Part 1 (1/2)

Dare Me.

by Megan Abbott.

Prologue

”Something happened, Addy. I think you better come.” I think you better come.”

The air is heavy, misted, fine. It's coming on two a.m. and I'm high up on the ridge, thumb jammed against the silver b.u.t.ton: 27-G.

”Hurry, please.”

The intercom zzzzzz-es and the door thunks, and I'm inside.

As I walk through the lobby, it's still buzzing, the gla.s.s walls vibrating.

Like the tornado drill in elementary school, Beth and me wedged tight, jeaned legs pressed against each other. The sounds of our own breathing. Before we all stopped believing a tornado, or anything, could touch us, ever.

”I can't look. When you get here, please don't make me look.”

In the elevator, all the way up, my legs swaying beneath me, 1-2-3-4, the numbers glow, incandescent.

The apartment is dark, one floor lamp coning halogen up in the far corner.

”Take off your shoes,” she says, her voice small, her wishbone arms swinging side to side.

We're standing in the vestibule, which seeps into a dining area, its lacquer table like a puddle of ink.

Just past it, I see the living room, braced by a leather sectional, its black clamps tightening, as if across my chest.

Her hair damp, her face white. Her head seems to go this way and that way, looking away from me, not wanting to give me her eyes.

I don't think I want her eyes.

”Something happened, Addy. It's a bad thing.”

”What's over there?” I finally ask, gaze fixed on the sofa, the sense that it's living, its black leather lifting like a beetle's sheath.

”What is it?” I say, my voice lifting. ”Is there something behind there?”

She won't look, which is how I know.

First, my eyes falling to the floor, I see a glint of hair twining in the weave of the rug.

Then, stepping forward, I see more.

”Addy,” she whispers. ”Addy...is it like I thought?”

1

FOUR MONTHS AGO

After a game, it takes a half hour under the showerhead to get all the hairspray out. To peel off all the sequins. To dig out that last bobby pin nestled deep in your hair. it takes a half hour under the showerhead to get all the hairspray out. To peel off all the sequins. To dig out that last bobby pin nestled deep in your hair.

Sometimes you stand under the hot gush for so long, looking at your body, counting every bruise. Touching every tender place. Watching the swirl at your feet, the glitter spinning. Like a mermaid shedding her scales.

You're really just trying to get your heart to slow down.

You think, This is my body, and I can make it do things. I can make it spin, flip, fly. This is my body, and I can make it do things. I can make it spin, flip, fly.

After, you stand in front of the steaming mirror, the fuchsia streaks gone, the lashes unsparkled. And it's just you there, and you look like no one you've ever seen before.

You don't look like anybody at all.

At first, cheer was something to fill my days, all our days.

Ages fourteen to eighteen, a girl needs something to kill all that time, that endless itchy waiting, every hour, every day for something-anything-to begin.

”There's something dangerous about the boredom of teenage girls.”

Coach said that once, one fall afternoon long ago, sharp leaves whorling at our feet.

But she said it not like someone's mom or a teacher or the princ.i.p.al or worst of all like a guidance counselor. She said it like she knew, knew, and understood. and understood.