Panic(28)

“I’m fine.” She tried to pull away. He moved his arm to her shoulders. She could smell beer on his breath. She wondered if he, too, was a little drunk. “Come on, get off me.” She said it jokingly, but she didn’t feel like joking.

Nat was wandering up ahead of them, kicking at stones. Darkness was falling and her heart was beating hard in her chest and for a moment, she felt like she and Bishop were alone. He was staring at her with an expression she couldn’t identify. She felt heat spreading through her stomach—she was nervous for no reason.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” she said, and gave him a push.

The moment passed. Bishop laughed and charged; she dodged him.

“Children, children. Stop fighting!” Nat called back to them.

They found a place to set off the sparklers. Nat’s fizzled and sputtered out before they could get properly lit. Heather tried next. When she stepped forward with the lighter, there was a series of cracking sounds, and Heather jumped back, thinking confusedly she’d messed up. But then she realized that she hadn’t even gotten the sparkler lit.

“Look, look!” Nat was bouncing up and down excitedly.

Heather turned just as a series of fireworks—green, red, a shower of golden sparks—exploded in the east, just above the tree line. Nat was laughing like a maniac.

“What the hell?” Heather felt dizzy with happiness and confusion. It wasn’t even all-the-way dark yet, and there were never any fireworks in Carp. The nearest fireworks were in Poughkeepsie, fifty minutes away, at Waryas Park—where Lily would be with their mom and Bo right now.

Only Bishop didn’t seem excited. His arms were crossed and he was shaking his head as they kept going: more gold, and now blue and red again, blooming and fading, sucked back into the sky, leaving tentacle-traces of smoke. And just as Nat started running, half limping but still laughing, calling, “Come on, come on!” like they could race straight through to the source, it hit Heather too: this wasn’t a celebration.

It was a sign.

In the distance, sirens began to wail. The show stopped abruptly: ghostly fingers of smoke crept silently across the sky. At last Nat stopped running. Whipping around to face Heather and Bishop, she said, “What? What is it?”

Heather shivered, even though it wasn’t cold. The air smelled like smoke, and the wail of the fire trucks cut through her head, sharp and hot.

“It’s the next challenge,” she said. “It’s Panic.”



It was just after eleven p.m. by the time Bishop dropped Heather off in front of the trailer. Now she wished she hadn’t had the beer—she felt exhausted. Bishop had been quiet since Natalie got out of the car.

Now he turned to her and said, abruptly, “I still think you should quit, you know.”

Heather pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Quit what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Bishop rubbed his forehead. The light shining into the car from the porch lit up his profile: the straight slope of his nose, the set of his jaw. Heather realized that he really wasn’t a boy anymore. Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, he had become a guy—tall and strong, with a stubborn chin and a girlfriend and opinions she didn’t share. She felt an ache in her stomach, a sense of loss and a sense of wanting. “The game’s just going to get more dangerous, Heather. I don’t want you to get hurt. I’d never forgive myself if . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Heather thought of that awful text message she’d received. Quit now, before you get hurt. Anger sparked in her chest. Why the hell was everyone trying to make sure she didn’t compete? “I thought you were rooting for me.”

“I am.” Bishop turned to face her. They were very close together in the dark. “Just not like that.”

For a second, they continued staring at each other. His eyes were dark moons. His lips were a few inches away from hers. Heather realized that she was still thinking about kissing him.

“Good night, Bishop,” she said, and got out of the car.

Inside, the TV was on. Krista and Bo were lying on the couch, watching an old black-and-white movie. Bo was shirtless, and Krista was smoking. The coffee table was packed with empty beer bottles—Heather counted ten of them.

“Heya, Heather Lynn.” Krista stubbed out her cigarette. She missed the ashtray on her first try. She was glassy-eyed. Heather could barely look at her. She better not have been messed up and driving with Lily in the car; Heather would kill her. “Where you been?”

“Nowhere,” Heather said. She knew her mom didn’t really care. “Where’s Lily?”

“Sleeping.” Krista stuck a hand down her shirt, scratching. She kept her eyes on the TV. “Big day. We saw fireworks.”

“Piss-packed with people,” Bo put in. “There was a line for the goddamn porta-potties.”

“I’m going to sleep,” Heather said. She didn’t bother trying to be nice; Krista was too drunk to lecture her. “Keep the TV down, okay?”

She had trouble getting the door to the bedroom open; she realized that Lily had balled up one of her sweatshirts and shoved it in the crack between the door and the warped floorboards, to help keep out the noise and the smoke. Heather had taught her that trick. It was hot in the room, even though the window was open and a small portable fan was whirring rhythmically on the dresser.