"You're a freaking broken record, Addy Hanlon," she says.

"If you're so sure you know everything," I say, squinting my eyes tight, trying to figure my way into her, "why haven't you gone already?"

"I'm still collecting the final pieces," she says. I swear I can hear her tongue churning in her mouth like a vampire. "I'm working on my deployments and flanking maneuvers."

I picture her, on the other end of the phone, plucking her marked lobe, the crescent scar, but then I realize it's me, fingers gnarled around my own ear.

"Beth, I have to ask you something," I say, my tone gliding elsewhere.

"I'm waiting," she says.

"Beth," I say. Without even planning on it, my voice slips into something from our past, the Addy who needs things from Beth-her skinny stretch jeans, the ephedra tea you have to mail order, the questions for the chem exam, someone to tell her what to do to make it all bearable.

The voice, it's not an act, it isn't, it never was, and it's like a message to her, to both of us, to remember things, because she needs to remember too. I need to make her step back and see.

"Beth, I could get in trouble here," I say. "I helped her. Can you give me one more day? Just one more day to see what I can find out. To see if you're right."

"You mean one more day for her to save her own skin."

"One more day, Beth," I say. "Wait until Tuesday. Monday's the game. Tomorrow you're Top Girl."

There's a pause.

"One more day, Beth," I say, softly. "For me."

There's another pause and its quiet feels dangerous.

"Sure," she says. "You take your day."

29

SUNDAY: ONE DAY TO FINAL GAME

She's given me one day and I have no plan for it, no idea. one day and I have no plan for it, no idea.

All the voices from recent days, all the threats and calamity, and I can't think my way through any of it, least of all those words from Coach: I was there, Addy, but I didn't do anything. I was with him, but I found him too. I was there, Addy, but I didn't do anything. I was with him, but I found him too.

It's all true.

Everything is.

Crawling under the covers Sunday morning, three a.m., I take more codeine-dosed Tylenol, and the dreams that come are muddled and grotesque.

Finally twisting myself into a trembling sleep, I dream of Will.

He comes to me, his arm outstretched, palm closed. When he opens it, it's filled with shark teeth, the kind they show you in science cla.s.s.

"Those are Beth's," I say, and he smiles, his mouth black as a hole.

"No," he says, "they're yours."

When I wake up, there's a newfound energy in me that boosts me from bed, that feels like the day before a Big Game. That feels powerful. It's the day of readying.

Standing in front of the mirror, toothbrush frothing, I feel certain things will happen and this time maybe I will be ready for them.

I try to find a way to reach PFC Tibbs. I think he might share more with me, reveal something, as Prine did. But I can't find a number for him, and there's no answer at the regional Guard office, so I have no way to reach him without Beth.

I drive to the police station, park in the back. Wait for an hour, door-watching.

I think about going inside, but I'm afraid the detectives will see me.

I was there, but I didn't do anything. I was with him, but I found him too. It's all true.

Beth or Coach, who do I believe when one never tells the truth and one gives me nothing but riddles?

Something about it reminds me of pre-calc. Permutations and combinations. Consider any situation in which there are exactly two possibilities:Succeed or Fail. Yes or No. In or Out. Boy or Girl. Consider any situation in which there are exactly two possibilities:Succeed or Fail. Yes or No. In or Out. Boy or Girl.

Left or right. You're the Left Base, you know your only job is to strut that left side of the pyramid, hold that weight and keep your girl up. You're the Left Base, you know your only job is to strut that left side of the pyramid, hold that weight and keep your girl up.

But am I on the right side, or the left?

Watching the back door of the police station, I ponder a third way. I imagine going inside, telling them everything, letting them sort it all out.

But it's not the soldier heart in me.

I'm just about to start my car when my phone rings.

I don't recognize the number, but I answer.

"Addy?" A man says.

"Yes?"

"This is Mr. French," he says. "Matt French."

I turn off my car.

"Hey, Mr. French, how are you?" I say, on babysitter autopilot, like during those long three-minute rides home with the fathers wanting to know all about cheerleading and what it does to our bodies.

Except it's not one of our dads, it's Matt French and he's calling me and I've been a party to his family's ruin.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he says.

"How did you...?" I say. "So you got my number from Coach? You..."

"This isn't weird, okay?" he says quickly. "It's not."

"No, I know," I say, but how is this not weird?

Matt French. I picture him standing in his yard, this forlorn figure. I picture him always like he's looking at us through gla.s.s-windshields, sliding patio doors. I don't know if I could even picture his face if I tried, but the sight of that sad slump in his shoulders is with me now.

"Can I ask you a question, Addy?" his voice m.u.f.fled, like his mouth is pressed close to the phone.

"Yes."

"I'm trying to figure something out. If I tell you a phone number off my call log, do you think you could tell me if you recognize it?"

"Yes," I say before I can even think.

"Okay," he says, and he reads off a phone number. I type it in and a name comes up.

Tacy.

I say her name out loud.

"Tacy," he repeats. "Tacy who? Is she your friend?"

"Tacy Slaussen. She's on the squad," I say. "She's our Flyer. Was our Flyer."

There's a pause, a heavy one. I get the feeling something monumental is occurring. At first I think he's processing what I'm saying, but then I realize he's the one waiting for me to process something.

He wants me to remember something, mark something, know something.

It's like he's the one giving something to me.

I just don't know what.

"I was glad it wasn't your phone number," he says. "I was glad it wasn't you."

"What wasn't me?" I ask. "Mr. French, I-"

"Good-bye, Addy," he says, soft and toneless. And there's a click.

The phone call knifes its way through my head.

Matt French has found out something, or everything. It's all blown apart and he's going through her e-mails, her phone calls, everything. He's ama.s.sing all the pieces, pieces that will d.a.m.n us all, will d.a.m.n us both.

Adulteress, Murderer, and and Accessory to. Accessory to.

But that doesn't fit with the call. With what he asked and what he didn't. And there's the way he sounded too. Unsteady but reserved, troubled but strangely calm.

I tap Tacy's number. I almost never call her, maybe I never have, but we all have each other's numbers in our phone. And Coach has them all in hers. Squad rules.

Which is how Matt French might have Tacy's number.

Except I don't think he was looking at Coach's phone when he read off the number. If he were looking at Coach's phone, it would say "Tacy" or "Slaussen." It would say something.

My call log, that's what he said. His phone. call log, that's what he said. His phone.

His phone.

But why would Tacy call Mr. French? And if she did, why wouldn't he know who she was?

So I call Tacy's number, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Hey, beyotch, I'm out somewhere, lookin sick n s.e.xified. Leave a message. If this is Brinnie, I never called you a bore. I called you a wh.o.r.e.

I'm glad it wasn't your phone number, he'd said. he'd said. I'm glad it wasn't you. I'm glad it wasn't you.

Matt French, what is it you want me to know?

I drive to Tacy's house, but she's not there. Her jug-jawed sister is, the one who I always hear in the speech lab droning on about Intelligent Design when the Forensic League meets after school.

"Oh," she says, eyeing me. "You're one of those."

Slouched against the doorframe, she's eating wrinkly raisins from a small baggie, which is just the kind of thing those kinds of girls are always doing.

"She's not here," she says. "She borrowed my car to go to the school. To practice her hip rolling and pelvis thrusts."

Looking at the cloudy Ziploc in her hand, at the sad gray sweater and peace sign nose ring, I say, "We don't need to practice those."