I roll my eyes. “Farrah, it’s 2016. No one cares if you’re a lesbian.”
Farrah laughs humorlessly. “It might look like the world is all full of rainbows and gay pride parades, but it’s not like that for us in the real world, okay? My grandmother’s eighty-four years old and a staunch Republican. Last year when we were at the club having brunch, she asked the manager if we could be moved to another section because she didn’t want to be served by a gay guy. If she knew about me, she’d disown me.”
I don’t know what to say. To Farrah, this secret is as weighty— as potentially destructive—as Lyla’s. Revealing it would change her life dramatically.
Farrah misinterprets my silence and continues. “And it’s not just my grandmother. Hartley has a criminal record. My dad would freak if he knew I was with someone like her. It would ruin his campaign. Just promise me you won’t tell anyone.” Her fingernails dig into my arm, and she pleads with her eyes.
“Okay, okay, I promise.”
She lets go of my arm and starts toward the door. I hesitate, thinking of Ethan.
“But, Farrah?” She stops short. The moonlight fracturing in through the door makes her dark hair look gilded. “If you care about her, don’t let her slip away. She’s not going to wait around forever.”
“I don’t love her,” she says. A crease forms between her brows, and a corner of her lip turns down, then she turns for the door.
No one talks in the car, and not even the radio on full blast can dispel the thick tension in the air. Every passing minute I keep almost saying something, then chickening out, until it reaches a point where it would be more awkward to talk.
We finally reach our destination: a sun-faded brownstone that stretches three stories high and half a city block wide. The name RHEEM MANUFACTURING is stamped across the front in chipped block script. The huge parking lot is empty and tapers off into bulrushes and train tracks.
We climb out of the car and begin a cautious approach. Farrah pulls a tube of lip gloss out of her purse and slicks it over her lips with quick, practiced strokes as she eyes the shadowy windows. I realize now that it’s probably more a nervous habit than a vain one.
“Does anybody see anything?” Farrah asks.
But no one answers. Obviously we’ll have to get closer to find the instructions.
“Maybe we have to free-climb the building?” Hartley suggests. She hikes up her jeans as she strides across the blacktop, only to have them fall halfway down her ass again.
“Doubt it,” Farrah says. “We already did a dare involving heights.”
“I guess the rule book forbids doing that twice?” Hartley says.
Farrah rolls her eyes.
“Maybe it’s like a face-your-worst-fear type of thing,” I say, hoping I’m wrong.
Hartley’s in the spirit of the game now and adds, “Maybe we have to go through a meat grinder or something.”
“Oh my God, Hart!” Farrah says.
Lyla makes a disgusted face and puts up her hands. “Okay, enough guessing. Let’s just…go inside and see.”
Lyla crosses to the door and tests the handle. It swings open into darkness.
For a moment we hover there, four girls at the mouth of the unknown. We’ve changed so much since that first night, when we were scared but at least a little bit excited about the prospect of a prize at the end of this. Now there’s not an ounce of excitement to be found between us. All that’s left is cold, uncomfortable determination.
Together we step inside. The door closes behind us, making the pale glow of four cell phones the only light in the dark. The air is musty and close, like a basement full of damp cardboard boxes, and there’s a faint metallic scent in the air.
“Is there a light switch somewhere?” Farrah asks, leaning closer to Hartley.
“Welcome.”
We shriek at the voice coming over the loudspeaker, and our bodies clash together. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. The Society is here. Somewhere in this building is the man with the ski mask. Maybe others too.
“Congratulations!” the voice continues, low and guttural and obviously distorted with a voice changer. “You have all made it through to the semifinals of this game of thrills and dares. Give yourselves a round of applause.”
Our harsh breathing fills the silence. We cling to one another with sweaty hands.
“Give yourselves a round of applause,” the voice commands again.
He can see us, I realize. A chill shudders through me. We break apart and clap lightly.
“Good,” the voice says. “Now let’s begin. When the alarm sounds, one of you will follow the path until you reach the door marked Enter. You can take as long as you like to complete the task, but you won’t want to take too long. Trust me. When the alarm sounds again, it’s time for the next player to follow the path. Good luck, players. Oh, and girls?” There’s a long pause. “Behave.”
We wait for further instructions, but they don’t come.