Dare Me

24



FRIDAY: THREE DAYS TO FINAL GAME

“Guess what I’m doing?” Beth asks, calling me crack-o-dawn, while I’m standing at the mirror, trying to make my face over candy-clean. Streaming petal pink across my cheeks, my eyelids, slashing it across my trembling lips.

I don’t say anything. I don’t like the way her voice sounds. Cat-and-canary-like.

“I’m reading the newspaper. I thought the old lady would faint. She said, ‘Do you even know what that is, darling daughter?’ Oh, the morning wit in the Cassidy household.”

“Mmm.”

“‘A National Guard source indicated increasing doubt that the Sergeant’s death was suicide,’” she reads. “‘Results from a gunshot residue test on the victim’s hands showed only trace amounts.’”

I don’t say anything.

“Oh, and turns out you were right,” she says, pausing as if taking a bite. I have a sudden image of raw meat shearing between her teeth. “It was a gunshot to the mouth, not the temple. You said you were confused, but it turns out you weren’t confused at all, Addy.”


The dying fluorescent lights buzz above me mercilessly.

I’m in the first-floor girls’ room, second stall, having just thrown up, my right cheekbone resting on the porcelain. I’d forgotten what that kind of throwing up could be like, the kind where you’re not, Emily-style, nuzzling your finger down your fishtailing throat, begging for release from the dreaded sluice of cupcakes or from the acidic sludge of too many Stoli Citronas—cheer beer, they call it, we call it. No, this is throwing up like coming off the tilt-a-whirl at age seven, like discovering that dead rat under the porch, like finding out someone you loved never loved you at all.

Now I’m sitting on the floor of the stall, damp newspaper still folded in my hands, the smeary sentences:

“…While police would not comment on reports of conflicting evidence at the scene, a source close to the investigation questioned the position of the weapon near the body. Recoil will usually cause a handgun to land behind the body, the source noted, not next to his head where it was found.”



I feel my stomach turn again.

Suddenly, Beth is there, standing above me, handing me a long sheaf of paper towels, still billowing, untorn, from the dispenser.

At first, I think I’m hallucinating.

“You wait your whole life for something to happen,” she’s saying, her face virtuous, princess-like, under the rimy fluorescents. “Then, suddenly, it’s all the terrors of the earth all at once. Is that how it feels to you, Addy?”

She winds the trail of paper towel around me, leans down, dangling one edge into my sick-moist mouth.

“I’m just sick,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

She smiles, tapping the newspaper in my blackened hands.

“I keep waiting for them to write about that hamsa bracelet,” she says. “Put a picture of it to see if anyone recognizes it.”

“They don’t write about it because it’s not important,” I say. “They know it could’ve been left there anytime.”

“It could’ve been. Except it wasn’t,” she says.

“How do you know?” I say, a fresh round of dread rising in me.

“Because of where they found it,” she says. “Or didn’t our fearless leader tell you?”

“Where they found it…?” I say, fighting the moan in my voice.

“Under Sarge’s body,” she says. “PFC told me. Riddle me that.”

Her smile is so faint and yet so piercing, I feel I may go blind.

And the picture in my head, that nubbed carpet, Will’s spent body, head black like a mussel’s glistening shell.

Under his body.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, shaking my head quickly, my words coming faster and faster. “Maybe it was lying there from before, kicked there.”

“Hanlon,” she says, bending down, a waft of coconut and sweet vanilla, her girliest perfume, worn only on days of biggest trouble and mayhem. “You should be careful here. After all, you may have given it to her, but it is your bracelet.”

“Everyone knows I gave it to her,” I blurt. Which is true, but I realize I’ve given Beth a new gift. Shown her a crack in the armor.

I’m ashamed of myself.

Smiling down at me, she extends her hand, but I don’t take it.

“I know what she means to you, Addy,” she says, hand dropping. “But this is bigger than your virgin crush. You best watch your back.”

My head jerks up, smacking the wall tile.

