That one’s not from the card. I just know my root beer.
“Thanks for coming,” Isaiah continues, yanking me back from my journey into beverage history. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it after the way I acted.”
“It’s fine,” I offer, still gazing across the party.
“No, it’s not,” Isaiah continues.
I turn to face the birthday boy, giving him my full attention and making sure he believes I’ve genuinely accepted his apology. Truth be told, this little moment of forgiveness is the last thing on my conscious mind. “Thank you for saying something,” I reply, struggling to give my voice enough emotional weight so we can finally move on.
The regret in my friend’s expression melts away, gradually transforming into a smile.
We stand a moment, sipping our drinks and gazing out across the party. The music does a great job filling in space between the break in our conversation, but I’m still not all that comfortable just standing here.
“The word ‘muscle’ is derived from a Latin term that means ‘little mouse,’” I blurt.
“What?” Isaiah asks, although I’m not sure if he couldn’t hear me, or if he could hear me and doesn’t know how to respond.
I stare at him blankly, my mind seizing up.
“Hey, come with me,” Isaiah finally offers, shifting gears.
The next thing I know he’s taking me by the hand and leading me through the open floorplan of this crowded basement. Peers immediately turn and watch us go, whispering to one another with looks of tittering excitement.
Soon enough, we’re making our way down a dark hallway, the music growing quieter and the raucous atmosphere evolving into relative calm. We reach a door, and Isaiah pushes through to reveal a small circle of friends sitting cross-legged on the floor. A television is on behind them, playing Christian music videos and casting the proceedings in an eerie dancing light. It’s muted.
“Wanna play truth or dare?” Isaiah asks.
My first instinct is to decline and retreat, disappearing back into the wash of the party, but before I get the chance I catch sight of Martina chatting away within the circle. Immediately, my demeanor changes, and I struggle to act natural as I heartily accept.
“Yeah!” I chirp, climbing down to join the others. “Sounds fun!”
I’ve never played truth or dare, and to be honest, the prospect sounds terrifying. Still, I find myself compelled to sit. Martina is one of the coolest people I know, and maybe spending a little more time around her will help some of that innate coolness rub off on me.
It appears the game has already started when Isaiah and I join, the group loosened up after several rounds of wild dares and raunchy questions. Morgan, a guy I know from school, has just completed his dare and is now tasked with selecting another target.
His eyes slowly move around the circle, drifting from person to person. He’s careful not to rush this important decision, finally arriving on the last option I’d ever want: me.
“Rose. Truth or dare?” Morgan asks, a mischievous flicker in his eye.
A hush falls over the crowd as I take on their undivided attention.
It’s a simple enough decision, only two possible outcomes presented and each one just as mysterious as the other, yet I find myself utterly tongue-tied.
When the awkward silence becomes truly unbearable, I somehow manage to spit out a single word. “Truth.”
Morgan nods, a pleased king who has formally accepted my response. “Alright, alright,” he offers, chewing his lip as he considers the query. Morgan has suddenly been thrust into a position of incredible power, and he wants to make the most of it.
Along with the expected tension of this moment, I get the feeling something else is going on behind the scenes, some inside joke I’m clearly not a part of. While most eyes remain trained on me, other kids are quietly shooting glances at Isaiah.
“Okay,” Morgan finally begins, “how many times have you done it?”
The circle immediately reacts, quietly chattering with excited guesses over the answer to come. I pick up tiny fragments of these whispered conversations, nuggets of brutal honesty that bubble faintly across my ears.
There’s a clear consensus to the guesses: zero.
“She’s two years older, though,” someone murmurs. “All Kingdom Kids are.”
“Doesn’t matter. Virgin,” comes a confident reply.
I feel a flush of anxiety wash over me, and I’m well aware my face is turning red despite my efforts to remain calm. I laugh awkwardly, shaking my head and immediately pushing the question out of my mind.
“I—I don’t know,” I stammer, my fingers dancing a mile a minute.
I force them to stop moving.
Morgan raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”
This reply was instinctual, a sympathetic response straight from the medulla with no rhyme or reason other than a quick-release social eject button, but in this moment of panic a flash of vivid imagery slips through my mind. I see the same arresting dark-haired girl I pictured last night, imagine her kissing me deeply and feel the weight of her body against mine. I sense flashes of a mischievous smile, of her voice, and of the comfort I feel when she’s close.
Meanwhile, the attention of the circle remains fully transfixed, waiting for a coherent response.
“I … uh. Let me think about it,” I falter, struggling to right the ship.
“That many?” someone loudly jokes, causing a wave of laugher to erupt across the group.
More flashes of the beautiful black-haired girl rip through me; memories of an aching, burning sensation at the pit of my stomach. Impressions of warm, bare skin. Her face is right there at the forefront of my mind: olive complexion and startlingly dark, wide-set eyes that make it seem like her pupils are filling the whole iris.
From where I’m sitting there’s a direct view of the muted television set. The screen is dancing with light and movement, showing off familiar clips of a bleach-blond, spiky-haired punk band with crucifix tattoos. Slowly, however, the images begin to roll and mutate, hues shifting as these visual representations become more and more difficult to understand. Random bursts of intermittent analog snow pierce the transmission.
I’m the only one who notices, my eyes glued to the screen with fascination and confusion.
“Rose?” Morgan continues, a hint of genuine concern now coloring his tone.
By now, the music videos have disappeared completely as another set of images struggles to push through the static. I can faintly make out the blurry shape of a bald, humanoid figure in a chair, their body held tight by a series of straps. The body is slumped over, and as this scene grows clearer I notice additional captive figures in the dim light, the shapes restrained in a variety of awkward, painful poses. Some of the forms are bent backward over outlandish metal contraptions while others are fastened upside down against a stone wall. The transmission hue has been skewed a deep red, giving these characters a bizarre, otherworldly look.
A nauseated sickness floods my stomach as I watch, but nothing could make me tear my eyes away. Curiosity has gotten the best of me.
Back in the realm of reality, a circle of friends is vying for my attention, waving and shouting my name as they struggle to break the trance. I know they’re here, but my attention is fixated elsewhere.