The Fine Art of Truth or Dare by Melissa Jensen Read Free Book Online Page A

the Censorship Fairy? It’s a killer song. Just listen.”
    I did. Everyone did. Some of the guys in the room looked like they’d been drugged. Of course, a few of them probably had been; it’s South Street, after all, but a bunch were just vibin’ Sadie’s voice.
    â€œJeez, Marino, don’t you want to feel that?” Frankie rapped his fork against his plate. “To love so much that you don’t
care
if he loves you back? To be so into someone that pride goes out the ’effing window?” When I got very interested in my olive pits, he sighed. “It doesn’t count, your sad, sad thing for Edward Willing.”
    â€œHe won’t leave,” I offered, trying for levity.
    â€œHe won’t come, either.”
    â€œNice.”
    â€œVirginity is not a commodity in our world, my vestal friend.”
    Maybe not, and no one had expressed all that much interest in mine recently. There was Dieter, a German exchange student freshman year, who smelled a little like paste and spent nine weeks in perpetual surprise that I wouldn’t let him feel me up before dumping me for a yearbook girl who would. And there was Bryan, who I met during my week at the Shore last summer. He had carroty hair and wore high-necked, long-sleeved sunblock shirts because he was prone to crisping. I let him get a half of a good feel under mine. He e-mailed once, from his home in North Jersey, ten words with six of them misspelled. I didn’t reply. I’ll take dead over dumb.
    Much to my don’t-wanna-have-this-conversation relief, Sadie slipped back into her seat. “Sublime,” Frankie told her, and she glowed a little, because while he might exaggerate, he never lies to us. Then, “My turn.”
    He glided into place, did an expert hair toss that brought all attention to his model-perfect face, and acknowledged a wolf whistle from behind us with a flick of his fingers. I glanced over my shoulder at the table full of pretty boys. None were familiar, but I pegged one as Frankie’s type to a tee: Norse godling, all icy blond and blue.
    â€œThis is for you, Marino,” Frankie said, and my attention snapped back to the stage.
    Yes, he did. The first notes of “Like a Virgin” came on, and seconds later, Frankie was channeling Madonna for all he was worth. He was saved from cliché-dom by the sheer fact that he can’t sing for his life. No one minded, and after the first curious glances, no one was looking at red-faced me. Because, of course Frankie wasn’t singing to me. Every word, every wink, every shimmy and hip thrust was for Gunnar-Björn behind us. By the second verse, most of the audience was singing and thumping along.
    He finished to full-blown appreciative howling from the crowd. He waved it off as he strolled back to us, eyes sliding once, and again, toward the pretty boys. Once seated, he folded his hands neatly on the table and looked at us expectantly.
    There was no question what he wanted. He was silently and eloquently daring us to dare him.
    We’re good friends. “Truth or Dare?” Sadie asked.
    He pretended to think about it. “Ah . . . dare.”
    Sadie pretended to think about it. “I dare you to go ask for his phone number,” she said with perfectly earnest enthusiasm. She pointed discreetly. “The cute blond one.”
    â€œRagnar-Knut-Thor,” I elaborated.
    Frankie blinked at me in surprise. “You know him?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œVery funny.” He leaned into me, until his lips were inches from mine. He blew. “Okay?”
    â€œA little garlicky.”
    â€œHummus,” he muttered. “Doctor?”
    Sadie was already on it. From her huge, fringed bag (Balenciaga runway, one of her mother’s rejects), she pulled a tin of Altoids. She also can be counted on for Kleenex, Band-Aids, bottled water, and dried seaweed snacks. Frankie popped his pill, bared his