Dare Me

by Megan Abbott

In the locker room, forty minutes to game time, we are Vegas showgirl-spangled. The air thick with biofreeze and tiger balm and hairspray and the sugared coconut of tawny body sprays, it is like being in a soft cocoon of sugar and love. There’s RiRi, slinging her curling iron like a gunfighter, shaping the spring-shot ponytail, its helix curls. There’s Paige Shepherd, temp tattoo blazing across her tan face, kicking her leg high and twisting, tumbling into Mindy’s arms, her wrists black duct taped like Roman gladiator cuffs. See Cori Brisky, rubbing flexall on her numbing wrists, her smile showing all her teeth, and how sharp they are, and I know that there’s a jungle princess in there who’s ready for hot blood. See even shell-shocked Emily, our fallen comrade, fingers glazed with icy hot, running it across Mindy’s armor shoulder blades, whispering in her ear. And there I am. If you could see me—tall, tight, lightsome and powerful, flipping my back tucks on the slippery tile, afraid of nothing, no one. Just try to stop me. That’s what people never understand: they see us hard little pretty things, brightly lacquered and sequin-studded, and they laugh, they mock, they arouse themselves. They miss everything. You see, these glitters and sparkle dusts and magicks? It’s warpaint, it’s hair tooth, it’s blood sacrifice.