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Neiman Marcus in Helmut Lang clothing he can’t afford. True, he sings frequently and enthusiastically at Chloe’s. Absolutely, he walked up to the drop-dead gorgeous guy in the vintage Bowie shirt at Head House Books last week and asked his favorite ice cream flavor. Turned out the guy was straight (“No, just closeted” was Frankie’s take), but nothing ventured, nothing gained. And it had, after all, been a dare. He probably wouldn’t have done it otherwise. The price of rejection is, quietly, too high.
    As for Sadie, in ToD it helps to know that she loves to be asked about her plans for the future. She’s not naturally garrulous, and no one outside our little cadre ever asks her anything about herself. She used to go to a therapist (one of
Philadelphia
mag’s Top Docs, of course), but her mother put a stop to that when Sadie wouldn’t tell her what happened in the sessions. Mrs. Winslow is pretty narcissistic. Sadie probably doesn’t need therapy half as much as her mother—or most of the people we know. She’s pretty centered. But she still likes to be asked. We never dare her to talk to strange boys. The only thing that scares her more than that is the concept of being naked in front of anyone.
    And me? When it comes to dares, on the rare occasion when I take them, anything is possible. I trust my friends not to humiliate me; they take great pleasure in making me do things that involve climbing. “Life is short,” Frankie likes to announce with great solemnity as I examine walls, trees, and statues of dead patriots for footholds, “and so are you!”
    The truths are often of the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing variety: serious stuff in fluffy wrapping. Like, “A genie grants you three wishes, but they all have to involve sex . . .” or, “If you had to confess one of your biggest fears to Amanda Alstead, what would it be?” ToD and Edward are my therapy. Which means the undertruths Frankie and Sadie ask can be a little brutal. But interesting.
    Sometimes ToD is fun; sometimes it’s legitimized prying. Sometimes it’s our way of checking in. “How
you
doin’?” isn’t in any of our characters. Well, okay, maybe Sadie’s a little, but she’s too sensitive to pry, and when someone tells Sadie to bug off, even if they don’t really mean it, off she bugs.
    â€œWhy do you think we ended up here, together?” Frankie asked once at lunch when the three of us were crammed into a two-chair space at Table 12. Even Invisibles have a stratum, and to sit at 13 would be an admission of . . . well, something. When I started to point to my scar, he slapped my hand. “No. No no no. It’s because we have private inner lives. They”—he gestured to the Phillites—“don’t.”
    I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I mean, everyone must have some sort of inner life. The alternative is a little too zombie-creepy. But I know what he means. Social networking sites, texting in class, and vaguely incestuous dating practices all make secrets a lot less secret, and a lot less interesting. With the Phillites, it’s all out there for everyone to see.
    Frankie waited until the next singer started her rendition of “You Oughta Know” before turning to me. “Truth or Dare?” He always asks, just to remind all of us—lovingly, of course— just what a complete coward I am.
    â€œTruth.”
    He sighed, but clearly had one on tap. “Five things you find adoration-worthy about Alex Bainbridge, and if you mention his eyes, I will spit hummus on you.”
    â€œI hardly adore—”
    â€œFive. No eyes. Now.”
    â€œFine.” I thought for a sec. “One: He seems like actually a halfway-decent guy.”
    Frankie snorted. “Halfway-decent? Such praise.”
    â€œOh, stop. Really nice, then. He seems really nice.” Despite the