Panic(53)

“No. I can’t—you have to trust me—” Bishop pushed a hand through his hair, so it stood up straight. Heather felt like she could cry. His clown-hair; his faded Rangers T-shirt and sweatpants spotted with paint; his smell. She had thought it was hers—she’d thought he was hers—but all this time he’d been growing up and hooking up and having secret crushes and becoming someone she didn’t know.

And she knew, looking at him holding a stupid bag of trash, that she was in love with him and always had been. Probably since the kiss freshman year. Maybe even before that.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said, and pushed past him into the house. It had been bright outside, and she was temporarily disoriented by the dark, and she took two unsteady steps toward the living room, where she could hear the fan going, as Bishop flung open the door behind her.

“Heather,” he said.

Before she could respond, another voice called out. A girl’s voice. “Bishop?”

Time stopped. Heather froze, and Bishop froze, and nothing moved except the black spots across Heather’s eyes as her vision slowly adjusted; as she saw a girl float up out of the shadow, emerging from the darkness of the living room. Weirdly, although they’d gone to school together forever, Heather didn’t immediately recognize Vivian Trager. Maybe it was the shock of seeing her there, in Bishop’s house, barefooted, holding a mug from Bishop’s kitchen. As though she belonged.

“Hey, Heather,” Vivian said, taking a sip from her mug. Over the rim, her eyes connected with Bishop’s, and Heather saw a warning there.

Heather turned to Bishop. All she saw was guilt: guilt all over him, like a physical force, like something sticky.

“What are you doing here?” Vivian asked, still casual.

“Leaving,” Heather said. She threw herself forward, down the hall and into the kitchen. She was fighting the feeling that she was going to be sick, fighting the memories threatening to drown her: the times she’d drunk cocoa from that mug, her lips where Vivian’s now were, her lips on Bishop’s—Vivian’s Bishop.

Her phone was still plugged into an outlet near the microwave. Her fingers felt swollen and useless. It took her several tries before she could unplug it.

She couldn’t face passing Bishop and Vivian again, so she just hurtled out the back door, across the porch, and down into the yard. Idiot. She was such an idiot. She tasted tears before she knew she was crying.

Why would Bishop go for her, Heather? He was smart. He was leaving for college. Heather was a nobody. Nill. As in zero. That’s why Matt had dumped her too.

No one had ever told her this basic fact: not everyone got to be loved. It was like those stupid bell curves they’d had to study in math class. There was the big, swollen, happy middle, a whale hump full of blissful couples and families eating around a big dining room table and laughing. And then, at the tapered ends, there were the abnormal people, the weirdos and freaks and zeros like her.

She wiped away the tears with her forearm and took a few seconds to breathe and calm down before she returned to the car. Lily was picking at a mosquito bite on her big toe. She stared at Heather suspiciously when Heather got in the car.

“Did you see Bishop?” Lily asked.

“No,” Heather said, and put the car in drive.





WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 3





dodge

DODGE HAD LOST THE RECEIPT FOR NATALIE’S NECKLACE, and instead had to pawn it for half of what he had paid. He needed the money. It was August 3; he was running out of time. He needed a car for the Joust. A junker would do—he was even thinking of buying one off Bishop. So long as it drove.

He had just finished a shift at Home Depot when he got a text. He hoped for a wild second it was Natalie; instead it was from his mom.

Meet us @ Columbia Memorial ASAP!!

Dayna. Something bad had happened to Dayna. He tried calling his mom’s cell phone, and then Dayna’s, and got no response.

He barely registered the twenty-minute bus ride to Hudson. He couldn’t sit still. His legs were full of itching, and his heart was lodged underneath his tongue. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Another text.

This time, it was from an unknown number.

Time to go solo. Tomorrow night we’ll see what you’re really made of.

He shut his phone, shoved it in his pocket.

When he reached Columbia Memorial, he practically sprinted from the bus.

“Dodge! Dodge!”

Dayna and his mom were standing outside, by the handicapped ramp. Dayna was waving frantically, sitting up as tall as she could in her chair.

And she was grinning. They both were—smiling so big, he could see all their teeth, even from a distance.

Still, his heart wouldn’t stop going as he jogged across the parking lot. “What?” He was breathless by the time he reached them. “What is it? What happened?”

“You tell him, Day,” Dodge’s mom said, still smiling. Her mascara was smudgy. She’d obviously been crying.

Dayna sucked in a deep breath. Her eyes were shining; he hadn’t seen her look so happy since before the accident. “I moved, Dodge. I moved my toes.”

He stared at Dayna, then his mom, then Dayna again. “Jesus Christ,” he finally burst out. “I thought something happened. I thought you were dead or something.”