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.”