Page 105 of The Bright Lands
The clock ticked down. Luke called “Blue Cherry Forty-Three,” and prayed the boys remembered the twist on the play the number represented. Judging by the incredulous looks on his teammates’ faces he was being optimistic.
The Stallions certainly remembered the call from last time. They looked thrilled at the chance to stonewall the Bison again on the last play of the game.
The crowd went quiet as Luke bent low. “Forty-three!” he shouted again, clapped his hands, caught the snap.
Roy Birch angled for a fake position but the Stallions were smart, remembered that Birch had been bait last time and ignored him. Mitchell Malacek was knocked to his feet before he could even arrive for the play’s fake handoff. Whiskey was in the grass, the other offensive tackles were falling and Luke felt the Stallion with the shark’s smile bearing down on him—sprinting hard, his cleats slicking over the grass—now.
There, past the scrum, by a pure miracle, Ricky Turner had made it nearly to the goal line, just as Luke had prayed he would. Ricky, running like a man possessed, a backfield safety flying his way, raised a single hand. It would have to do.
Luke lobbed the ball, high and hard, and then he was on the ground, gasping for air. The Stallion had landed on top of him, the grills of their helmets clacked together, the other boy’s cup pressed hard against Luke’s thigh. Their eyes locked as the Stallion started to rise, but instead—instead—he let a hand linger on Luke’s shoulder.
The moment passed. The crowd was screaming like a bomb had gone off. Luke knew from the mania in their voices which team they were cheering for. The Stallion tackle grimaced and spat and hauled himself up. He left Luke lying dazed in the grass as the entire town of Bentley rushed the field.
BETHANY
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 hershewas 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 theBentley 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 goddamnresponsibilitiestonight—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 fuckingmurderto keep it a secret.
And Luke Evers was the key. She had noticed the way Luke was suddenly hanging tight withDylan’sold friends, boys who never used to give him the time of day. Those boys wouldn’t just suddenly start hanging out with someone likeLuke. 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.
