Dare Me - By Megan Abbott Page 0,40

might watch his daughter on the jungle gym.

She never looks back once.

“Her car’s on blocks over at Schuyler’s garage,” Beth tells me later. “Davy saw it. There’s a big punch in the front fender.”

I don’t know who Davy is, or how he knows what Coach’s car looks like. Beth has always known people—friends of her brother, sons of her mother’s exes, the nephew of the woman from Peru who used to clean her house—that no one else knows or even sees. Her reserves of information, objects, empty houses, designer handbags, driver’s licenses, and prescription pads seem limitless.

I ask Coach about it later, what happened to her car anyway.

She shows me a long cut skating up her arm.

“From the seam in the steering wheel,” she says, cigarette hanging from her mouth, her voice throaty and tired, almost like Beth’s. “I hit a post in the lot over at the Buckingham Park playground.”

I tell her I’m sorry.

“I was pulling in and had to swerve really fast. A little girl ran in front of the car,” she says, her eyes losing focus. “She looked just like Caitlin.”

“But you were both okay?” I ask, which seems like something you should ask.

“That’s the funny part,” she says, shaking her head. “Caitlin wasn’t with me. I’d forgotten her. Left her at home, in her room, playing Chutes and Ladders. Or tipping over bleach, eating poison from the cabinet under the sink, starting fires in the backyard. Who knew?”

She laughs a little, shaking her head. Shaking her head a long time, flipping her Bic in her hand.

Then she stops.

“I must be the worst mother in the world,” she says, eyes glassy and confused.

I look at her, all the blurry fear on her.

And I say, “Mos def.”

Which always makes her laugh, and makes her laugh now, and it’s unguarded, beautiful.

“She was trying to avoid hitting some kid at the playground,” I say. “She hit a post.”

“I don’t believe it,” Beth says.

“Why would she lie?”

“Plenty of reasons,” she says. “I’ve been right before, other times. You believe people, just like cheer camp, with that St. Regina Flyer. That compulsive liar, Casey Jaye. And you licked it all up.”

Beth, always sifting ancient history, scattering ashes at me. Always going back to last summer. It was our only fight and it wasn’t a fight really. Just stupid girl stuff.

I never thought you’d be friends again after that, RiRi said afterward. But we were. No one understands. They never have.

“Beth, can’t you leave all this alone?” I say now, surprised at the strain in my voice. “You got what you wanted. You’re captain again and you can do whatever you want. So stop.”

“It’s not my choice,” she says. “Something gets started, you have to see it through.”

“See what through? What, Beth? What, Captain-My-Captain?”

She pauses, clicking her teeth, an old habit from the days we both slid retainers around in our hanging-jaw girl mouths.

“You don’t understand it, do you? All that’s happened. It’s all her.”

She leans back, spreading her long ponytail across her face, her mouth.

Then she says something and I think it’s, “She has your heart.”

“What?” I say, feeling something ping in my stomach, my hand fisting over it.

“She has her part,” she says, brushing her ponytail from her face, “in all this.”

But I can’t believe I misheard her. Did I?

“It’s not just me,” she says again, teeth latching and unlatching. “She has her part.”

I misheard.

18

MONDAY: ONE WEEK TO FINAL GAME

Coach spends most of practice in her office, on the phone, her face hidden behind her hand.

When she comes out, the phone rings again, and she is gone.

In her place, Beth brandishes the scepter, or pretends to. We have a sloppy practice and Mindy wearies me, complaining about the red grooves and pocks studding her shoulder, the imprint of Tacy’s kaepa toss shoe. Chicken-boned Brinnie Cox only wants to talk about her lemon detox tea.

My head bobbing helplessly, I look up into the stands and spot Emily, a white pipe cleaner propped lonely there.

I keep forgetting about Emily. Ground-bound, it’s like she dropped into the black hole of the rest of the school.

God, it must be terrible not to be on cheer. How would you know what to do?

Her head darting left and right, she’s watching us from the cave of her letter jacket, her ponderous orthopedic moon boot nearly tipping her to one side.

Emily, who I’ve known for three years, borrowed tampons from, held her hair back over every toilet bowl in school.

“Skinny be-yotch,” Beth calls out to her, as if