Dare You To (Pushing the Limits 2)

“It’s too bad your parents couldn’t be here for this,” she says. “I bet it’s killing them to be away. ”

“Yeah. ” Possibly killing them to be near each other. My hopes aren’t high that a week’s vacation will fix the issues between them.

Divorce isn’t an option on the table, especially since Dad’s considering the run for mayor.

Maybe I should be grateful, but I’m not sure how much more frozen silence I can take.

“I’m sure they’re proud of you,” she continues.

“Sure. ” Even though they have no idea I’m here.

Through the squeal of feedback, a woman in a black business suit asks the audience for silence. As she thanks us for our entries, Mrs. Rowe leans over to me. “Regardless of what the results are, Ryan, it was a huge honor to final. ”

I nod, but what she doesn’t understand is that I don’t like losing.

“…so, with that, we are ready to announce the winners. ”

I inhale deeply to calm the nerves. Fifty of us made it to the last round. All of us entered the final, only three spots left for a win and, to be honest, I’m only interested in first.

“The third place winner is Lauren Lawrence. ”

The crowd applauds and I lean back in my seat, antsier than I was before. The girl walks unbelievably slowly and it takes even longer for the people on stage to hand her the award.

The announcer clears her throat before beginning again. “The second place winner is…”

Part of me craves to hear my name and the other part doesn’t. First is the best. First is what I desire, but for the first time in my life, I think I could be happy with second.

“…Tonya Miles. ”

Everyone applauds again. At least this girl is faster. I hunch forward again, wondering what a loss like this would feel like. I could have been happy with second. Possibly third. And, I finally realize, I don’t want the easy path…I want the choice. I want to possibly go to college.

Or not. I don’t know. But I do know that I want this win.

“…and our first place winner is…” She pauses for dramatic effect. I lower my head as my gut tightens. What if I’m not good enough?

“Ryan Stone. ”

Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I lift my head to stare at the stage. The crowd claps and Mrs. Rowe gestures for me to go onstage, saying words I don’t understand. I stagger forward, wondering if I heard it right. Is this happening? Did I really win?

Onstage, the lady shakes my hand and offers me a plaque and a certificate. They feel heavy in my hands—heavy and amazing. I did this. I won a writing competition.

Mrs. Rowe is on her feet. So are a few of the college professors who had read my story. And while their applause is appreciated, a lump forms in my throat and drops. My parents aren’t here. And even if they did know about the competition, they still wouldn’t be here.

I nod to the crowd, then turn toward the stairs. The applause dies except for a loud clapping in the back of the room. A deep booming shout gains my attention and the part of me that was sinking suddenly flies higher.

I pause on the stage and Mark smiles. He cups his hands to his mouth and yells, “Way to go, Ry!”

How could I have been so blind? He never left me. My brother—he never left.

Beth

THERE ARE MEMORIES that exist in my mind that are so clear that if I focus on them enough I could practically relive them. The sky was ocean-blue and two doves sat on the roof of Grandpa’s trailer when Scott taught me how to throw a ball. Lacy’s dad’s callused hand was cold the day he led me to the back of his police cruiser. Mom bought me a Hostess cupcake the first night we spent alone in Louisville.

What ingrained those moments was that when I lived them, I knew I would remember them always. When Scott taught me to play baseball, time lost all meaning. I held the ball in my hand longer than needed so I could remember the feel of the threading. I hesitated when Lacy’s dad told me to hop in the car so I could take a mental snapshot of our trailer. I spent a half hour nibbling at the icing of the cupcake before taking a bite, knowing that Mom gave all her money to our new landlord.

The emergency room takes on the same slow-motion quality as I run through the sliding doors. Scott brushes past me and talks to a nurse at the station. My heart beats loudly in my ears. An orderly passes by and stares at my head. I didn’t brush my hair. I didn’t do anything.

The nurse looks up from her computer and motions toward the closed doors of the emergency room. Large letters on big signs warn me to stay out, but if that’s where my mother is, no one can stop me. My hand aches as I slam on the swinging door and I barely register my name being called behind me. Both sides of the corridor are filled with curtained areas. Machines beep and people softly whisper.