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It’s too unfair for words.
And now Dare’s new despondent attitude?
It’s too much.
“Get up,” I announce, walking toward him and grabbing his hand. I yank him until he has to get up, and then I pull him toward the door.
“Let’s ride into town.”
That’s against all the rules and we both know it. If we got caught, we’d be in serious trouble, both of us. Dare’s not supposed to leave the house, but I’m not supposed to leave the grounds. It’s forbidden.
Dare starts to shake his head automatically, but I hold up my hand.
“Are you scared of them?”
He pauses and I’m delighted to see an old familiar gleam in his eyes.
There it is.
The Dare Me stare.
My heart flutters because the real Dare is back, even if only for a minute. He’s not afraid of anything. He can’t be.
“Okay,” he agrees. “Scooters though, not bicycles. I don’t want you to wear yourself out.”
It’s annoying because everyone is always saying things like that…. like I’m an invalid instead of crazy. But when Dare says it, I don’t argue.
“Fine,” is all I say.
We sneak out the back doors and down to the garages, where we grab the motorized scooters.
As we ride into town with the wind in our faces, I turn to Dare.
“Why don’t you talk like the rest of them? Only every once in a while do you say things in the English way. It’s weird.”
Dare stares at me drolly. “My father was French. I refuse to speak like Richard.”
“But you’re English now,” I point out. “And sometimes, you do sound like it.”
“That’s the meanest thing you’ve said to me all day.”
I haven’t said much to him today yet, but I don’t point that out. Instead, I pay attention to the road so that I don’t hit a pot-hole and bend a wheel like last time. We have to be like Ninjas, in and out of the village without our family knowing.
Or there will be hell to pay, especially for Dare.
“Why is my uncle Richard so mean to you?” I ask him as we stow our scooters on the village sidewalk. He shrugs.
“Lots of reasons, I guess,” he answers, pointing at the ice cream parlor. “Want some?”
Always. He knows that.
He buys me a dish of chocolate and he gets vanilla, and we sit in the shadows of the alleyway, nursing our ice cream. I watch mine begin to melt, as condensation forms on the cup in my hand.
“Your uncle doesn’t like me because I make him think of things he doesn’t want to,” Dare finally says.
“What things?”
Dare shakes his head. “Grown-up things, Calla. Nothing you need to worry about.”
