heart beats triple time.
“Sorry. I’m Ben, Alexia and I work together. She’s pointed you out to me.” It’s a plausible lie.
She sits up. “That’s right. I know you.”
I feel a wash of relief. Beautiful girls, in my experience, have a way of filling your fantasies, but in reality, smash the shit out of you. “Did you change your schedule?”
“Yeah. I decided not to take psychology. Mr. Timms is an ass.”
I’ve never had him, but I agree. That’s what you’re supposed to do when beautiful girls make proclamations.
I turn back to my physics book, because I don’t want to seem desperate or pushy. I can’t blow this opportunity. I read Newton’s Second Law:
The acceleration of an object as produced by a net force is directly proportional to the magnitude of the net force, in the same direction as the net force, and inversely proportional to the mass of the object.
Right. So, positive things continue in a positive direction, negative, well, negatively; the acceleration matches the force applied, and the larger the mass, the slower the acceleration. Hmm. Was Newton also psychic?
I look over at Chantel, and Newton is wiped away by her lips. She’s putting on gloss and I can’t stop staring.
“Ben, everything okay?” Chantel frowns.
“Uh, yeah.” I close my eyes so I can focus, so I can keep myself from saying the wrong thing. My head’s a mess from the conversation with Ricky earlier, but I refuse to let that get in the way. Here goes nothing. “What’s up with Alexia?”
Chantel gives me a small smile and looks around to see if anyone is listening. No one is. She leans across the aisle. “Where do you want me to begin?”
—
We’re at Ricky’s locker
and I can’t focus on what they’re talking about. Something about the check from O. P. Instead, I scratch my forehead and think about what Chantel said: “Alexia’s has had a rough go of it. Her dad’s responsible for the shit going down at the plant. Money’s tight, and her parents, they totally go after each other. Big fights.”
I asked what she meant by “go after” but she shook her head and zipped her lips. I understand. It was a bit too much prying, and who knows, maybe Chantel assumed I was trying to get dirt on Alexia. That’s what everyone does around here—pretends to be a friend and then stabs you in the back. I don’t think this town or school is unique. Or the situation. Because that’s how it felt when Alexia moved away and stopped talking to me. I didn’t understand, and I had no way of asking her. Regardless, it seems like Alexia and I are living pretty close existences now. Except for the parents beating on each other thing.
“Ben?”
I look up and Ricky’s smiling, John has his perpetually confused look, and I have no idea what’s what. I start to ask, but am cut off.
“Gentleman.”
We turn to Principal McNeil.
“Come with me,” he says and walks down the hall.
“Stay cool,” Ricky mouths to us.
I don’t know how that is possible. We follow McNeil to his office and my heart pounds and I have that terrible watery-leg sensation. This has to be about the videos. I’ve never been in trouble before, barely have an idea where McNeil’s office is after three years of being here. But Ricky does.
We enter McNeil’s office, and Ricky and John take the only available seats, which is fine by me because I get to stand near the open window. My face has lost all blood, and if it weren’t for the cool breeze and the wall for support, I’d be on the ground. How the hell did I manage those two dares?
“Let’s cut to the chase, boys. You know why I’ve called you in.”
Ricky tilts his head. “No, sir, not really.” He sounds like some fifth grader, and McNeil looks like he caught a whiff of something foul.
He looks us over, lingering on each. His gaze moves toward mine, and I try to look away. I cannot let this man examine me. He’ll read the nerves streaming, firing off messages like texts. But McNeil’s bloodshot eyes grab mine and pull.
“Candido, what’s this I hear about the three of you informing the school about some dare?”
I stare. It’s all I can do. I try to think of an excuse, some answer that will satisfy his question, but keep us safe. He’s being purposely vague.
“Some dare”?
As if he doesn’t know and hasn’t already watched both. All I can do is swallow and say, “I don’t know.”
Ricky shifts in his seat and I feel like slamming my head against the desk. McNeil’s eyes widen. “Right. Tell me more.”
I lean against the wall and do not look at him. I have to break his spell.
“Mr. McNeil, you know how things are senior year. Some kids are trying to live it up, have some fun.” Ricky’s voice is smooth and deep. I’m jealous.
McNeil reluctantly turns from me to Ricky. “Fun is not the same as risking one’s life? Hmm?”
“You could debate that,” Ricky says, and McNeil’s face bulges. “But we won’t. I understand your point. Sir.”
I’m holding my breath, waiting for McNeil to explode—to let loose and sound like the gates of hell have opened within his lungs. But nothing happens. He stares at Ricky and then looks out the window. “A few years ago we had a senior, Douglas Kipling, you probably don’t remember. He died right around Memorial Day.” McNeil turns back to us. “Do you know what he did?”
Of course we do. He’s the kid that hick from the bridge was talking about. But Kipling was drunk, and a lot of people said he was trying to commit suicide.
McNeil doesn’t wait for an answer. “I had to go out to the Gorge that day. I saw his parents, saw his body. It was one of the worst days of my life.” McNeil’s voice has dropped, as has my head. But not Ricky’s. He looks the man square in the face.
“I understand. My cousin was friends with him. It was awful.”
I pick my brain but cannot think of any cousin of Ricky’s that would have been in school with Doug.
“
Awful
doesn’t come close.” McNeil inhales and holds it for a moment before letting the air out his nose. It whistles at the end.
“Sir, we don’t actually know who it is. I stumbled across the first video and just let the school know. I apologize if somehow that was against our code of conduct.” Ricky’s good; he sounds very conciliatory.
McNeil looks from him to John and me. We both nod, and it feels like I’m back in middle school.
“You didn’t technically break any rules, Puckman. But as you can imagine, you’ve provided some publicity, and it seems that was the fuel this fire needed.”
There’s less of an edge to McNeil’s voice, but we’re not quite in the clear. I lean a little more into the wall and pray Ricky knows how to see this through.
Ricky pats the desk, like so many teachers I’ve seen and turns back to us. “Guys, can we agree, no more talking about
those
dares?” He nods gently and John and I follow along, chiming in with “yeah” and “no more,” “absolutely.” I get what we’re agreeing to. Well played.
McNeil sighs. “Thank you, boys, but I have one additional request. An atonement if you will.”
Ricky squints and turns so slightly to me, as if I can telepathically give him the definition. McNeil continues.
“Since you stumbled across the video, possibly you can
stumble
across the real individuals? Hmm?” McNeil purses his lips.
“You want us to find out who’s completing these dares?” John asks, his first words since we’ve entered the room.
McNeil offers a flat, like-I’m-dealing-with-the-stupid grin. “Yes, Mr. Forrest, that’s exactly what I mean.” He looks back at Ricky and me. “So, what do you say?”
Ricky shakes his head slightly. “Absolutely, sir. We’ll do what we can, but these guys seem to be laying low, so . . . no guarantees.”
McNeil nods. “This is true. I know. But please know my door is open if you hear anything.”
We nod and file out into the hall, and lean against the lockers.
“Jesus Christ that was close.” John runs a hand through his hair.
Ricky goes to the water fountain. “You have no idea. That was nothing.”
He drinks and John shrugs at me. I say, “Guys, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never been in there before and . . .”
“No shit.” Ricky cuts me off. “Reminds me of another time.”
We all know what he means. When we were in eighth grade and got suspended for weeks—almost expelled—after we shot videos of the girls changing and Ricky uploaded it without telling us. The firestorm from the girls and their parents, and then the blame game that went down after, is what forced us apart. That, and the fact that John and I sided with the girls because what Ricky did was really fucked up. He better not go
there
.