Page 3 of The Bully's Dare

“That’s fucked up. Have you told anyone about it?”

Donovan’s eyes sharpen. “Who? No one cares. Jason King and his crew of idiots basically run this island.”

King. That clicks. “Jason King…is that the tall one?”

“Tall, blue-eyed and beautiful? That’s the one. He’s a rare breed of island native. Have you visited the Lighthouse Medical Center yet?”

“Nope, and from the sound of it, I don’t want to.”

“Good call. It’s Hannsett Island’s pride and joy, though. And the island’s cash cow. Jason’s dad owns it, which basically makes him richer than God. They have a mansion in the Dunes. Two boats. And a second house Upstate.”

“All hail the Kings,” I say which draws a little wry smile from Donovan. He holds out the joint in offering but I shake my head. I’m already floating. An ant crawls over my knuckles, its tiny legs tickling, and I let it. I watch its perilous odyssey across the back of my hand and then back onto the table.

“Why are the pretty ones always jerks?” I wonder out loud.

I can feel Donovan looking at me. “You don’t seem jerk-ish.”

I stick my tongue out at him. He laughs.

2

Donovan

Kenzi quickly becomes my favorite part of my day.

Which isn’t hard, when my days mostly involve: casting off, casting on, buffing the deck, polishing sideboards, rinse, repeat.

I grind polish over fifty-foot yachts until I’m caked in sweat and my fists refuse to unclench. I can usually find Kenzi at the pool or sunbathing on her step-dad’s boat, Sweet Serenity. She’s easy to steal away for a smoke break, or a dip in the pool, or just a chat over watermelon slices and H2O.

Kenzi loves music, above all, and some days we just take turns listening to her Walkman. Eventually, she opens up her notebook and show me some of the lyrics she’s working on. She wants to be a songwriter. Not a singer/songwriter—just a song writer. Her lyrics are good. Really good. I call her the female Bernie Taupin. She smiles when I say that.

Plus, King’s crew tends me leave me alone when I’m with her. So. That’s a silver lining.

We talk about our plans for next year—or lack thereof. She’s on the waitlist for Berklee College and hasn’t heard back so, as far as she’s concerned, she’s taking a gap year. I’m can relate, I’ve been in limbo for the past year as dad and I try our luck with scholarship lotto. So far, no hits.

Except for Tomorrow’s Doctors.

Every summer, the Lighthouse Medical Center runs a four-week program for what they call “Tomorrow’s Doctors.” Ages 17-19. Throw the minnows in the pond. See if they can swim.

So, after work, I clock out, hop on my bike, and pedal as fast as I can out of the marina, up the road that winds alongside the dunes, all the way to the medical center.

The first thing you see when you approach the medical center is the lighthouse itself. The lighthouse hasn’t been in operation for over fifty years, but it’s still a beautiful thing. Red brick, restored to its former glory, with a black chrome done. The light doesn’t shine anymore, except for special occasions—holiday light shows, that sort of thing.

The lighthouse is flanked by three buildings: the pediatric wing, the general care and rehabilitation wing, and the emergency wing. I’m hit with the smell of freshly cut grass as I cut across the large lawn to park my bike on the rack. I don’t lock my bike here; there’s no need. Everyone on the island stays on the island.

I’ve got my knapsack stuffed in a milk carton my dad looped to the back of my bike for storage and I quickly throw it on my shoulders before heading inside.

Entering the Lighthouse Medical Center doesn’t knock the breath out of me like it used to. But the first couple of times, yeah, it was hard not to be impressed. The lobby sits underneath a domed ceiling, all glass. Through it, you can see the top of the lighthouse.

As soon as the doors open, you come face to face with a giant art-deco style sculpture of a man on one knee. He has his hand open, the sun sitting in the palm of his hand. Underneath the sculpture, the words run in a band around it: "A Guiding Light Through the Dark."

The only thing more impressive than the talented, skilled doctors at Lighthouse Medical Center are the deep pockets of the donors.

It’s the kind of money a guy like me can’t even begin to wrap my head around.

I grip the straps of my backpack a little tighter and trudge ahead.

Tomorrow’s Doctors meet on the second level of the rehab wing, which is otherwise blocked off for professionals. It’s mostly storage here—a lot of doors marked “Keep Out”. Labs with expensive equipment. I walk down the hall, to the doctor’s mess. There’s a kitchenette here, complete with a coffee machine, a small fridge, and a snack machine. In the adjoining room are bunk beds for the on-call doctors who pull long hours. The lockers that line the room are meant for the staff, but Tomorrow’s Doctors get six spots reserved at the far end.

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