Part 27 (1/2)

”You have lost your mind,” I say, the words heavy in my mouth. ”You have lost it.”

”Hey, Coach,” Beth sings, her grin wider and wider, Beth sings, her grin wider and wider, ”where you goin' with that gun in your hand?” ”where you goin' with that gun in your hand?”

”Shut up,” I say, my hand leaping out and shoving at her, a strange half laugh coming from me.

But then I'm shoving harder and I'm not laughing, and Beth grabs my hands and locks them together. When did she get so sober? When did she get so sober?

”He killed himself,” I say, so loud it hurts me to hear. ”She didn't do anything. She'd never do anything like that.”

My hands in hers, she leans toward me, very close, her wine-thick breath in my face, my hands knotted in hers so tight I feel a hot tear in my eye corner.

”She would never do anything like that,” she repeats back to me, nodding.

”She loved him,” I say, the words sounding small and ridiculous.

”Right,” Beth says, smiling, pressing my hands against her own hard ribcage, like clutching in the backseat with a boy, ”because no one's ever killed the person they love.”

”You're drunk, you're drunk and awful,” I say, and I'm trying to get my hands free, and we're rocking, our faces so close. ”An awful b.i.t.c.h, the worst I ever knew.”

She drops my hands at last, tilting her head and watching me.

Suddenly, the alcohol heaving in me, my hands palsied, I have to get out of the car.

Feet on the smooth, freshly poured asphalt of the lot, I breathe deep.

But this is what she wants because she gets out too.

I look at her, face shot through not with moonlight but with the wan blue of the bank of parking lot lights.

”Let's go,” I say. ”I don't need this-”

”Do you smell something?” Beth asks, suddenly. ”Like flowers or something. Honeysuckle.”

”I don't smell anything,” I say.

I smell all kinds of things, most of all chlorine. Bleach. Blood.

”Did you know the government is studying the possibility that people might give off these scents when they're lying?” Beth says, and I must be dreaming. ”And each smell is very individual. Like a fingerprint.”

I've dreamed my way into one of Beth's nightmares, the one where we're standing above the gorge, like an open throat.

”I wonder if yours is honeysuckle,” she says.

”I'm not lying about anything,” I say.

”Honeysuckle so sweet I can taste it. You're good enough to eat, Addy-Faddy,” she says, and I feel she's monstrous now.

”He killed himself,” I say, my voice almost too low to hear. ”It's the truth, if you want to know.”

”You lie and lie, and I keep lapping it up,” she says, clucking her tongue. ”Not anymore.”

”He did. He shot himself in the mouth on his carpet,” I say, and it's not even my voice, not even my words, but they come so fast and so sure. ”It's the truth.”

Beth is watching me, and there's no stopping me now.

”He shot himself,” I say. I wish I could stop, but I can't stop until I convince her. ”He fell on the carpet and his head was black. And he died there.”

With those security floodlights glaring, her face like marble, she says nothing.

And I keep going.

”You don't know,” I say, the wind whipping my hair into my face, my mouth. ”Because you didn't see. But I know. But I know.”

”How do you know?” she darts back, and repeats her question from the girls' restroom. ”Were you there?”

”Of course I was,” I say, almost a howl, my breath sliding from me. I say, almost a howl, my breath sliding from me.

”Of course you were,” she says, fingers reaching out, lacing through my blowing hair.

”So that's how I know,” I say, tightening my voice. ”That's how I know more than you. I saw his body. I saw it lying there.”

She is quiet for a moment.

”You saw him kill himself.”

”No, after.”

”Ah, so you saw him after he was already dead. After Coach shot him dead.”

”No,” I say, my voice loud. ”We found him together. We got to his apartment and there he was.”

There is a pause.

”I see,” she says, an unspeakably lewd leer rising. ”So what exactly was going on that Coach would bring you to the Sarge's apartment, at all hours of the night. Were you some virgin prize-”

”No,” I nearly shout, feeling stomach-sick. ”She found him and she called me. I went and got her.”

She smiles faintly. ”Huh,” she says.

My stomach turning, I lean against the open car door, breathing in.

”Wait,” I say, heeling back, dropping into the front seat. ”You saw us that night. You saw me come home after.”