I Dare You

A Short Story by Lucy Brighton

“I dare you to knock on the witch’s door,” I say.

“And say what?”

“Run away or she’ll turn you into a frog or summat.”

“I think we…I don’t know, Lolly.”

Rachel’s fourteen months older than me, almost eight, but you’d think she was younger. She’s yellow. That’s what Mum calls someone who is chicken. Her lip trembles and I know she doesn’t want to cry in front of me or I’ll call her Tiny Tears. Guilt gnaws in my belly, flooding my body and making my cheeks burn. I know she doesn’t want to do it. But I push her anyway.

“Don’t be such a baby,” I say.

She hates that, and it gives me a tiny thrill to upset her. I think that makes me a bad friend but I’m not sure. Mum says if you wouldn’t like someone to do it to you, you shouldn’t do it to anyone else. But I wouldn’t cry if someone called me Tiny Tears. I’d kick them in the shin.

“I’ll do it first,” I say, pushing out my chest and walking towards the witch’s house.

It isn’t that scary. Well, except the blinds are like sleepy eyelids, rarely peeking, retinas too fragile for the light. Other than that, and the overgrown garden, it’s just a house with bricks like every other one on the street.

“Lolly, please don’t. If my mum finds out…”

The words ‘Tiny Tears’ are filling my mouth, but I don’t let them out. Not yet.

“The witch won’t go to your mum’s house. Think reasonably.”

Mum says that a lot: Think reasonably.

Rachel tightens the bobble holding her ponytail and straightens her back.

“Witches aren’t even real anyway, Lolly,” she says, fixing me with a sky-blue stare.

“Well… exactly,” I say, not sure I like this new confidence.

We walk side by side trying to out-stride each other until it gets ridiculous and I nearly fall over. We laugh. We laugh until our bellies ache and tears stream down our faces.

We take it in turns to knock and run. Our hearts drum and our legs pound and we laugh some more.

“I dare you to kiss Frankie.”

“What?” Rachel stops walking to look at me. “You can’t be serious?”

“Rachel, you’re probably the only person in Year Eight who hasn’t kissed anyone. You’ll be a teenager soon!”

I lower my voice. “And people are talking.”

Rachel shuffles from one foot to the other. “Why Frankie though? He’s gross. His skin is covered in spots.”

“Yeah, well everyone knows you don’t kiss someone you like for your first kiss.”

She looks around the darkening park, like the answer might jump out from behind the swings.

“Why not?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

“Because he would know and that would be embarrassing.”

“Really?”

“Really!” I nod, trying to keep my face serious.

“Oh my god. Frankie though?” she asks, the Tiny Tears voice back for a fleeting moment.

“It only counts if you use tongues as well. Or it’s just like kissing your gran,” I tell her.

She stands on the swing and starts to move back and forth.

“They’ll be down here soon — Robbie and Frankie,” I say.

She swings higher and higher, disappearing and reappearing, but she doesn’t say anything else until the boys arrive.

“What’s up?” Robbie asks.

I don’t know why he says that. Why would anything be up? “Just hanging around. Usual,” I say.

Rachel slows to a stop and jumps down. She tightens her ponytail then kisses Frankie.

I cover my mouth with my hand, imagining his slimy tongue worming around in her mouth like a slug.

I watch his hand move from her lower back onto her chest and she pulls away. I think she might slap him, but she turns and grabs my hand and we run until our legs ache and we can’t go any further.

“That was disgusting,” she says, and we laugh until it feels like nothing more than a joke.

“I dare you to take half.”

Rachel peers at the pill in my sweaty palm. “Lolly, we’re not kids anymore.”

She laughs and carries on dancing, the strobe lighting turning her on and off in front of me.

“Don’t be such a bore,” I say, annoyed she’s always three steps behind.

“If I never dared you to do anything, you’d still be a virgin believing that Mrs Potts at number six is a witch.”

Her dancing slows to a shuffle.

