Truth or Dare (2 page)

     That’s okay, she thought, as she pushed open the back door to her house.  She’d show them.  She'd go to college, get a great job and eventually have more money than anyone. 

     And then she would shove it up Pamela’s perfect little ass.

Chapter 2

     When Deirdre got home her mother had gone up to bed with a migraine.  Deirdre stood outside the closed bedroom door and listened.  She knew better than to knock.  Her mother would be stretched out on top of the bedspread, a cloth on her forehead and an extra-large martini within easy reach on the nightstand.  She claimed it was the only thing that helped her headaches.

     Deirdre's mother got a migraine every time her father called to say he had to work late and to not wait up for him—which was more often than not these days. 

     Deirdre wandered back downstairs to the kitchen.  There would be a twenty dollar bill on the counter for a pizza like always.  She picked up the phone and dialed Pete’s Pizza Parlor.  She knew the number by heart.

     The house was quiet.  Deirdre wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister.  Maybe she wouldn’t feel so lonely all the time.  Some days the feeling never went away—even when she was with other people.  A pet might have been nice too, but her mother was afraid of what a dog or cat might do to the acres of off-white carpeting that covered all the floors. 

     Deirdre stood in the hall, listening.  A car came down the street, and for a moment the headlights shone through the tiny, diamond-shaped windows at the top of their front door. She pushed the curtain on the front window aside a few inches and peeked out.  It was Mr. George on his way home from work.  She watched as he pulled into the drive and then walked up the front path to his door.  The door opened before he rang the bell, and he disappeared inside.  Deirdre let the curtain fall back into place.

     She wandered over to the bar in the dining room.  Her mother had left the top off the gin bottle.  Deirdre held it up to her nose and sniffed.  She made a face.  It smelled gross.  She screwed the cap on and put the bottle back in line with the others.  There was an open bottle of red wine, and Deirdre picked that up.  She tilted it over the pale carpeting.  For a minute she was tempted to see red spreading like a blood stain across the white carpet.   In the end, she changed her mind and put the bottle back down.

     The doorbell rang.  The delivery boy was new—she’d never seen him before.  He had shaggy blond hair and a chip in his front tooth that was kind of cute.  He set the pizza box on the table in the foyer and then stood there.

     Deirdre turned around and walked into the living room, and he followed her as she knew he would.  She unbuttoned her blouse as she walked so that when she turned around to face him, he could see her bare breasts.  

     She hadn’t necessarily wanted to have sex with him.  She just wanted someone to hold her and touch her and pay attention to her, and sex seemed like one way to make that happen. 

     Afterwards he lit a cigarette and handed it to her.  “How old are you?”

     “Seventeen.” 

     “You look older.”

     “Really?”    

     She carried the pizza box over to the sofa, and they sat cross-legged on the floor scarfing down the pieces. 

     He threw the crust from his last piece into the box and got up.  He held his boxers out in front of him and stepped into them with his right leg, and then, hopping slightly, with his left.

     Deirdre watched him silently. 

     He pulled on his jeans, and yanked a t-shirt with "Pete's Pizza" written on it over his head.  “I’ll call you, okay?”

     “Sure.”  Deirdre stood up and gathered together the pizza box and dirty napkins. 

     “Okay.”  He stood uncertainly with one hand on the door knob.  “Bye, I guess.”

     Deirdre stared out the front window and watched as his van backed down their driveway.  The lights were on at the George's house across the street, and she saw the whole family gathered around the dining table like in an old sitcom rerun. She thought it was bizarre. 

     On the other hand, there was something about it that seemed kind of nice.

     Pamela rolled over in bed and pulled her knees up to her chest.  She'd had the dream again—the one where everyone finds out about her, and they're standing around laughing and pointing.  She closed her eyes and waited.  A couple of minutes later she rolled to the other side and stuck one foot out from under her down comforter.  And waited.

     Her stomach growled, a long, drawn-out sound that rumbled beneath her ribs.

     This was ridiculous.  She would never get back to sleep.  At dinner she had pushed her half-f plate away for the maid to clear.  She knew it annoyed her mother when she did that. 

And now she was hungry. 

She tried to fall asleep one more time, but when that failed, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and got up. 

She grabbed an old terry cloth robe from her closet and wrapped it around her snugly.  There would be a pint of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Chunk Fudge in the freezer—her father’s favorite.  The staff made sure to always keep a container on hand.  He wouldn’t mind if she helped herself.

Pamela tiptoed down the darkened stairs to the kitchen.  The security lights trained on the house illuminated the room with a ghostly glow.  Pamela opened a cupboard, selected a bowl and walked over to the refrigerator.  She yanked open the freezer door.  There were boxes of phyllo dough and miniature tart shells, a jar of fish bouillon and one of demi-glace.  She shoved them aside and finally found the container of Ben & Jerry’s.  She filled her bowl with two scoops, and added a swirl of whipped cream from the container in the fridge.  She looked at the bowl of ice cream, hesitated, then shrugged.  She could always stick her finger down her throat and throw it up later.

The cold, silky smoothness of the ice cream soothed her, and she felt herself getting sleepy already.  She walked into the hall and was surprised to see a crack of light around the door to her father's study.  She crept a little closer.  Maybe she would bring him a bowl of ice cream, too.

The sound of voices stopped her.  Her mother was in there with him.  That was odd.  They almost never occupied the same space at the same time except for dinner and then they sat so far apart at either end of the long, mahogany table that they might have been in different zip codes. 

Their voices were raised, but it didn't sound as if they were arguing.  Pamela crept a little closer.  She heard the words "letter" and something about a meeting.  She leaned her ear toward the door.  This time she heard her own name and something else.  Something that made her blood freeze colder than the ice cream in her bowl.

