Panic(49)

Cold, cold: washing through his whole body. He was freezing, confused and furious. He didn’t feel like himself, didn’t sound like himself either, as he heard himself say, “Who is it?”

She had turned away from him. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “No one you know.”

“You kissed me,” he said. “You kissed me, you made me think—”

She shook her head. She still wouldn’t look at him. “It was for the game. Okay? I wanted you to help me win. That’s all.”

That voice he didn’t recognize came out of his mouth again. “I don’t believe you.” The words sounded thin and flimsy.

She kept speaking, almost as if he wasn’t there. “But I don’t need Panic. I don’t need you. I don’t need Heather. Kevin says I’ve got potential in front of the camera. He says—”

“Kevin?” Something clicked in Dodge’s brain, and his stomach opened up. “That scumbag you met at the mall?”

“He’s not a scumbag.” Now she turned around to face him. She was shaking. Her fists were balled and her eyes were bright and there was wetness on her cheeks and it broke his heart. He still wanted to kiss her. He hated her. “He’s legit. He believes in me. He said he would help me. . . .”

The cold in Dodge’s chest had turned into a hard fist. He could feel it beating against his ribs, threatening to explode out through his skin. “I’m sure he did,” he said, practically spitting. “Let me guess. All you had to do was show him your tits—”

“Shut up,” she whispered.

“Maybe let him feel you up for a while. Or did you have to spread your legs, too?” As soon as he said it, he wished the words back into his mouth.

Nat stiffened as though a shock had run through her. And he could tell from her face—the guilt and the sadness and the sorrow—that she did, she had.

“Nat.” He could barely say her name. He wanted to say he was sorry, and he was sorry for her too, for what she’d done. He wanted to tell her that he believed in her and thought she was beautiful.

“Go away,” she whispered.

“Please.” He started to reach for her.

She stumbled backward, nearly tripping on the grass. “Go,” she said. Her eyes locked on his for a minute. He saw two dark holes, like wounds; then she whirled around and was gone.





heather

BISHOP HAD A TRAMPOLINE; OR AT LEAST, HE HAD A trampoline frame. The nylon had long ago disintegrated and been replaced with a heavy canvas tarp, stretched taut. Heather wasn’t surprised to find him there, hiding out from the rest of the guests. He’d never been super social. She wasn’t either. It was one of the things that bonded them.

“Having a good time?” she asked, as she maneuvered onto the canvas next to him. Bishop smelled like cinnamon, and a little like butter.

He shrugged. When he smiled, his nose crinkled. “So-so. You?”

“So-so,” she admitted. “How’s Lily doing?” Heather had had no choice but to bring her. They’d installed her in the den, and Bishop had volunteered to check in on her when he went inside for more plastic cups.

“She’s fine. Watching a marathon of some celebrity show. I made her popcorn.” He leaned back, so he was staring at the sky, and motioned for Heather to do the same.

When they were little, they had sometimes slept out here, side by side in sleeping bags, surrounded by empty packages of chips and cookies. One time, she had woken up and found a raccoon sitting on her chest. Bishop had yelled to startle it away—but not before getting a picture. It was one of her favorite memories from childhood.

She could still remember what it felt like to wake up next to him, with dew covering their sleeping bags and soaking the canvas, their breath steaming in the air—they were so warm next to each other. Like they were in the only safe, good place in the world.

Now she unconsciously moved her head onto the hollow space between his chest and shoulder, and he wrapped one arm around her. His fingers grazed her bare arms, and her body felt suddenly fizzy and warm. She wondered how they must look from above: like two pieces of a puzzle, fitted neatly together.

“Are you going to miss me?” Bishop asked suddenly.

Heather’s heart gave a huge, awful thump, like it wanted to leap out of her throat.

She’d been trying all summer to ignore the fact that Bishop was going away to college. Now they had less than a month left. “Don’t be an idiot,” she said, nudging him.

“I’m serious.” He shifted, withdrawing his arm from under her head, rolling over onto one elbow to face her. Casually, he slung his other arm over her waist. Her shirt was riding up and his hand was on her stomach—his tan skin against her pale, freckled belly—and her lungs were having trouble working properly.

It’s Bishop, she reminded herself. It’s just Bishop.

“I’m gonna miss you so bad, Heather,” he said. They were so close, she could see a bit of fuzz clinging to one of his eyelashes; she could see individual spirals of color in his eyes. And his lips. Soft-looking. The perfect imperfectness of his teeth.

“What about Avery?” Heather blurted. She didn’t know where the words came from. “Are you going to miss her, too?”

He drew back an inch, frowning. Then he sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. As soon as he wasn’t touching Heather anymore, she would have given anything to have his touch back. “I’m not with Avery anymore,” he said carefully. “We broke up.”