Over time, though, she revealed herself to be the kind of girl I didn’t think existed in real life. Grier’s a sprinter (I’m long-distance), and she’d already been a member of the club for two years, so she seemed dedicated, like me. I met her when I left my high school team to join our more challenging private swim club at the end of ninth grade. Daring her to drink some kind of crazy mixed-up shot isn’t much of a dare anymore either, but maybe this will make her less pissy or whatever it is she’s been lately. I don’t really feel like drinking tonight, but at Grier’s it’s always around. She moseys over to the cabana and starts rummaging behind the bar. Her mom was plenty pissed, but even Grier thought it was funny, and now she just looks sexier. She even looks good with her head shaved now, after I Jackassed her with a pair of clippers last month and took a huge hunk right out of her dark, glossy locks. Maybe I would be too if she weren’t so slow in the water. Other girls on the team are jealous, I guess. I’ve seen Grier’s body a thousand times, but it doesn’t make her elfish perfectness any less obvious. I watch her slide underwater to the ladder, where she climbs out, tugging the edges of her bikini away from her narrow butt.
“Here,” she says, slipping free of her tube. She grins and starts whistling for her dog. We already climbed on top of the cabana once, to see if we could jump from there into the pool, but the distance really is too far. I dare you to . . .” I look around, trying to find something. If one of the other girls in the club even looks at Shyrah for too long at practice, he’s sneaking up to me later, asking me should he ask her out. “Uh-I dare you to pretend you’re in love with Shyrah for a week.” That I got tired of her chickening out one too many times was part of it too, which is why I’m surprised now.
Mainly because at this point we can’t think of anything we haven’t already done that isn’t completely disgusting, would require too much pain-in-the-ass planning or equipment, or would end up with one of us getting seriously hurt or arrested. Sure, she had suck times at the meet today, and pizza with the team afterward is always a Michael Phelps–praising bore, but we haven’t played Dare in a while. GRIER AND I ARE FLOATING in her glossy, turquoise pool, both of us in separate inner tubes, pushing each other around with our feet and staring at the dark, humid sky when she goes, “Dare me to do something.”
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