Page 6 of The Bully's Dare

Paradise is nice—if you’re rich enough to enjoy it. My dad and I live in a trailer. It’s tucked away behind the pool. They don’t let us park it in the parking lot, “too unsightly” for the boat owners. Instead, we’re hidden behind the pine trees, in a strip of dirt where grass-once-was.

I roll my bike through the thicket and rest it against a tree. Dad is cooking up dinner on the BBQ and the smell of burning meat makes my stomach pinch.

“Dinner’s ready in five,” Dad says.

Things dad never says:

How was your day?

Are those boys still taunting you?

Why do you smell like fish?

Why do you smell like pot?

Is everything okay?

Our conversations are mostly functional: can you do this? / this is done. Food is ready / pass the ketchup.

Which is fine. He’s got skin like leather from being in the sun and looks twice as old as he should. He’s as exhausted as I am. We don’t have the time or energy for a heart-to-heart.

“Be right there,” I say. I start inside the trailer. We have a jar we share and I dump my tips in it. It’s not much, but we’ll stay fed for the rest of the week.

Our trailer has a sink in the front, a cushioned bench (my bed), a bathroom, and a main cabin in the back (dad’s bed). I stretch across the bench and lay down. Just for a second, I tell myself.

But as soon as my eyes close, I’m out.

I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but I wake up to my father’s hand on my shoulder. Rough hands, gentle squeeze. “Hey, kiddo,” he murmurs. “Some girl is here to see you.”

I blink awake, disoriented. My hair is a mess. I’m still in my sweat-stained uniform. I’m not fit for humans. A girl?

Only one girl it could be. I descend the steps and glance around.

Kenzi stands there. She’s wearing a cute yellow dress with strappy shoulders. Her black hair is in swoopy waves down her shoulders. Green eyes shining like sea glass.

The sight of her makes me feel a weird way, a way I don’t usually feel about girls. My heart launches itself against my chest like a wild animal suddenly uncaged.

“What’s up?” I ask. Casual.

She half-grins, looking shy—my father usually has that effect on people, he’s hard-edged and scary. But she holds up a paper plate, a piece of cake on it, and says, “I come bearing gifts.”

She’s a gift: pristine and pretty, fresh off the spotless deck of her step-dad’s boat.

I’m filthy and burningly aware of the eye sore that is the trailer.

I sway on the balls of my feet, deliberating. “Give me one second.”

I close the door on her and squeeze past my dad. “You want me to tell her to go?” he asks.

“No.” I’m tearing off my clothes, ripping a paper towel off, dampening it, and wetting my face, the back of my neck, all the parts of me that feel grimy. I pull on black jeans, a black shirt. Run my fingers through my hair. I slip my lip ring into my bottom lip—I have to take it out while I work (Mr. King’s orders) but I try to pop it in once I’m off to keep the hole from closing up.

“Your burger is still on the grill,” dad reminds me.

“Thanks. I’ll grab it later.”

I slip outside and close the door behind me. No more dock boy.

Kenzi is sitting on my stump. She glances up and her eyes sweep over me. “So this is what Donovans look like in their natural habitat.”

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