“This is epic,” she continues. “This is too big to girl out on me. Sack up.”

She starts telling me about a show she saw on truTV about a man whose wife killed herself, or so it seemed. It turned out he’d murdered her.

“You know how they knew? Her teeth. They were all f*cked up, like the gun had been forced in there.”

The blade through the center of me is sharp and exacting.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I whisper.

“PFC and his captain ID’d the body. They said Sarge’s top front teeth were shattered. Caps, by the way. In case you want to know.”

I don’t say anything. I’m picturing Will confiding in us at Lanvers Peak, showing us his counterfeit smile, like taking off a beautiful mask and revealing a more beautiful one underneath.

“So someone jammed a gun in Will’s mouth,” she says, tapping her own front teeth, I can hear the clack, “against those ivory tusks of his and went…POW.”

Sliding back against the wall, I am too weary for her.

“That’s not right, Beth,” I say. “He jammed it there himself.”

“How do you know?” she says, laughing with a kind of giddiness rare and unnerving in Beth. “Were you there?”


In class, in the hallways, trying to shake off Beth’s sly hustle, the way she can whip me up into it with her, the way it can sweep through my body, like a fever.

What does she know? I think. She’s just guessing. Wanting.

But the bracelet, the bracelet. Under his body.

There are a million explanations, I tell myself. And Coach will tell me, she will.

This isn’t like before, when the boom of Beth’s voice in my head could drown everything else out.

Once it was, and I did what she said. Even last summer, at cheer camp, when she told me about Casey Jaye and how Casey was lying about me behind my back. Finally I believed her. I surrendered to it.

But not this time. There’s things I’ve seen that she hasn’t. Lanvers Peak, the three of us there, Coach, Will, and me. The way the two of them nestled around me, knowing I’d take care of them. The smell of burning leaves, the way we shared it, that sense of a lost world of beauty and wonder.

The three of us, what we shared. It was a fleeting thing, but it has a radiant power. It is something just mine, and I won’t have her take it from me.

And the boom of Beth’s voice isn’t enough to make me give it up.

Because Coach would never let anything happen to me.

You can, she told us, fall eleven feet and still land safely on a spring floor.


Except later that day, in English class, Beth’s text popping up in my phone. The link to the second article, Hunt for Answers at The Towers.

It will not stop now.

It talks about police going door-to-door, interviewing every resident in the apartment building.

And about how lab technicians are going through everything found in the apartment, pulling up carpet samples.

My flip-flops, did they leave a print?

But I remember Coach, with what I now recognize as a stunning presence of mind, had us both remove our shoes. Staggering presence of mind, really.

But then the article says, in a throwaway line, the last in the piece:

“Detectives will be reviewing security camera footage of the lobby.”

Security camera footage of the lobby.

Coach and I padding out, her sneakers in hand, at two thirty a.m.

I feel a curtain fall over me.

A second text from Beth, just three words this time:

Truth will out!


In Coach’s office, blinds pulled tight.

She’s behind her desk, my phone lying on the blotter in front of her.

I have never cried in Coach’s office and I don’t intend to now.

“Beth sent this article to you?” she says, nodding to herself.

“Yes, yes,” I say, waving my finger at the phone screen. “Security camera, Coach.”

“What about it,” she says. “If they’d seen me on that camera, don’t you think they would have said so?”

What about me, I want to say. But don’t.

“Coach,” I say, trying again. “They think it’s murder.”

“It’s not murder,” Coach says, with such firmness, flicking my phone with her fingers, swatting at it like a fly. “You can’t let them scare you, Addy. The Guard’s looking out for themselves. It’s all about bad publicity.”

I don’t say anything.

“Addy,” Coach says. “Look at me.”

I do.

“Don’t you think I’d like to believe more than anything that Will didn’t do that to himself? To me?”

I nod.

Something creaks open in her, a place she does not want to go.

“We saw him, Addy,” she says, her fingertips to her mouth, her face sheeting white. “We saw what he did.”

I want to hold tight to her hand and say soft things.

