Panic(60)

“The game’s almost done,” Heather said, trying to keep her voice light. “Don’t turn melty on me now.”

As soon as she hung up, she saw she’d missed a text. She clicked over to her messages and felt her breath stick in her mouth.

Tomorrow it’s your turn, the message read.





SUNDAY, AUGUST 7





heather

“ARE YOU OKAY?” NAT ASKED.

“I’d be better if you’d stop jerking the wheel,” Heather said. Then, immediately: “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Nat said. Her knuckles were tiny half-moons on the wheel.

As soon as Heather saw the sign for Fresh Pines Mobile Park, she felt like her stomach might drop out her butt. They were headed to Lot 62, only a few rows down from Krista’s house. Even though no one had lived there for ages, it was wired and fitted with a fridge, a table, and a bed.

Heather knew that people used Lot 62, which had been empty for as long as she could remember, for partying and probably for other stuff she didn’t want to think about. Once, when she was eight or nine, she and Bishop had gone on a rampage there, emptying out all the beers in the fridge, shaking the cigarette packs and bags of weed they found in the cupboards into the trash cans—like that would stop anyone.

Heather wondered what Bishop was doing right now, and whether he’d heard it was her turn for a challenge. Probably not. Then she found that thinking of him was too painful, so she forced herself to concentrate on Natalie’s awful driving.

“At least you’re getting it over with,” Nat said. Heather knew she was trying to be helpful. “I almost wish it was my turn.”

“No, you don’t,” Heather said. Already, they were at Lot 62. The shades were pulled, but she could see light glowing in the windows, and people turned to silhouettes inside. Great. So she’d have an audience, too.

Natalie cut the engine. “You’re going to be great,” she said. She started to get out of the car.

“Hey.” Heather stopped her. Her mouth was dry. “You know what you said earlier? Well, I could never have gotten this far without you, either.”

Nat smiled. She looked sad. “May the best girl win,” she said softly.

Inside, the air was hazy with cigarette smoke. Diggin was back, his face still swollen and shiny, patterned all over with bruises. He was showing off his injuries like they were badges of honor. Heather was annoyed to see that Ray had come—probably to watch her fail.

There were a few cheap bottles of liquor and some plastic cups on the counter. A group of people was sitting around the table; as Heather and Nat entered, they turned around as one. Heather’s heart stopped. Vivian Trager had come.

And so had Matt Hepley.

“What are you doing here?” She directed the question to Matt. She didn’t move from the doorway. She kept thinking that this was part of the test—like a setup. Panic challenge: see how long Heather can last without crying in a small trailer with her ex-boyfriend and Bishop’s new girl. Bonus points for not puking.

Matt stood up from the table so quickly, he nearly overturned his chair. “Heather. Hey.” He waved awkwardly, like they were standing at a distance instead of five feet from each other. Heather could feel Vivian watching her, looking slightly amused. Bitch. And Heather had never been anything but nice to her. “Diggin asked me to come. For help with . . .” He trailed off.

“With what?” Heather felt cold. She couldn’t feel her mouth, even as it made words.

Matt turned a deep red. Heather used to like that about him—how he was an easy blusher.

Now she thought he just looked stupid. “With the gun,” he said finally.

For the first time, Heather became aware of the object on the table, around which everyone had gathered. Her breath froze in her throat, became a hard block. She couldn’t swallow.

Not a pack of cards: a gun.

The gun—the one Heather had stolen from Trigger-Happy Jack’s place.

But no, that was impossible. She was losing it. Bishop had taken the gun and locked it away in his glove box. Heather wasn’t sure she could tell the difference between guns, anyway. They all looked the same: like horrible metal fingers, pointing the way to something evil.

She remembered, suddenly, listening as a small child while Krista was drinking with the neighbors in the kitchen. “Now Heather’s father . . . he was a mess. Offed himself right after the baby came along. Came home and found his brain splattered on the wall.” Pause. “Can’t say I blame him, sometimes.”

“Please? Just for a minute?” Matt had come even closer. He was staring at Heather with his big cow eyes, pleading; she belatedly registered that he had asked her whether they could talk. He lowered his voice. “Outside?”

“No.” Everything Heather thought was taking a long time to turn into words, into action.

“What?” Matt looked momentarily confused. He probably wasn’t used to having Heather stand up for herself. Probably Delaney always said yes to him too.

“If you want to talk, you can talk to me here.” Heather was aware that Nat was doing her best to pretend she wasn’t listening. Vivian, on the other hand, was still staring at her.

Matt coughed. He blushed again. “Look, I just wanted to tell you . . . I’m sorry. For the way everything happened between us. The Delaney thing . . .” He looked away. He was doing his best to seem apologetic, but Heather knew that he was gloating, just a little bit, to be in the position of having to apologize. He was in control. He shrugged. “You have to believe, it just kind of . . . happened.”