“Live a little,” I say, pushing my fist towards her and feeling the familiar fizz of excitement I get when I know she’s going to fold.

“God, if my mum ever…”

“Rachel, you’re twenty years old!”

“But—”

“Oh, suit yourself, Tiny Tears,” I say and dance with the pulse of the music.

“Give it here,” she shouts.

“What?” I say, cupping my hand around my ear.

“Give. It. Here.”

I smile with satisfaction, holding out the small white pill.

She doesn’t take half. She swallows it in one and washes it down with her Smirnoff Ice.

I fish out another pill from the bottom of my bag wrapped in plastic. Screw it — if Rachel can take a whole one, so can I. Everyone here’s probably high on something anyway.

“I can’t feel anything,” she shouts, her face stretching and contracting.

“I can,” I say, but I doubt she can hear. I can feel the throb of the music in my blood, my heart beating to its tune, riding it like a never-ending wave. It’s inside me and all around me. I’ve never felt so alive.

Rachel’s hands wave and weave through the smoke. Her delicate fingers move like magic in the music.

“Lolly!” she shouts louder.

Rachel’s face. Her beautiful thick blonde hair. I want to hug her and tell her how much I love her hair down. She always wears it up. But tonight, it’s flowing free.

“I don’t feel good,” she screeches in my ear.

I want to stop but I’m not in control of my body anymore. The music is.

“Get some water,” I shout. Water will wash all the bad feelings away.

“Lolly, listen. I need air.” Her fingers dig into my arm like steel rods, pulling me towards the door.

“I can’t leave the music…” I say, feeling like I’m being dragged from the womb prematurely.

The cold air hits and I cry without really knowing why.

“I need to go back,” I whine, hearing Tiny Tears in my own voice now.

“I don’t feel well,” Rachel says, her back to the brick of the building.

I look at her properly for the first time. Her eyes are scaly, like a dead fish in the market.

“Fuck, Rachel! Your eyes.”

I’m torn between laughing and screaming.

Rachel slides down the wall until she’s crouching. She retches and brings up only yellow water. I kneel beside her and pull the hair back from her face.

“Get it up. You remember the first time we drank cider? That night ended like this as well,” I say.

She keeps retching, but there’s nothing left to come up.

Finally, it stops and she shuffles so she’s sitting on her bum, back against the wall. I sit beside her and take her hand in mine.

“You okay? Feeling better?” I ask.

“A little,” she says in a voice that sounds like lung cancer.

The buzz is wearing off — like an orgasm fading into silence. I ache to feel it again.

Rachel slumps further down the wall.

“Come on, let’s get a taxi,” I say. We’re home from uni for the summer and I can already imagine the lecture I’ll get from her mum taking her home like this.

“No time for sleeping, Hol. Come on. Your mum’s gonna kill me.”

She doesn’t move.

I hook my arm under hers and hoist her up. She’s a dead weight.

“Rachel, please…”

Then she’s shaking. I drop her. She fits and thrashes against the sick-covered floor, foam collecting on her lips.

“Help!” I scream as I watch, like I’m watching myself watching her. I do nothing. I’m frozen.

Shouting.

Blue lights.

Green bodies.

Blue lips.

Wailing.

White walls.

Beeping.

Crying.

Her mother.

My mother.

The stuffy waiting room that smells of piss.

“What happened?” Her mother asks. She has Rachel’s sky-blue eyes and they are reaching inside me, scooping out the truth of it.

I don’t answer. Can’t. I don’t have the words. This isn’t a game of knock and run anymore. This is life and death, and “It was a dare” isn’t going to stitch together her mother’s broken heart.

Time is made of cotton wool in the hospital as we wait and take turns sitting with her.

When my turn comes, I whisper like she’s sleeping and I’m scared to wake her.

“You were always the brave one, Rachel.”

I take her small, cold hand in mine.

“I dare you to wake up. To tell me what a jealous, horrible bitch I am. I dare. I dare you. I dare you.”