Panic

Panic Page 30

“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 Travin 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.”

She felt a rush of hatred for him. How had she ever believed she was in love with him? He was a dolt, just like Nat said. At the same time, an image of Bishop rose up in her mind: Bishop in his stupid sweatpants and flip-flops, grinning at her; sharing an iced coffee, sharing the same straw, mindless of backwash and the fact that Heather always chewed her straws to bits; lying side by side on the hood of his car, surrounded by crushed cans, which Bishop said would make the aliens more likely to abduct them. Saying, Please, please, take me away from here, alien friends! And laughing.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Heather said.

Matt looked startled, as though he’d expected her to thank him. “I’m telling you now because you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to go through with it. Look, I know you, Heather. And this isn’t you.”

She felt like she’d been socked in the stomach. “You think this is about you? About what happened?”

Matt sighed. She could tell he thought she was being difficult. “I’m just saying you don’t have to prove anything.”

A vibration went through Heather—tiny electrical pulses of anger. “Fuck off, Matt,” she said. By now, the people in the room were no longer pretending not to be listening. But she didn’t care.

“Heather—” He reached for her arm as she started to move past him.

She shook him off. “This was never about you.” That wasn’t, she realized, 100 percent true. She had entered—at least, she thought she had—out of a sense of desperation, a sense that her life was over when he dumped her. But she was playing for herself now, for herself and Lily; she was playing because she had made it this far; she was playing because if she won, it would be the first and only time she had ever won something in her life. “And you don’t know me. You never did.”

He let her go. She was hoping he would leave, now that he had come to say what he had to say, but he didn’t. He crossed his arms and leaned against the bathroom door, or the sheet of graffiti-printed plywood where the bathroom door should have been—the plumbing lines hadn’t been connected. Just for a second, she saw Matt Hepley and Ray Hanrahan exchange a glance. Almost imperceptibly, Matt gestured to him. Like, I did what I could.

She felt a twin surge of disgust and triumph. So now Ray was enlisting Matt’s help to get Heather to drop out. It was probably Ray who’d sent her that text in June telling her to quit Panic. He obviously thought she was a real threat.

And that made her feel powerful.

“What is this?” she said, gesturing with her chin to the gun. Her voice was overloud, and she was aware that everyone was watching her—Matt, Ray, Nat, Vivian, and all the rest of them. It was like a painting; and at the center, framed in light, was the gun.

“Russian roulette.” Diggin sounded almost apologetic. He added quickly, “You only have to pull the trigger once. Harold had to do it too.”

“But Harold didn’t do it.” Vivian spoke up. Her voice was deep and slow, and reminded Heather of warmer places. Places where it never rained.

She forced herself to meet Vivian’s eyes. “So Harold is out?”

Vivian shrugged. “Guess so.” She had one foot on the chair, knee up to her chest, and she fiddled unconcernedly with the necklace she was wearing. Heather could see her collarbones protruding from her tank top. Like baby bird bones. She had an image of Bishop kissing that spot and looked away.

So Harold was out. That left just four players.

“All right,” she said. She could hardly swallow. “All right,” she repeated. She knew she should get it over with, but her hands wouldn’t move from her sides. Nat was staring at her, horrified, as though Heather was already dead.

“Is it loaded?” someone asked.

“It’s loaded.” It was Ray who answered. “I checked.” But even he looked kind of queasy, and he wouldn’t meet Heather’s eyes.

Don’t be afraid, she told herself. But it had the opposite effect. She was rooted, paralyzed with fear. How many chambers were in a gun? What were her chances? She’d always been crap at things like that—probabilities.

She kept hearing her mom’s voice: Came home and found his brain splattered on the wall.…

She had no choice unless she wanted the game to end here, now. Then what would Lily do?

But what would happen to Lily if Heather blew her brains out?

She saw her hand leave her side and reach for the gun. Her hand looked pale and foreign, like some weird creature you’d find living in the ocean. Behind her, Nat gasped.

Suddenly the door flew open behind them, with such force that it banged hard against the wall. Everyone turned simultaneously, as though they were all puppets on the same string.

Dodge.

Heather felt immediately disappointed; she knew that deep down, she’d been hoping for Bishop.

“Hey,” she said. But Dodge didn’t answer. He just crossed the small space toward her, practically shoving Matt out of the way.

“It was you,” he said. His voice was low and full of spite.

Heather blinked. “What?”

“You told someone about the spiders,” he said. He glared at Natalie next. “Or you did.”

Ray snickered. Dodge ignored him.

“What are you talking about?” It had not occurred to Heather to wonder how the judges had known about Dodge’s fear of spiders. But now she did. How did they know about any of them? Her stomach tightened, and she was worried she might throw up.

“Neither of us said anything, Dodge, I promise.” That was Natalie.

Dodge stared at each of them in turn. Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and seized the gun. Several people gasped and Diggin actually ducked, like he expected Dodge to start firing.

“What are you doing?” Vivian said.

Dodge did something with the gun—opened the chamber, Heather thought, although his fingers moved so quickly, she couldn’t be sure. Then he replaced it on the table.

“I wanted to be sure it was loaded,” he announced. “Fair’s fair.” Now he wouldn’t look at Heather at all. He just crossed his arms and waited.

“Poor Dodge,” Ray said. He didn’t bother to stifle a laugh. “Afraid of itsy-bitsy spiders.”

“Your turn’s coming, Hanrahan,” Dodge said calmly. This made Ray stop laughing.

The room got quiet. Heather knew there would be no more interruptions. No more distractions. She felt as though someone had turned the lights up. It was too hot, too bright.

She took the gun. Heather heard Nat say, “Please.” Heather knew that everyone was still watching her, but she could make out no individual faces: everyone had been transformed into vague blobs, suggestions of color and angles. Even the table began to blur.

The only real thing was the gun: heavy and cold.

She fumbled a little to get her finger on the trigger. She couldn’t feel her body anymore from the waist down. Maybe this was what it was like to die: a slow numbing.

She placed the gun to her temple, felt the cool bite of metal on her skin, like a hollow mouth. This was what my father must have felt like, she thought.

She closed her eyes.

Nat screamed, “Don’t do it!” At the same time, a chair clattered to the floor and several voices called out at once.

She squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Heather opened her eyes. Instantly, the room was a roar of sound. People were on their feet, cheering. Heather was so weak with joy and relief she found she couldn’t hold on to the gun and let it fall to the floor. Then Natalie had rocketed into Heather’s arms. “Oh, Heather, oh, Heather,” she kept saying. “I’m so sorry.”