Dare You To. Katie McGarry
We lapse into silence, which is fine. Our silences are never uncomfortable. Unlike girls, guys don’t have to talk. Every now and then, we hear laughter or shouting from the party. Every now and then, Chris and Lacy text. He likes to give her space, but doesn’t trust drunk guys near his girl.
Logan fiddles with a long branch that fell to the ground. “Dad and I headed into Lexington this morning to check out U of K.”
I hold my breath, hoping that the conversation doesn’t turn to where I think it’s heading. Logan’s had this visit scheduled for weeks. He’s a damn genius and will have every college knocking on his door next year, including the University of Kentucky. “How’d it go?”
“I saw Mark.”
I rub the back of my head and try to ignore the nagging ache inside. “How is he?”
“Fine. He asked about you. Your mom.” He pauses. “Your dad.”
“He’s fine. That’s it?”
“No offense, but it was weird. I’m cool that he’s your brother and that he’s made his choices, but I’m not sticking around to play head shrink over your family problems, especially when he had an audience.”
“An audience?” I echo.
“Yeah,” says Logan. “His boyfriend, I guess.”
The twisting pressure usually only reserved for games pummels my stomach. I pull my knees up and lower my head. “How do you know it was his boyfriend?”
Logan’s face scrunches. “I dunno. He was standing next to another dude.”
“It could have been a friend,” says Chris. “Did the guy look gay?”
“Mark didn’t look gay, asswipe,” Logan snaps. “Who would have guessed the damn defensive lineman had it for the home team. And sure, the other dude could’ve been straight. But how the hell should I know?”
Listening to them discuss my gay brother’s possible gay boyfriend is just as comfortable as convincing my mom over and over again that I prefer girls and their girl parts. Nothing makes you think you might need years of therapy like having to say the word breasts in front of your mother. “Can we end this conversation?”
I consider walking back to Tim’s truck and collecting that beer. I’ve only been shit-faced drunk twice in my life. Once when Mark told the family he was gay. The second time when Dad kicked him out for that announcement. Both incidents happened in the span of three days. Lessons learned: don’t tell Dad you’re gay, and getting drunk doesn’t make anything untrue. It just makes your head hurt in the morning.
With a loud crack, Logan breaks the twig in his hand. He’s looking for courage, which means I’m going to hate the words coming out of his mouth. “Mark was all cryptic, but he said you’d know what he meant. He said he can’t come and he hoped you’d understand why.”
The muscles in my neck tighten. My brother didn’t even have the balls to tell me himself. I texted him last week. I outright defied my parents and texted him. I asked him to come home for dinner tomorrow night and he never texted back. Instead, he took the coward’s way out and used Logan.
Earlier this summer, Dad gave the ultimatum: as long as Mark chooses guys, he’s no longer a part of our family. Mark walked out, knowing what leaving meant: leaving Mom … leaving me. He never considered trying to stay home and fight to keep our family together. “He made his choice.”
Logan lowers his voice. “He misses you.”
“And he left,” I snap. I kick the back tire of the car. Angry. Angry at Dad. Angry at Mark. Angry at me. For three days straight Mark talked. He said the same thing over and over again. He’s still Mark. My brother. Mom’s son. He told me how he spent years confused because he wanted to be like me. He wanted to be like Dad.
And when I asked him to stay, when I asked him to stand his ground … he left. He packed up his shit and he left, leaving me and the destruction of my family behind.
“Screw the serious talk,” says Chris. “We won today. We’ll win fall season and spring. We’re going to graduate victorious and when we do, Ryan’s going pro.”
“Amen,” says Logan.
From their lips to God’s ears, but sometimes God chooses not to listen. “Don’t get your hopes up. The scout today could be a one-time deal. Next week they could find somebody else to love.” I should know. That happened at the pro tryouts this past spring.
“Bullshit,” says Chris. “Destiny is knocking, Ry, and you need to get your ass up to answer.”
BETH
I FELL ASLEEP. Either that or my dear old uncle Scott drugged me. I’m going with fell asleep. Scott may be a dick, but he’s a dare-to-keep-kids-off-drugs kind of dick. I should know. He once brought red ribbons and a police mascot to my preschool.
I love irony.
Moonlight streams through white lace curtains hanging from an artsy brown metal rod. I sit up and a pink crochet blanket falls away. The bedding beneath me is still perfectly made and I’m wearing the same outfit I wore on Friday night. Someone has neatly laid my shoes on the wooden floor next to the bed. Even sober, I wouldn’t have done that. I don’t do neat.
I lean over and turn on a lamp. The crystals decorating the bottom edge of the shade clink together. The dull light draws my focus to the painfully cheery purple paint on the wall. Closing my eyes, I count the days. Let’s see. Friday night I went out with Noah and Isaiah and put Taco Bell Boy in his place. Early Saturday, Mom tried to become a felon. Saturday morning, Scott ruined my life.
I pretended to fall asleep in the car so I wouldn’t have to talk to Scott, but I sucked and actually fell asleep. Scott woke me, I think, and half carried me into the house. Crap. Why don’t I put a sign on my head and announce I’m a loser girl who needs help.
I open my eyes and stare at the ticking clock on the bedside table. Twelve fifteen. Sunday. This is early Sunday morning.
My stomach growls. I’ve gone a full day without eating. Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last. I slip out of bed and slide my Chuck Taylor wannabes onto my feet. Time to have a coming-to-Jesus moment with Uncle Scott. That is, if he’s awake. It may be better if he went to bed. That way I can slip out without the fight.
Maybe I’ll score some food before I call Isaiah. With a room like this, I bet he buys brand-name cereal.
The house has that newly built, fresh sawdust smell. Outside the bedroom is a foyer instead of a hallway. A large staircase, the type I thought existed only in movies, winds to the second floor. An actual chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Guess baseball pays well.
“No …” A woman’s voice carries from the back of the house. I can tell she’s still talking, but she’s lowered her tone. Did he marry or does he keep a fuck on hand like he did when I was a kid? Gotta be a fuck. I overheard Scott tell Dad once that he’d never marry.
I follow the low voices to the brink of a large open room and pause. The entire back of the house—excuse me, mansion—is one enormous wall of windows. The living room flows right into the eat-in kitchen.
“Scott.” Exasperation eats at the woman’s tone. “This is not what I signed up for.”
“Last month you were on board with this,” says Scott. Part of me feels vindicated. He’s lost that annoyingly smooth calm from yesterday.
“Yes, when you told me you wanted to reconnect with your niece. There is a difference between reconnecting and invading our life.”
“You were fine with it when I called last month from Louisville and said I wanted her to live with us.”
The woman snaps, “That was after you said she