Pamela ducked into the coat closet by the front door and    wiggled into a spot amidst the umbrellas and winter boots.  She wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned against the wall.  Her father's rain coat draped over her face, and she inhaled the familiar scent of his after shave.

Pamela waited until she heard her parents' footsteps going up the stairs to the second floor, then she eased open the closet door and tiptoed down the hallway to the study.

She draped her robe over the lamp on her father's desk and turned it on.  It gave her enough light to see, but she didn't think it would be visible from the hall in case her father came back downstairs. 

It had to be on his desk somewhere.  She went through all the piles of papers then she searched through the manila folders in the basket on top of the desk. 

Nothing.

She had to find it.  She felt wide awake, the bowl of ice cream forgotten in the front hall closet.  Her heart drummed loudly as she pawed through one bunch of papers then another.

In the end she looked in the garbage can, and crumpled at the bottom was the letter.  She smoothed it out on top of the desk and read it slowly, her finger tracing the ominous words.

Her lips pulled back in a snarl as she tore the treacherous paper to shreds and sprinkled the pieces on the bottom of the trash can. 

Never, never, never!  She screamed the words inside her head as she ran back up the stairs and threw herself on her bed.

Never, never, never!

Chapter 3

     “Truth or dare?”  Pamela demanded.

     Rivka felt a flutter of excitement mixed with anxiety tickle the inside of her stomach. She couldn't believe she was hanging out at Pamela's again, and they were all acting as if she actually belonged there.  She propped herself against the bed, while Deirdre sprawled out on top.  Mary paced around the room, occasionally stopping to lean against the wall, and Pamela sat at her desk.

     Rivka closed her eyes.  She had to be careful and not do anything stupid to break the spell.  At least this time she knew how to play truth or dare.  She squeezed her eyes tighter as she waited for Pamela to pick someone.   She half-hoped Pamela would pick her and half hoped she wouldn't.

     “Don’t look at me,” Mary said.  "I'm tired of playing that stupid game."

     "Don't say that.  I want to play."  Pamela pouted.  She reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a bottle and waved it around.  "Anybody?"

     Mary held out her glass, and Pamela tipped in a splash of vodka. 

     Pamela turned toward Deirdre.

     “I shouldn't," Deirdre giggled.  "Just in case…you know."  She rolled her eyes.

     "Oh no, don't tell us you're knocked up?" Mary took a sip of her drink and stared at Deirdre over the rim.

     Rivka almost gasped but caught herself in time.  She'd never known any one their age who'd gotten pregnant.  Just old women like friends of her mother's.

     Deirdre giggled again and told them about the pizza delivery boy.  "He was really cute."

     "What's his name?"  

     "I don't know.  But he had the cutest little chip in his front tooth."  Deirdre pointed to her own tooth and giggled again.

     Rivka’s head whirled.  She couldn’t believe Deirdre had done that.  She, herself, had never kissed a boy, let alone…  She didn’t want to think about it.  Boys were weird and alien creatures.  

Pamela waved the bottle of vodka toward Rivka. 

     “No, thank you," Rivka said politely.

     Pamela shook her head.  “You have to.  It’s the rule.   Friends that drink together stay together, isn’t that right, girls?” 

     And she dumped a glug of vodka into Rivka’s cup.  Rivka stared at the drink.  She'd promised her parents and her Bubbeh and Zayde that she would never, ever drink, smoke or take drugs.  But if she didn't, Pamela would think she didn't want to be one of them.  And she did. 

More than anything in the world.

     Rivka suddenly realized Pamela had just called them
friends
.  Her heart did a funny flip-flop at the thought.  She took a taste.  It wasn't so bad.  It wouldn't matter if she had a couple of sips.

     Pamela put the bottle to her lips and took a swig.  “Okay.  Where were we?  Truth or dare, I think.”  She pointed the bottle toward Rivka.  “Your turn, Becky.”

     Becky
.  At first Rivka wasn’t sure who Pamela was talking to, and then she remembered.  From now on she was going to be Becky.  The sound of it thrilled her all over again, and she felt warm and tingly.  She took another swallow of her drink to prove she belonged.  It went down the wrong way, and she coughed and sputtered.

     Mary slapped her on the back.  “Take it easy with that stuff.  You’re not used to it.” 

     “Dare!”  Rivka announced loudly and then burped.  She looked around the room.  She felt really weird.  Bold and daring and at the same time totally relaxed.  As if her bones and muscles were slowly turning to melted wax.

     “Dare?  You must be feeling brave.”  Pamela rolled her eyes.

     “I am.”  Rivka closed her eyes as she waited.  She wondered what it would be?  She wasn’t scared this time—how could she be when she felt so warm and relaxed.  In a minute she would doze off…

     “I dare you to...”  Pamela paused dramatically. 

     Rivka held her breath.  What if it were something she couldn't do?  Would they still let her be friends?  She didn't think so.  She started to feel sorry she'd risked everything on choosing dare.

     Finally Pamela spoke.  “I dare you to let us make you over.”

     Rivka had been clenching her eyes shut without realizing it.  She opened them.  "What?"

     “Make you over.  Like your hair, your make-up,” Pamela gestured toward Rivka and jumped up excitedly.  “A few streaks will lighten your hair just enough—“

     “And we’ll iron it,” Deirdre declared, sitting up on the bed.  “I have this perfect eye shadow, too—“

     Mary held up her hand.  “Whoa.  Maybe Becky doesn’t want to be made over.”

     “But I do!” Rivka cried.  “I hate the way I look.”  She ran her hands through her hair.  “My hair is disgusting."