Panic(8)

Freshman year, they’d had one fumbling kiss in the back of the Hudson Movieplex, even though she’d had popcorn stuck in her teeth, and for two days they’d held hands loosely, suddenly incapable of conversation even though they’d been friends since elementary school. And then he had broken it off, and Heather had said she understood, even though she didn’t.

She didn’t know what made her think of it. She couldn’t imagine being in love with Bishop now. He was like a brother—an annoying brother who always felt the need to point out when you had a pimple. Which you did, always. But just one.

Already, she could hear faint music through the trees, and the crackle and boom of Diggin’s voice, amplified by the megaphone. The water towers, scrawled with graffiti and imprinted faintly with the words COLUMBIA COUNTY, were lit starkly from below. Perched on rail-thin legs, they looked like overgrown insects.

No—like a single insect, with two rounded steel joints. Because Heather could see, even from a distance, that a narrow wooden plank had been set between them, fifty feet in the air.

The challenge, this time, was clear.

By the time Heather, Nat, and Bishop had arrived at the place where the crowd was assembled, directly under the towers, her face was slick. As usual, the atmosphere was celebratory—the crowd was keyed up, antsy, although everyone was speaking in whispers. Someone had managed to maneuver a truck through the woods. A floodlight, hooked up to its engine, illuminated the towers and the single wooden plank running between them, and lit up the mist of rain. Cigarettes flared intermittently, and the truck radio was going—an old rock song thudded quietly under the rhythm of conversation. They had to be quieter tonight; they weren’t far from the road.

“Promise not to ditch me, okay?” Nat said. Heather was glad she’d said it; even though these were her classmates, people she’d known forever, Heather had a sudden terror of getting lost in the crowd.

“No way,” Heather said. She tried to avoid looking up, and she found herself unconsciously scanning the crowd for Matt. She could make out a group of sophomores huddled nearby, giggling, and Shayna Lambert, who was wrapped in a blanket and had a thermos of something hot, as though she was at a football game.

Heather was surprised to see Vivian Trager, standing by herself, a little ways apart from the rest of the crowd. Her hair was knotted into dreadlocks, and in the moonlight, her various piercings glinted dully. Heather had never seen Viv at a single social event—she’d never seen her doing much of anything besides cutting classes and waiting tables at Dot’s. For some reason, the fact that even Viv had showed made her even more anxious.

“Bishop!”

Avery Wallace pushed her way through the crowd and promptly catapulted herself into Bishop’s arms, as though he’d just rescued her from a major catastrophe. Heather looked away as Bishop leaned down to kiss her. Avery was only five foot one, and standing next to her made Heather feel like the Jolly Green Giant on a can of corn.

“I missed you,” Avery said, when Bishop pulled away. She still hadn’t even acknowledged Heather; she’d once overheard Heather call her “shrimp-faced” and had obviously never forgiven her. Avery did, however, look somewhat shrimplike, all tight and pink, so Heather didn’t feel that bad about it.

Bishop mumbled something in return. Heather felt nauseous, and heartbroken all over again. No one should be allowed to be happy when you were so miserable—especially not your best friends. It should be a law.

Avery giggled and squeezed Bishop’s hand. “Let me get my beer, okay? I’ll be back. Stay right here.” Then she turned and vanished.

Immediately, Bishop raised his eyebrows at Heather. “Don’t say it.”

“What?” Heather held up both hands.

Bishop stuck a finger in her face. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, and then jabbed at Nat. “You too.”

Nat did her best innocent face. “Unfair, Marks. I was just thinking what a lovely accessory she makes. So small and convenient.”

“The perfect pocket liner,” Heather agreed.

“All right, all right.” Bishop was doing a pretty good job of pretending to be angry. “Enough.”

“It’s a compliment,” Nat protested.

“I said, enough.” But after a minute, Bishop leaned over and whispered, “I can’t keep her in my pocket, you know. She bites.” His lips bumped against Heather’s ear—by accident, she was sure—and she laughed.

The weight of nerves in her stomach eased up a little. But then someone cut the music, and the crowd got still and very quiet, and she knew it was about to begin. Just like that, she felt a numbing cold all over, as though all of the rain had solidified and frozen on her skin.

“Welcome to the second challenge,” Diggin boomed out.

“Suck it, Rodgers,” a guy yelled, and there were whoops and scattered laughs. Someone else said, “Shhh.”

Diggin pretended he hadn’t heard: “This is a test of bravery and balance—”

“And sobriety!”

“Dude, I’m gonna fall.”

More laughter. Heather couldn’t even smile. Next to her, Natalie was fidgeting—turning to the right and left, touching her hip bones. Heather couldn’t even ask what she was doing.

Diggin kept plowing on: “A test of speed, too, since all the contestants will be timed—”