Bethany wove her way through the wilding crowd. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t look over her shoulder, didn’t stop when she reached the little gap between the stands and the south end zone fence that was just—just—wide enough to squeeze through.
Bethany had seen something remarkable in the minutes before halftime. As the Bison had done their best to press through the last few yards to the Stallions’ goal, Bethany and the other girls had kicked and cheered “WE GOT GAME, YES WE DO” and Bethany had waved her pom-poms and smiled till she thought it would break her goddamn face and felt a knot of rage and grief tighten inside her.
Nothing had gone right all week. Jamal was in jail. The school knew everything. The town knew everything—you could see it in their eyes, the way they covered their mouths to whisper to their neighbors and waved when they caught her looking. Oh yes. They knew everything and her father knew more.
Thank God Bethany was so naturally tan. Her bronzer had blended over her arms so seamlessly you’d never guess they were covered with bruises.
The moment she had dreaded all night had finally arrived: tonight’s halftime routine had ended with the triple pyramid, the tumble they’d practiced all season, and Bethany had learned minutes before kickoff that she would, in fact, be middle bitch. Someone had gotten into Coach Rushing’s ear.
“A chance for you to share some glory,” the Boss Bull had said. “Middle support is almost harder, don’t you think?”
Fuck her. Fuck that. And Fuck Jasmine Lopez too. Because Jasmine Lopez hadn’t batted an eye when Coach Rushing told her she was riding on top, hadn’t even tried to stick up for her best friend, Bethany, oh no. Jasmine had been more than fucking happy to take that shared glory, had smiled when Rushing told her like she’d known this moment was coming all her goddamn life. The whore. The scrawny fake fucking cunt.
God. Jesus. Bethany was tired. She’d suffered nightmares all week. The pit followed her everywhere now, a palpable darkness flickering always on the edge of her vision. Her eyes burned with exhaustion. Her joints ached. Her mind got caught in loops or else went entirely blank while her body apparently moved on its own.
So when she had arrived in the middle of the triple pyramid tonight, smiling out at the stands, Bethany almost missed the exchange that was occurring outside the field house. But she saw it, oh yes sir, she did: Coach Rushing and the gossiping whores on the squad might have tried to pull Bethany off the top of the pile but she still stood tall enough to see, oh yes.
Standing on the other side of the end zone fence, across from a line of bushes that concealed them from the stands, Bethany caught a glimpse of Coach Parter having an argument with Mr. Boone, the county attorney from the ads that always appeared opposite Bethany’s and Dylan’s pictures in the Bentley Beacon’s sports pages. Parter was poking a finger into Mr. Boone’s chest and Boone was shaking his head no, no, no.
Strange. Bethany had never seen Coach Parter angry. Come to think of it, she had never even seen these two men together.
Boone strode away in a huff, Parter pushed open the door of the field house. The argument had only lasted a second—already Bethany could hear Coach Rushing behind them calling, “Dismount in five, four—” but it was enough.
“Tell Luke not to go tonight,” Kimbra Lott had said, right after she’d given Bethany a nasty bruise on the back of her head to go with all the damage Bethany’s father had done to her yesterday. “It’s dangerous.”
On her cue, Bethany and April Sparks tossed Jasmine and heard the soft thump as she landed in the spotters’ arms. Awaiting her own cue, Bethany waved to the crowd and to her father smiling at her with a koozied beer to his lips like he wasn’t planning some dreadful punishment for her this weekend—and she felt an idea forming.
Because she realized now there was a reason she hadn’t passed on Kimbra’s message to Luke Evers. Kimbra was a bitch—she’d abandoned her goddamn responsibilities tonight—but she was also very clever. If Kimbra was worried that something strange was happening after the game then it most definitely was. And whatever was going on, Bethany knew it was sinister enough that Jamal had to be framed for a fucking murder to keep it a secret.
And Luke Evers was the key. She had noticed the way Luke was suddenly hanging tight with Dylan’s old friends, boys who never used to give him the time of day. Those boys wouldn’t just suddenly start hanging out with someone like Luke. They didn’t do anything out of the goodness of their hearts.
As Bethany fell back toward the spotters—a little early, but who cares—she recalled something Alisha Stinson had once asked her and Jasmine as they’d picked at salads at Bethany’s house one weekend. “Don’t you ever wonder where those boys go after the games?” Alisha had said, and Jasmine—the whore—had laughed and said, “Not as long as they know who they’re coming home to.”
Dylan and KT weren’t the only boys who were hard to find on Friday nights, oh no.
Bethany had never cared back then, of course, had always been confident that Dylan would have told her if there were something serious going on, but clearly she had been mistaken. No more. Bethany wasn’t going to let this continue. These people could smile and they could talk behind their hands and pretend that nothing was ever wrong but Bethany was about to smash their faces into everything they didn’t want to see. She was going to stop this. She was going to fix everything.
Bethany landed hard in the spotters’ arms. She opened her eyes, realizing she hadn’t been entirely awake on the way down. For a moment, just a moment, she’d been certain she was falling, falling into the open mouth of the pit that had waited for her all week, the one that smelled of clay and rot, the one—
She trembled as she stood up, walking on boat legs.
She knew what she needed to do.
As the town rushed the field, as the marching band started braying, Bethany made her way to the parking lot. She turned back to see that no one had noticed her leave. She kept moving.
She would fix this. She would fix everything. Bethany was a very smart, capable, perceptive girl and she was going to fix everything.
She stuck to the dark tunnel that ran between the parking lot’s lights, nervous of the way the spangles of her uniform glinted, but she needn’t have been concerned. Every soul in town was on the field right now.
Bethany made it to the far side of the parking lot without incident, hurried down the line of players’ trucks. Mitchell’s Jeep, Tomas’s red Ram, Whiskey’s rusted Chevy. And there was Luke’s silver Ford, parked in the darkest space between two lights like it had been planning for this moment all along. Waiting for her.
The truck still had the camper shell over the hood that Bethany had seen at school earlier this week.
The tailgate was unlocked.