Panic(10)

Beneath her was blinding light, the kind of light you’d see just before you died. All the people had merged with shadow, and for a second she was afraid she had died, that she was all alone on a tiny, bare surface, with an endless fall into the dark on either side of her.

Inch by inch, going as fast as she could without lifting her feet.

And then, all at once, she was done—she had reached the second water tower and found herself hugging the tank, like Kim had done, pressing flat against it, letting her sweatshirt get soaked. A cheer went up, even as another name was announced: Ray Hanrahan.

Her head was ringing, and her mouth tasted like metal. Over. It was over. Her arms felt suddenly useless, her muscles weak with relief, as she made her way clumsily down the ladder, dropping the last few feet and taking two stumbling steps before righting herself. People reached out, squeezed her shoulders, patted her on the back. She didn’t know if she smiled or not.

“You were amazing!” Nat barreled to her through the crowd. Heather barely registered the feel of Nat’s arms around her neck. “Is it scary? Were you freaked?”

Heather shook her head, conscious of people still watching her. “It went quick,” she said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt better. It was over. She was standing in the middle of a crowd: the air smelled like damp fleece and cigarette smoke. Solid. Real.

“Forty-two seconds,” Nat said proudly. Heather hadn’t even heard her time be announced.

“Where’s Bishop?” Heather asked. Now she was starting to feel good. A bubbly feeling was working its way through her. Forty-two seconds. Not bad.

“He was right behind me. . . .” Nat turned to scan the crowd, but the truck’s headlights turned everyone into silhouettes, dark brushstroke-people.

Another cheer erupted. Heather looked up and saw that Ray had crossed already. Diggin’s voice echoed out hollowly: “Twenty-two seconds! A record so far!”

Heather swallowed back a sour taste. She hated Ray Hanrahan. In seventh grade, when she still hadn’t developed boobs, he stuck a training bra to the outside of her locker and spread a rumor that she was taking medicine to turn into a boy. “Got any chin hairs yet?” he’d say when he passed her in the halls. He only left her alone once Bishop threatened to tell the cops that Luke Hanrahan was selling weed from Pepe’s, where he worked, slipping bags of pot under the slice if patrons asked for “extra oregano.” Which he was.

It was Zev Keller’s turn next. Heather forgot about looking for Bishop. She watched, transfixed, as Zev moved out onto the plank. From the safety of the ground, it looked almost beautiful: the soft haze of rain, Zev’s arms extended, a dark black shape against the clouds. Ray hadn’t come down the ladder. He must have been watching too, although he had moved behind the water tank, so he was invisible.

It happened in a split second; Zev jerked to one side, lost his footing, and was falling. Heather heard herself cry out. She felt her heart rocket into the roof of her mouth, and in that second, as his arms pinwheeled wildly and his mouth contorted in a scream, she thought, Nothing and none of us will ever be the same.

And then, just as quickly, he caught himself. He got his left foot back onto the board, and his body stopped swaying wildly from right to left, like a loose pendulum. He straightened up.

Someone screamed Zev’s name. And then the applause began, turning thunderous as he made his way, haltingly, the remaining few feet. No one heard the time that Diggin shouted. No one paid any attention to Ray as he came down the ladder.

But as soon as Zev was on the ground, he flew at Ray. Zev was smaller than Ray, and skinnier, but he tackled him from behind and the move was unexpected. Ray was on the ground, face in the dirt, in a second.

“You f*cking *. You threw something at me.”

Zev raised his fist; Ray twisted, bucking Zev off him.

“What are you talking about?” Ray staggered to his feet, so his face was lit in the glare of the spotlight. He must have cut his lip on a rock. He was bleeding. He looked mean and ugly.

Zev got up too. His eyes were wild—black and full of hatred. The crowd was still, frozen, and Heather once again thought she could hear the rain, the dissolution of a hundred thousand different drops at once. Everything hung in the air, ready to fall.

“Don’t lie,” Zev spat out. “You hit me in the chest. You wanted me to fall.”

“You’re crazy.” Ray started to turn away.

Zev charged him. And then they were down again, and all at once the crowd surged forward, everyone shouting, some pushing for a better view, some jumping in to pull the boys off each other. Heather was squeezed from all sides. She felt a hand on her back and she barely stopped herself from falling. She reached for Nat’s hand instinctively.

“Heather!” Nat’s face was white, frightened. Their hands were wrenched apart, and Nat went down among the blur of bodies.

“Nat!” Heather shoved through the crowd, using her elbows, thankful now to be so big. Nat was trying to get up, and when Heather reached her, she let out a scream of pain.

“My ankle!” Nat was saying, panicked, grabbing her leg. “Someone stepped on my ankle.”

Heather reached for her, then felt a hand on her back: this time deliberate, forceful. She tried to twist around to see who had pushed her but she was on the ground, face in the mud, before she could. Feet churned up the dirt, splattered her face with moisture. For just one moment, Heather wondered whether this—the seething crowd, the surge—was part of the challenge.