Page 41 of The Dare

“Goodnight, Conor. Thanks for the ride.”

Then she’s gone, slamming the door.

The fuck did I do?

I want to hop out and run after her, but I recognize the internal voice that’s urging me to do that. It’s that voice in the back of my head where all my really dumb ideas come from. The self-destructive, self-deprecating jackass who takes anything good and easy and pure and just fucking starts tearing at it with his teeth.

Truth is, Taylor doesn’t actually know me at all. She has no idea the shithead I was back in LA or the shit I did to fit in. She has no idea that most of the time Istilldon’t fit—here, there, or anywhere at all. That for years I’ve been trying on masks until I’ve almost forgotten what I look like underneath. Never satisfied with the result.

I keep trying to convince Taylor to go easy on herself, appreciate her body and who she is, but I can’t even convince myself. So what the hell am I doing getting wrapped up with a girl like her—a good person who doesn’t need my bullshit—when I haven’t even gotten myself figured out?

Sighing, I reach for the gearshift. Instead of running after Taylor, I drive home. And I tell myself it’s for the best.

13

TAYLOR

I’M RELIEVED WHEN MY MOM DRIVES IN FROMCAMBRIDGEon Thursday to have lunch. After two days of dodging calls from Conor and questions from Sasha about what happened the other night, I need a distraction.

We hit up the new vegan place in Hastings. Partly because my mother grumbles at the idea of choking down another greasy meal at the diner and mostly because eating carbs in front of her always gives me anxiety. I look like Mom’s “before” image in the Before and After shots of some European med spa commercial. Iris Marsh is tall, skinny, and utterly gorgeous. She’d given me hope during puberty that any day I’d wake up and look like her younger clone. I was sixteen before it hit me that wasn’t going to happen. Guess I only got my father’s genes.

“How are your classes going?” she asks, draping her coat over the back of her chair as we sit with our meals. “Are you enjoying your co-op?”

“Yeah, it’s great. I definitely know elementary education is where I want to be. The kids are terrific.” I shake my headin amazement. “And they learn so fast. It’s incredible to watch their development over such a short period of time.”

I always knew I wanted to be teacher. Mom briefly tried to convince me to pursue a professor track like her, but that was a non-starter. The idea of getting up in front of a room full of college kids every day, being dissected under their scrutiny—I’d be breaking out in hives. No, with little kids, they’re engineered to see teachers as authority figures first. If you treat them fairly and with kindness and compassion, they love you. Sure, there are always the brats and bullies, but at that age, kids aren’t nearly as judgmental.

“What about you?” I ask. “How’s work?”

Mom offers a wry smile. “We’re almost through the worst of theChernobyleffect. Unfortunately, it also means the research windfall has mostly dried up. Nice while it lasted, though.”

I laugh in response. The HBO series was the best and worst thing to happen to Mom’s nuclear science and engineering department at MIT since Fukushima. The sudden popularity brought a renewed energy to anti-nuke demonstrators who started gathering near campus or outside conferences. It also meant the research grants came pouring in, along with every fanboy who thought he was going to save the world. Except then they realize there’s a lot more money in robotics, automation, and aerospace engineering, and switch majors before their parents find out their tuition checks were feeding fantasies brought on by the guy who wroteScary Movie 4. Good show, though.

“We’ve also finally filled Dr. Matsoukas’ old position. We hired a young woman from Suriname who studied with Alexis at Michigan State.”

Dr. Alexis Branchaud, or Aunt Alexis as she was known when she used to stay with us during visiting lectures at MIT, is like Mom’s evil French twin. The two of them with a bottle of Bacardi 151 were a natural disaster. For a while, I wondered if maybe Aunt Alexis was the reason I rarely saw my mom date.

“It’ll be the first time the department will be majority female.”

“Nice. Smashing atoms and the patriarchy. And what about extra-curriculars?” I ask.

She grins. “You know, normal kids don’t want to hear about their mothers’ sex lives.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“You have a point.”

“It’s big of you to say so.”

“Honestly,” she says, “I’ve been swamped with work. The department is overhauling the curriculum for the master’s thesis next year and Dr. Rapp and I have been taking care of Dr. Matsoukas’ advisees. Elaine set me up with her husband’s racquetball partner last month, but I draw a hard line at middle-aged men who still bite their fingernails.”

“I have a fake boyfriend.”

I don’t know why I blurt that out. Probably low blood sugar. I didn’t eat breakfast this morning and only had a bowl of grapes for dinner last night while I was studying for a quiz in diagnostic and corrective reading strategies.

“Okay.” My mother looks justifiably baffled. “Define fake boyfriend.”

“Well, it started off as a dare, and then it sort of became a joke. Now we might not be friends anymore because I mighthave gotten mad at him for trying to like me for real and I keep ignoring his text messages.”

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