Truth or dare game

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Love at Divergent High

Chapter 37: Truth or Dare game

“Okay, Christina, truth or dare?” I ask, looking at Chris.

“Dare.” She says.

“I dare you to let Uriah and Zeke make a milkshake of whatever flavour they want, and then you have to drink the whole thing.” I say.

“Okay.” I say.

Uri and Zeke smile evilly at each other before standing up and running to the kitchen. We hear them move things around and get a glass out of the cupboard, putting it on the Island countertop; and the blender as it mixes together the ingredients.

A minute later they come in with a glass full of a horrible brown looking liquid that smells rank. Uriah gives it to Christina whose nose is wrinkled in disgust. Uriah and Zeke sit down in their places and Christina drinks the drink, slowly, with her nose pinched in her fingers, and her facial expression changing as she drinks. When she’s done she puts the glass down and looks like she is going to throw up.

“God, what did you two put in there?” She asks.

“Oh, you know; the usual, hot sauce, chocolate, mushrooms, lemon juice, milk, a bit of salt and pepper…” Uriah says.

“Okay. Okay. I get it.” Christina says, cutting him off. “Shauna, truth or dare?”

“Dare.” Shauna answers.

“I dare you to let Zeke dye your hair, any colour he wants to.” Christina says.

“Permanent or semi-permanent?” Shauna asks.

“Semi-permanent.” Christina answers.

“Okay.” Shauna says.

Zeke smiles and leaves the house to get some dye.

He comes home after twenty minutes of us just laughing and talking about random things. He grabs Shauna’s hand and drags her up the stairs.

Half an hour later they come down and Shauna has bright green hair and an evil look on her face. They take their places in the circle and Shauna looks around for the next victim. “Tris, truth or dare?” She asks, looking at me.

“Truth, because I have a sleeping two week old daughter upstairs and want to be able to look after her when she wakes up.” I say.

“Pansycake.” I hear Uriah say and I give him a death glare, he backs off.

“On a scale of one to ten, how painful is giving birth?” She asks me.

“A lot higher than ten.” I say.

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