Panic(48)

Dodge had kept his back to her. One of the pairs of underwear had blown off the hood and onto the ground; he kept his eyes fixed on it. It was full-butt underwear, patterned with strawberries, faded. Next to it, he’d seen two toothbrushes and a curled-up tube of toothpaste sitting on an overturned bucket, and several pairs of shoes lined up neatly in the dirt. He wondered how long they’d been camping out there.

“I won’t,” he had said without turning around.

And he wouldn’t. That was another thing Dodge liked about secrets: they bonded people together. “How long you think you can keep it up?” he asked now.

“As long as it takes to win,” she replied.

He looked at her—face so serious, so dead set—and felt a sudden surge of something like joy. Understanding. That’s what it was; he and Heather understood each other.

“I like you, Heather,” he said. “You’re all right.”

She briefly scanned his face, as if to verify that he wasn’t laughing at her. Then she smiled. “Right back at you, Dodge.”

Nat reappeared, carrying a bottle of tequila. “Take a shot with me, Heather.”

Heather made a face. “Tequila?”

“Come on,” Nat said, pouting. Her words were more slurred than ever, but her eyes kept their strange, unnatural brightness—like something not quite human. “It’s my birthday.”

Heather shook her head. Nat laughed.

“I don’t believe it.” Her voice was getting louder. “You’ll play Panic, but you’re afraid of taking a shot.”

“Shhhh.” Heather’s face turned red.

“She wasn’t even supposed to play,” Nat said, pointing the bottle at Heather, as though addressing an audience. And people were listening. Dodge saw that they were turning in Heather’s direction, smirking, whispering.

“Come on, Nat. You’re not supposed to talk about the game, remember?” he said, but Nat ignored him.

“I was gonna play,” Nat announced. “I did play. Not anymore. She—you—sabotaged me. You sabotaged me.” She turned to Heather.

Heather stared at her for a second. “You’re drunk,” she said matter-of-factly, then slid off the hood of the car.

Nat tried to grab her. “I was just kidding,” she said. But Heather kept walking. “Come on, Heath. I was just f*cking around.”

“I’m going to find Bishop,” Heather said without turning.

Nat leaned up against the car, next to Dodge. She uncapped the bottle of tequila, took a sip, and made a face. “Some birthday,” she muttered.

Dodge could smell her skin, the alcohol on her breath and strawberry shampoo in her hair. He was aching to touch her. Instead he shoved his hands in his pocket and felt for the gift. He knew he had to give it to her now, before he chickened out or she got even drunker.

“Look, Nat. Is there somewhere we could go? I mean, to be alone for a minute?” Realizing she might think he was going to try to feel her up or something, he rushed on: “I have something for you.” And he showed her the little tissue-paper-wrapped box, hoping she wouldn’t care that it had gotten squashed in his pocket.

Her face changed. She smiled huge, showing off her perfect little white teeth, and set the bottle of tequila down. “Dodge, you didn’t have to,” she said. And then: “Come on, I know somewhere we can go.”

Just beyond the back porch was an area dedicated to what looked like lawn decorations: towering limestone statues of various mythical figures Dodge should probably know but didn’t; limestone benches and birdbaths full of standing water, moss, and leaves. Because of the statues and the porch it was concealed from view, and as they entered the semicircular enclosure, the music was muffled.

“Go ahead,” he said, passing her the box. “Open it.”

He thought he might puke. What if she hated it? Finally she got the wrapping off, and she opened the little box and stood there staring at it: a dark cord of velvet and a small, crystal butterfly charm, light dazzling from its wings, resting neatly on a bunch of cotton.

She stared at it for so long, he thought she must hate it, and then he thought he really would be sick. The necklace had cost him three full days of the cash he got stocking shelves.

“If you want to return it . . . ,” he started to say. But then she looked up and he saw that she was crying.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I love it.” And before he knew what was happening, she reached for him and drew him down to her and kissed him. Her lips tasted like salt and tequila.

When she pulled back, he felt dizzy. He’d kissed girls before but not like that. Usually he was too stressed about what their tongue was doing or whether he was using too much pressure or too little. But with Nat he forgot to think, or even breathe, and now his vision was clouded with black spots. “Listen,” he blurted out. “I want you to know I’ll still honor the split. If I win, I mean. You can still take your share of the money.”

She stiffened suddenly, almost as if he’d slapped her. For a second she stood there, rigid. Then she shoved the jewelry box back at him. “I can’t take this,” she said. “I can’t accept it.”

Dodge felt like he’d just inhaled a bowling ball. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t want it,” she said, and forced the box into his hand. “We’re not together, okay? I mean, I like you and all but . . . I’m seeing someone else. It isn’t right.”