“Addy,” she says feverishly, her fingers fisting. “You have to understand. People will always try to scare you into things. Scare you away from things. Scare you into not wanting things you can’t help wanting. You can’t be afraid.”


“Three days left!” shouts Mindy. “I hear scouts always sit high left in the bleachers. We gotta work toward that corner.”

My chest lifts. Our weird little universe where a word from Mindy Coughlin, her face red and brutish, can suddenly make me care again about the Big Game. Our qualifying shot.

But Coach is nowhere to be found.

“Why does she keep going away?” Tacy asks, mouth muffled with bandages. She’s standing next to Cori, who’s rotating her left wrist anxiously, taped tight where wavering Tacy’s foot lodged.

And Emily. Gimpy Emily, still boot-braced, near forgotten.

This array of casualties, and I wonder how I’m still standing.

We happy few, we band of bitches, Beth used to say. Don’t you forget it.

As if on cue, Beth strolls in front of us, hip-slinging gangsta.

“Let’s get started, kitties,” Beth says. “The Celts wait for no sad-ass chicken hearts.”

This, I think, is good for her. I think, Yes. Yes, Beth. Take it and let it feed you. Feed off this for a while, please.

“The way to win is to sell it,” Beth shouts, her voice rising high and thrumming in all our ears.

“Whip your heads,” she says, and we do.

“Make your claps sharp,” she says, and we do.

“Make your faces like you’re wired for pleasure,” she says, and we gleam ecstatic.

“Give ’em the best blow-job smiles you got,” she says, and if she had a bullwhip, she’d be slapping it against our thighs. “Turn it on, on, on.”

We ride rough and work hard for her. We have three days until the final game and we have to call up another JV whippoorwill and we will work hard for Beth because we want to show our hot stuff, our epic impudence, our unholy awesomeness in front of the sneering Celts masses on Monday night.

But most of all, we work hard because it raises a din, a rabid, high-pitched din that can nearly drown out the sound of the current and coming chaos. The sense that everything is changing in ways we can’t guess and that nothing can stop it.

Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe all we’re trying to drown out is the terrifying quiet, the sense that all there is to hear is our own thin echoes. Our sense that Coach is slipping from our clasping hands, that maybe she is already gone. That there is no center anymore and maybe there never was.

All we have is Beth. But that is something, her thunder filling up all the silence.


In the locker room, the din dissolving, girls scattered and then gone, I find myself alone, or nearly so.

With no Coach, everyone leaves a mess. This is how it was under Beth before. Flair strewn about, rolling empties of zero-carb rockstar and sugar-free monster, tampon wrappers and crushed goji berries. Even one cobwebby thong.

Bobby pins crunching under my feet, I walk through, surveying the damaged girlness.

My heart still hammering from the practice, I’m thinking of how hardcore Beth was out there today, like I haven’t seen her since sophomore year, when it still beat in her so hard. When she hadn’t gotten distracted by petty grievances and her own miseries of life, her own creeping boredom.

Maybe she has never been this good, cared so much.

This is what Coach has done for her, I think. She helps us all.

Then, lurking in the open doorway of Coach’s office, she is there. The shadow she throws seems so large that her five feet swallow the office hall. Beth.

“Cap,” I say, wanting to help sate her, “you bled us today.”

Her back to me, I can’t see her face.

I walk closer.

I’m hoping, praying for elation.

I mean, isn’t she the Coach Itself now, for the moment at least?

“Beth,” I say again. “Return of the King.”

The sunfall flooding everything, her whole body lit darkly gold, I stop a few feet from her ambered back.

“Beth,” I say, “you got everything.”

Finally, slowly, a half turn of her head. A whisper of her profile, darkened by her shudder of black hair.

That’s when I see that nothing’s been had at all, nothing’s been saved. She thought this would be it, and it wasn’t.

“The sun’s down and the moon’s pretty,” she says, her voice hushed. “It’s time to ramble.”

And I say yes. Of course I say yes.