Dare You To (Pushing the Limits, #2)(32)

“Are you ready for the quiz tomorrow?” Mrs. Rowe, my English      teacher, rests against the arm of the couch. She also happens to be the mayor’s      daughter. While everyone else wears suit pants, ties, or conservative dresses,      Mrs. Rowe wears a daisy-print hippie dress. Today, her hair is purple.

Considering the fights my family has had over Mark, I’m curious      about the brawls that happen behind closed doors at this house. Or maybe other      families find a way to accept one another.

“Yes, ma’am.” To discourage small talk, I shove a bacon-wrapped      shrimp into my mouth. Dad likes me to be at these occasional Sunday gatherings.      I come in handy when the men discuss sports. I used to come in handier when I      dated Gwen. Her dad is the police chief, plus my mother’s friends thought we      were “cute together.”

“I hated these things when I was your age,” Mrs. Rowe      continues. I pop in another shrimp and nod. If she hated them, I would think      she’d remember that useless conversation is physically painful. “My dad made me      attend every dinner he threw.”

I swallow and realize that not once in my four years of being      old enough to represent the family have I seen Mrs. Rowe attend one of these      functions. I consider asking why she’s here tonight, then remember I don’t care.      In goes a meatball.

“I read your paper,” she says.

I shrug. Reading my paper is her job.

“It’s good. In fact, it’s very good.”

My eyes dart to hers and I curse internally when she smiles.      Dammit, it shouldn’t matter if it was good. I want to play ball, not write. I      make a show of staring in the opposite direction.

“Have you thought about expanding it into a short story?”

This I have an answer for. “No.”

“You should,” she says.

I shrug again and begin to search the room for a viable reason      to escape—like the curtains catching on fire.

A sly smile spreads across her face. “Listen, I received good      news and I’m so glad I don’t have to wait until tomorrow to share. Do you      remember the writing project we worked on last year?”

It’d be tough to forget. We spent the year devouring books and      movies. Then we tore them apart as if they were machines so we could see how the      parts worked together to create the story. After that, Mrs. Rowe snapped the      whip and made us write something of our own. Hardest damn class I ever took and      I loved every second. Hated it too. When I became too interested or too eager in      class, the guys from the team rode me hard.

“Do you remember how I entered everyone into the state writing      competition?”

I nod a yes, but the answer is no. Just because I loved the      class didn’t mean I listened to everything she said. “Why? Did Lacy win?” She      had a hell of a short story.

“No...”

In goes another meatball. That sucks. Lacy would have been      excited if she won.

“You finaled, Ryan.”

The meatball slips into my throat whole and I choke.

*

Ditching the formal clothes for a pair of athletic pants      and a Reds T-shirt, I lean back in the chair at my desk and stare at the      homework assignment I turned in to Mrs. Rowe. In four pages, poor George woke up      to discover he had become a zombie. My favorite sentence is the paper’s      last:





Staring down at his hands, hands that someday       would likely kill, George swallowed the sickening knowledge that he had       become absolutely powerless.





Why it’s my favorite, I don’t know. But every time I read it      something stirs inside me, some sort of sense of justification.

I run a hand over my hair, unable to comprehend that I finaled      in a writing competition. Maybe later tonight hell will freeze over and donkeys      will start flying out of my ass. It all seems possible at this point.

I swivel the chair and survey my room. Trophies and medals and      accolades for playing ball are scattered on the wall, the shelves, my dresser. A      Reds pennant hangs over my bed. I know baseball. I’m good at it. I should be.      It’s been my entire life.

I’m Ryan Stone—ballplayer, jock, leader of the team. But Ryan      Stone—writer? I chuckle to myself as I pick the paperwork up off the desk. All      of it describes in detail how to continue to the next phase of the writing      competition, how to win. Not once in my life have I backed down from a      challenge.