Dare Me - By Megan Abbott Page 0,36

my car, face slack and childlike, except she has no shoes and, far as I can tell, her skirt riding up, no underwear.

When she jolts awake, she says dark and woolly things about Prine.

How he took her to the adjoining room and tore off her underpants and pulled his pants down and all kinds of things are slipping from her drunken mouth.

He put his hands there, pushed down on my shoulders, my jaw, it hurts.

You’re always supposed to believe these things. That’s what they tell you in Health Class, the woman from Planned Parenthood, the nose-pierced college student from Girls, Inc. Females never lie about these important things. You must never doubt them. You must always believe them.

But Beth isn’t like the girls they’re talking about. Beth isn’t like a girl at all. The squall in her, you can’t ever peer through all that, can you?

It’s impossible to puzzle through someone like Beth who always knows more about you than you know about yourself. She always beats you to the punch.

“I better call someone,” says the PFC, standing back from us, far from my ministrations, farther still from Beth’s sprawl, a seat belt twisted around her bare ankle, her feet gravel-pocked.

I try to untangle her, and Beth’s left leg drops to one side and we both see the flaring red mark on the inside, the shape of a thumbprint. And a matching one on her other thigh.

“I better call the Sarge,” he says, his voice strangled.

Suddenly, Beth jerks, her elbow jagging out at me, her eyes sharp and focused on the poor private.

“Call Sarge,” she says. “Go ahead and call him. It’s on him. I’ve called him five times. I’ve called him for hours. It’s on him.”

Why would Beth call Will?

I look back at the PFC. I’m shaking my head. I’m giving him a look like oh-crazy-drunk-girl.

Beth is a liar. This is a lie, the only thing between Beth and Will is her failed campaign. This is just Beth blowing buckshot everywhere.

“I’ve got it,” I say. “I’ve got her. You can go.”

Standing back, the PFC lifts his hands up.

The relief on his face is astounding.

“You cannot bring her here, Addy,” Coach is saying, my phone clutched to my ear. “Take her home. Take her to your house.”

I’m looking at Beth, corkscrewed into the crook of my front seat, her eyes nearly closed but with a discomforting glistening there.

“I can’t,” I whisper, my varsity jacket sleeve snagging in the steering wheel, sober up, sober up. “She’s saying things. About that Prine guy.”

My eyes catch Beth’s purse on the car floor, half unzipped.

That’s how I see her neon-lime panties inside.

Folded neatly, like a handkerchief.

You cannot judge how women will behave after an assault, the pamphlets always say. But.

“Prine?” Coach’s voice turns spiky. “Corporal Prine? What are you talking about?”

I tell her about the party, the words tripping fast, my head spongy and confused. Just let us come over, Coach, just let us.

I don’t tell her that I’m already driving to Fairhurst, to her house.

“Coach, she wanted us to call Sarge,” I say, fast as a bullet. “She says she called him a bunch of times.”

A pause, then her voice like a needle in my ear:

“Get the bitch over here now.”

Like this, the car floating, the streetlamps like spotlights coning in on us. And Coach’s voice pounding. Why would you go to that party, Addy? Is she saying Prine hurt her? He’s no high school QB. They call him the Mauler. Addy, I thought you were smarter than this.

Climbing up Coach’s front porch, I’m holding Beth up, her bare feet scraping on the cement.

She said not to knock, so I just send a text. Seconds later, Coach appears at the door, an oversized T-shirt with AURIT FINANCIAL SERVICES written on it, and a logo that looks like a winding road leading up to the sky.

The stony glare as she looks at Beth brings me straight to sober, sends my spine to full erectness. I even want to comb my hair.

“For god’s sake, Hanlon,” she says. Hanlon now. “I expected more from you.”

I can’t pretend it doesn’t sting.

We are all hard whispers and shoving arms, hustling Beth to the den.

Just as Coach shakes the vellux blanket over Beth, hair streaked across her face, we hear Matt French coming down the stairs.

It all feels very bad.

He looks tired, his face rubbed to redness, brow knotted.

“Colette,” he says, his eyes taking it all in. “What’s going on here?”

But Coach doesn’t flinch.

“Now you see what I put