The Dare

As I walked up the steps to the stage a deep, uncontrollable fear gripped my mind. I approached the microphone as if it was an electric chair and I a death row inmate. My legs completely froze. I tried to speak but only a tiny croak escaped by lips. My trembling fingers attempted a simple chord but to no avail. Sheer terror rippled through my body. I could no longer feel my limbs. And then, something truly, terribly, horribly awful happened.

“Oh my God,” I thought, “Am I peeing? Am I peeing on stage at the West High School 4^th Annual Talent Show?”

It had all started a week or so back when my friend Maddy and I were walking to school. It had rained that night and the sidewalk was littered with giant night crawlers.

“Hey, Delia,” Maddy said, “I dare you to eat one of those worms.”

She was completely kidding and didn't expect me to actually do it so I quickly bent down, popped one of the smaller ones in my mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. I looked at her proudly.

“Your turn,” I smiled.

“Christ, Delia. You're crazy,” she laughed, but Maddy and I had always had a strong friendly rivalry between us. So, she ate one.

From there things escalated quickly. By the time school was out Maddy had given her phone number to an uncomfortable substitute teacher and I had put my entire head in the fish tank in the Biology room. By the end of the week we had jumped in the pool with all of our clothes on, eaten gum from under a desk, bounced a volleyball off of Mr. Krenke's head, pantsed the same football player twice, turned in an English paper entitled “My Changing Body & Other Things I Would Like You to Explain to Me After Class”, asked a freshman to prom, and attended cheerleading tryouts wearing nothing but the Canadian flag and then refused to cheer for anyone other than the Canucks. It had been a great week.

Thursday afternoon we were eating lunch in the cafeteria and debating the consequences of starting a World War III style food fight, when Maddy noticed the flyer.

“Ok, I've got a really good one,” she said, “I dare you to perform at the talent show tomorrow. And I won't even make you do anything crazy. Just sing and play your guitar.”

“Nuh-uh, no way,” I told her, “Not happening.”

“Oh, come on. You're really good. I don't know why you only play in your bedroom.”

“Seriously? I know exactly why. I have stage fright up the wazoo. We're talking a deep-seated, Freudian style phobia, here.”

Maddy became serious. “Hey, Ms. Peterson redirected me to the nurse after I turned in that paper, and then the nurse made me read a pamphlet called The Hair Down There. It's your turn.” And she was right.

So, there I was: Standing before my entire school, an open mouthed statue of a girl with a guitar, the spotlight my own personal Hellfire, just barely in control of my own bladder. I stood in stoney panic and pondered whether a cricket had somehow gotten loose in the gymnasium or if that was the sound of my brain breaking. I turned with wide eyes to where Maddy stood offstage.

“Play!” she whispered frantically, “Come on, Delia. I dare you!”

          So, I did.