“But if you agree to let me interview you and your friends, I won’t say a word.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“The research I’m doing. I need a project for my adolescent psych course, and this is perfect. I can use the YouTube videos and the interview, and piece together research about the effects of peer pressure on males in our culture. . . .” And she rambled on, and I spaced out because it was all way over my head.
I agreed so she would stay silent. But now? She wants the passwords and updates and wants to come home next weekend to interview us. After John’s accident, I don’t know if that’s possible.
The dare will be up in a few hours, and I’ll text her the password if she didn’t get it on Twitter already. The question will answer itself; my parents will come home and tell me we’re moving to some shit hole; John’s parents will come looking for answers, and Chantel won’t want anything to do with me. Why I ever agreed to all of this in the first place is beyond me. Then again, I really didn’t agree to this . It’s all morphed and I don’t like it.
—
My phone wakes me and I scramble for it. Ricky: Video’s up. I stare at the screen and wait until it fades away. I get out of bed and go to my computer. It’s after 5:00 and I still don’t think my parents are home. I don’t remember them checking on me. Although, I feel like I was more dead than sleeping.
I pull up our channel and type in the password: pondscum. Apparently O. P. and Trevor are using keywords from O. P.’s site. That way if anyone types pondscum right now, in say, Google, they should hit on his site and some product to get pond scum off your water skis. Whatever.
On my screen is a shot of the ramp. I hit play and watch this morning unfold.
I have to admit, Trevor does nice work. He zooms in at all the right times, like when John was shaking his head and staring down the ramp, and then he pans back for the perspective of the jump. We look like toys on a play set. I’m watching and holding my breath without realizing it. Then John’s at the lip. He pedals and wobbles and then . . . he’s in the water, looking fine, as if nothing happened.
I watch the video again, in case for some reason I missed it. But it’s not there.
“Benny? We’re home.” Mom’s voice carries up the stairs and then down the hall. She stands in my doorway.
“Are you okay? You look exhausted.” She moves into my room, and I quickly close out the screen before she gets close enough.
“Tired. Finishing some school work.” I run a hand through my hair.
She furrows her brow. “You’re not coming down with something, are you?” She crosses to me, grabs the back of my neck, and kisses my forehead. “No fever. That’s good,” she murmurs close to my face. I feel awful. John’s lying in the hospital, all sorts of messed-up and dealing with asshole parents, while I’m here lying my ass off to my sweetheart mother.
“Yeah. Kind of beat, but I’m feeling good now.” I add some perk onto the end, because she’s obviously bouncing on something, and if that diverts her attention from me, I’m all for it.
“Good. So did you see the sign?”
I almost forgot. “Yeah, and I got your note. Bids?”
She sits on the edge of my bed and her eyes are wide. “I know. Already. Benny, you don’t know how worried we’ve been, thinking financially we might have to take the transfer. . . . But now . . .” She tears up, and I let her go. “Now we can afford to stay here if your father’s company decides to relocate him.”
I am genuinely relieved, but then think to ask, “So where are we going?”
She laughs a sound that has nothing to do with humor. More like dread. “Still haven’t figured that out. There are some nice condos over by that new development, but that wouldn’t be much of a savings. We may need to focus more on downtown.”
The “new development” is where Trevor lives, and the condos are between him and
“Why would you want to do that?”
“The research I’m doing. I need a project for my adolescent psych course, and this is perfect. I can use the YouTube videos and the interview, and piece together research about the effects of peer pressure on males in our culture. . . .” And she rambled on, and I spaced out because it was all way over my head.
I agreed so she would stay silent. But now? She wants the passwords and updates and wants to come home next weekend to interview us. After John’s accident, I don’t know if that’s possible.
The dare will be up in a few hours, and I’ll text her the password if she didn’t get it on Twitter already. The question will answer itself; my parents will come home and tell me we’re moving to some shit hole; John’s parents will come looking for answers, and Chantel won’t want anything to do with me. Why I ever agreed to all of this in the first place is beyond me. Then again, I really didn’t agree to this . It’s all morphed and I don’t like it.
—
My phone wakes me and I scramble for it. Ricky: Video’s up. I stare at the screen and wait until it fades away. I get out of bed and go to my computer. It’s after 5:00 and I still don’t think my parents are home. I don’t remember them checking on me. Although, I feel like I was more dead than sleeping.
I pull up our channel and type in the password: pondscum. Apparently O. P. and Trevor are using keywords from O. P.’s site. That way if anyone types pondscum right now, in say, Google, they should hit on his site and some product to get pond scum off your water skis. Whatever.
On my screen is a shot of the ramp. I hit play and watch this morning unfold.
I have to admit, Trevor does nice work. He zooms in at all the right times, like when John was shaking his head and staring down the ramp, and then he pans back for the perspective of the jump. We look like toys on a play set. I’m watching and holding my breath without realizing it. Then John’s at the lip. He pedals and wobbles and then . . . he’s in the water, looking fine, as if nothing happened.
I watch the video again, in case for some reason I missed it. But it’s not there.
“Benny? We’re home.” Mom’s voice carries up the stairs and then down the hall. She stands in my doorway.
“Are you okay? You look exhausted.” She moves into my room, and I quickly close out the screen before she gets close enough.
“Tired. Finishing some school work.” I run a hand through my hair.
She furrows her brow. “You’re not coming down with something, are you?” She crosses to me, grabs the back of my neck, and kisses my forehead. “No fever. That’s good,” she murmurs close to my face. I feel awful. John’s lying in the hospital, all sorts of messed-up and dealing with asshole parents, while I’m here lying my ass off to my sweetheart mother.
“Yeah. Kind of beat, but I’m feeling good now.” I add some perk onto the end, because she’s obviously bouncing on something, and if that diverts her attention from me, I’m all for it.
“Good. So did you see the sign?”
I almost forgot. “Yeah, and I got your note. Bids?”
She sits on the edge of my bed and her eyes are wide. “I know. Already. Benny, you don’t know how worried we’ve been, thinking financially we might have to take the transfer. . . . But now . . .” She tears up, and I let her go. “Now we can afford to stay here if your father’s company decides to relocate him.”
I am genuinely relieved, but then think to ask, “So where are we going?”
She laughs a sound that has nothing to do with humor. More like dread. “Still haven’t figured that out. There are some nice condos over by that new development, but that wouldn’t be much of a savings. We may need to focus more on downtown.”
The “new development” is where Trevor lives, and the condos are between him and
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