Panic(12)

Still, the idea continued to drum through her, like the constant patter of the rain: that no one would ever love her.

“How long do you think we should wait?” Nat asked.

“Not too much longer,” Dodge said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Heather knew she should make conversation, but she was too tired.

“I wish it wasn’t so dark,” Nat said after a few minutes, rustling. Heather could tell from her voice she was getting impatient.

Dodge stood up. “Wait here,” he said, and slipped outside.

For a while there was silence except for a tinny banging—something moving through the pipes—and the hiss of water on the roof.

“I’m going to go to L.A.,” Nat blurted out suddenly. “If I win.”

Heather turned to her. Nat looked defiant, as though she expected Heather to start making fun of her. “What for?” Heather asked.

“The surfers,” Nat said. Then she rolled her eyes. “Hollywood, bean brain. What do you think for?”

Heather went over to her and crouched. Nat always said she wanted to be an actress, but Heather had never thought she was serious—not serious enough to do it, definitely not serious enough to play Panic for it.

But Heather just nudged her with a shoulder. “Promise me that when you’re rich and famous, you won’t forget the bean brains you knew back when.”

“I promise,” Nat said. The air smelled faintly like charcoal. “What about you? What will you do if you win?”

Heather shook her head. She wanted to say: Run until I burst. Build miles and miles and miles between me and Carp. Leave the old Heather behind, burn her to dust. Instead, she shrugged. “Go somewhere, I guess. Sixty-seven grand buys a lot of gas.”

Nat shook her head. “Come on, Heather,” she said quietly. “Why’d you really enter?”

Just like that, Heather thought of Matt, and how she had been so close to telling him that she loved him, and felt like she would cry. “Did you know?” she said finally. “About Matt, I mean, and Delaney.”

“I heard a rumor,” Nat said carefully. “But I didn’t believe it.”

“I heard she . . . with him . . .” Heather couldn’t actually say the words. She knew she was probably a little prude, especially compared to Nat. She was embarrassed about it and proud of it at the same time: she just didn’t see what was so great about fooling around. “At the frigging Arboretum.”

“She’s a whore,” Nat said matter-of-factly. “Bet she gives him herpes. Or worse.”

“Worse than herpes?” Heather said doubtfully.

“Syphilis. Turns you into a moron. Puts holes in the brain, swiss-cheese-style.”

Heather sometimes forgot that Nat could always make her laugh. “I hope not,” she said. She managed to smile. “He wasn’t that smart to begin with. I don’t think he has a lot of brain to spare.”

“You hope so, you mean.” Nat mimed holding up a glass. “To Delaney’s syphilis.”

“You’re crazy,” Heather said, but she was laughing full-on now.

Nat ignored her. “May it turn Matt Hepley’s brain to delicious, gooey cheese.”

“Amen,” Heather said, and raised her arm.

“Amen.” They pretended to clink.

Heather stood up again and moved to the door. Dodge was still not back; she wondered what he was doing.

“Do you think—” Heather took a deep breath. “Do you think anyone will ever love me?”

“I love you,” Nat said. “Bishop loves you. Your mom loves you.” Heather made a face, and Nat said, “She does, Heathbar, in her own way. And Lily loves you too.”

“You guys don’t count,” Heather said. Then, realizing how that sounded, she giggled. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Nat said.

After a pause, Heather said, “I love you, too, you know. I’d be a basket case without you. I mean it. I’d be carted off and, I don’t know, drawing aliens in my mashed potatoes by now.”

“I know,” Nat said.

Heather felt as if all the years of their lives together, their friendship, were welling up there, in the dark: the time they’d practiced kissing on Nat’s mom’s sofa cushions; the first time they’d ever smoked a cigarette and Heather had puked; all the secret texts in classes, fingers moving under the desk and behind their textbooks. All of it was hers, hers and Nat’s, and all those years were nestled inside them like one of those Russian dolls, holding dozens of tiny selves inside it.

Heather turned to Nat, suddenly breathless.

“Let’s split the money,” she blurted out.

“What?” Nat blinked.

“If one of us wins, let’s split it.” Heather realized, as soon as she said it, that she was right. “Fifty-fifty. Thirty grand can still buy a lot of gas, you know.”

For a second, Nat just stared at her. Then she said, “All right. Fifty-fifty.” Nat laughed. “Should we shake on it? Or pinkie swear?”

“I trust you,” Heather said.

Dodge returned at last. “It’s clear,” he said.

Heather and Dodge supported Nat between them, and together they made their way underneath the water towers and into the clearing that had so recently been packed with people. Now the only evidence of the crowd was the trash left behind: stamped-out cigarette butts and joints, crushed beer cans, towels, a few umbrellas. The truck was still parked in the mud, but its engine was cut. Heather imagined the cops would bring out a tow for it later. The quiet was strange, and the whole scene felt weirdly creepy. It made Heather think that everyone had been spirited away into thin air.