Worth the Trouble ✓

01 | dare week

THE FIRST THING I DID when I got into the Carsonville Academy was try to get out.

Namely, expelled and sent to public school.

Mom never once came to visit me. She mothers from afar, sending birthday gifts and calling during the holidays and paying my tuition for one of Massachusetts' largest private schools. When we call, it's torture. She asks about school and my friends as if she has any relation to my classes, any inkling of the people that dot my social landscape. We're pretty much estranged.

So, I don't want anything from her. Especially not her money. She can keep it.

Because I'm on my way out. It's Dare Week.

I've never experienced one before, but I'm dead sure it will become my favourite week of the year. Dare Week is not sanctioned by the Academy. It's a downright nuisance to the higher ups; a week of making trouble—my favourite thing—and escaping punishment—my second favourite thing.

To participate in Dare Week, one pays to play.

Everyone chips in twenty bucks for the prize pot. About twenty people sign up every year, so that's a solid four hundred dollars revenue. Mostly freshmen, like me, or sophomores. The occasional upperclassman participates, but it's common knowledge that when college admissions start being relevant, people are more mindful of keeping their records clean. I don't have that burden.

In homeroom class, teachers stress that participants in Dare Week will be punished harshly. But none of us will let them catch us. That's how the tradition has survived so long, you see. It's every person for themselves.

Jethro, a fellow freshman, pulls out plastic bags labelled with the logo of the dollar store in the Carsonville town centre. "Your masks, peeps."

Inside the bags are twenty balaclavas. Another reason we pay to play.

"How original," I comment.

"Shut up, Hollister." Jethro shoves me with his elbow, eyes cheerful. "I took it upon my generous heart to buy these."

I shove him back, laughing. "Didn't Penelope give you the money?"

"And?" Jethro pulls a face.

Penelope is a junior with an okay face but gorgeous tits. Real gravity-defying stuff. Physicists would marvel and try to decode her secret. I heard she was super competitive about Dare Week the last two years—before my time—but this year she's not competing.

She's returned as the administrator, facilitator, head honcho. Whatever you want to call it. Penelope's running the show. She was the one who gave Jethro cash so he could get us these masks. She's the one who'll lay down the rules for us.

"Thanks kindly, Jethro." Penelope smiles and shushes the crowd of people gathered around her.

We're huddled outside this dilapidated tin shed that the Arts departments use to store old theatre props, music stands, and mascot costumes. It's around the bend from the carpark, pushed into a corner that no-one ever sees or visits.

Once everyone slips into their masks, I feel like we're attending a mass murderer convention. Maybe Serial Killers Anonymous. A support group.

That makes me crack an unseen smile while Penelope starts explaining how Dare Week works. "For the greenhorns, here's the rules. Slips of paper from one to the number of people participating will be drawn. That's the order for making your dares. The last person to complete that dare will be eliminated, even if you made it. The winner is the last man standing."

"Or woman," I pipe up.

"It's a fucking turn of phrase, Hollister."

Because Penelope won't be taking part in any of the dares, there's no chance of punishment. She doesn't wear a balaclava. I can clearly see her roll her eyes at me. How did she even know I made the comment? My smart mouth is not that notorious yet, right?