Panic

Page 32

After Lily ate, Heather brought her into the den: a big, dark room that still bore the mark of Anne’s late husband—beat-up leather couches and mohair blankets and carpet that smelled a little like wet dog. Here it was a little cooler, although the leather stuck uncomfortably to Heather’s thighs when she sat down.
“I need you to promise me that you won’t come outside,” Heather said. “There will be people. And you might hear noises. But you have to stay right here, where it’s safe. Promise me.”
Lily frowned. “Does Anne know?” she asked.
That guilty feeling rode a wave up into Heather’s throat. She shook her head. “And she won’t,” she said.
Lily picked at a bit of stuffing that had begun to poke out of the couch. She was silent for a second. Heather wished, suddenly, she could take Lily into her arms and squeeze her, tell her everything—how scared she was, how she didn’t know what would happen to either of them.
“This is about Panic, isn’t it?” Lily said. She looked up. Her face was expressionless, her eyes flat. They reminded Heather of the tigers’ eyes: ancient, all-seeing.
Heather knew there was no point in lying. So she said, “It’s almost over.”
Lily didn’t move when Heather kissed her head, which smelled like grass and sweat. The leather released Heather’s skin with a sharp sucking sound. She put on a DVD about a zoo, which Lily had requested—another gift from Anne.
Anne, Heather knew, was a good person. The best person Heather had ever met. So what did that make Heather?
She was at the door when Lily spoke up. “Are you going to win?”
Heather turned around to her. She’d left the lights off, so it would stay cool, and Lily’s face was in shadow.
Heather tried to smile. “I’m already winning,” she lied, and closed the door behind her.
The haze of the sky, milk white and scorched, at last turned to dark; and the trees impaled the sun, and all the light broke apart. Then they came: quietly, tires moving almost soundlessly on the dirt, headlights bouncing like overgrown fireflies through the woods.
There was no thudding music, no shouting. Everyone was on alert for cops.
Heather stood outside, waiting. The dogs were going crazy; she kept feeding them treats, trying to get them to shut up. She knew there were no neighbors around for miles, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone would hear—that Anne would know, somehow, be summoned back to the house by the barking.
Nat had still not come down.
Heather had fed the tigers more than double their normal amount. Now, as the last light drained from the sky, and the stars began to pulse through the liquid haze of heat, they were lying on their sides, seemingly asleep and indifferent to all the cars. Heather prayed they would stay that way—that Nat could do whatever she needed to do, and get out.
Car after car: Diggin, Ray Hanrahan, even some of the players who’d been eliminated early, like Cory Walsh and Ellie Hayes; Mindy Kramer and a bunch of her dance team friends, still dressed in bikinis and cutoffs and bare feet, like they’d just come from the beach; Zev Keller, eyes red-rimmed and liquid, obviously drunk, with two friends Heather didn’t recognize; people she hadn’t seen since the challenge at the water tower. Matt Hepley, too, and Delaney. He walked right by Heather, pretending she didn’t exist. She found she didn’t care.
They drifted across the yard and gathered around the tigers’ pen, silent, disbelieving. Flashlights clicked on as it got darker; the floodlights on the barn, motion-detected, came on too, illuminating the tigers, sleeping almost side by side, so still they might have been statues, held in a flat palm of earth.
“I don’t believe it,” someone whispered.
“No fucking way.”
But there they were: no matter how many times you blinked or looked away. Tigers. A bit of a miracle, a circus-wonder, right there on the grass under the Carp trees and the Carp sky.
Heather was relieved to see Dodge arrive on his bicycle. She still hadn’t had a chance to thank him in person for what he’d done.
Almost immediately, he asked, “Is Bishop here?”
She shook her head. He made a face.
“Dodge,” she said. “I wanted to say—”
“Don’t.” He put a hand on her arm, and squeezed gently. “Not yet.”
She didn’t know exactly what he meant. She wondered, for the first time, what Dodge was planning to do this fall, and whether he would remain in Carp, or whether he had plans for a job somewhere—or even college. She’d never paid any attention to how he did in school.
Suddenly the thought of Dodge leaving made her sad. They were friends, or something like it that was close enough.
It struck her how sad it was that all of them—the kids standing here, her classmates and friends and even the people she’d hated—had grown up on top of one another like small animals in a too-small cage, and now would simply scatter. And that would be the end of that. Everything that had happened—those stupid school dances and basement after-parties, football games, days of rain that lulled them all to sleep in math class, summers swimming at the creek and stealing sodas from the coolers at the back of the 7-Eleven, even now, this, Panic—would be sucked away into memory and vapor, as though it hadn’t even happened at all.
“Where’s Natalie?” That was Diggin. He was speaking softly, as if afraid to wake the tigers. Hardly anyone made a sound. They were all still transfixed by the sight of those dreamlike creatures, stretched long on the ground like shadows.
“I’ll get her,” Heather said. She was grateful to have an excuse to go into the house, even for a moment. What she was doing, what she was helping Nat do, was too horrible. She thought of Anne’s face, her smile pulling her eyes into a squint. She’d never felt so much like a criminal, not even when she’d taken her mom’s car and run away.
Another car was arriving, and she knew from the spitting and hissing of its engine that it was Bishop. She was right. Just as she reached the front door, he climbed out of his car and spotted her.
“Heather!” Even though he wasn’t shouting, his voice seemed to her like a slap in the silence.
She ignored him. She stepped into the kitchen and found Natalie sitting at the table, eyes red. There was a shot glass in front of her, and a bottle of whiskey.
“Where’d you get that?” Heather asked.
“In the pantry.” Nat didn’t even look up. “I’m sorry. I only had a sip, though.” She made a face. “It’s awful.”
“It’s time,” Heather said.
Nat nodded and stood up. She was wearing denim shorts and no shoes; her hair was still wet from the shower. Heather knew that if Nat weren’t so afraid, she would have insisted on putting on makeup, on doing her hair. Heather thought Nat had never looked so beautiful. Her fierce and fearful friend—who loved country music and cherry Pop Tarts and singing in public and the color pink, who was terrified of germs and dogs and ladders.
“I love you, Nat,” Heather said on impulse.
Nat looked startled, as though she’d already forgotten Heather was there. “You, too, Heathbar,” she said. She managed a small smile. “I’m ready.”
Bishop was standing a little ways from the house, pacing, bringing his fingers up to his lips and down again as though he were smoking an invisible cigarette. As Nat moved into the crowd, he caught up with Heather.
“Please.” His voice was hoarse. “We need to talk.”
“This is kind of a bad time.” Her voice came out harsher, more sarcastic, than she’d intended. It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Vivian, and she wondered whether Bishop had begged her not to come. Please, babe. Just until I can patch things up with Heather. She’s jealous, you know . . . she always had a thing for me. The thought made her throat knot up, and a part of her just wanted to tell Bishop to fuck off.
Then there was the part of her that wanted to put her arms around his neck and feel his laughter humming through his chest, feel the wild tangle of his hair on her face. Instead she crossed her arms, as if she could press the feeling down.
“I need to tell you something.” Bishop licked his lips. He looked awful. His face was sickly, different shades of yellow and green, and he was too skinny. “It’s important.”
“Later, okay?” Before he could protest, she moved past him. Natalie had reached the fence, closer to the tigers than she had ever allowed herself to go. Unconsciously, the crowd had backed off a little, so she was surrounded by a halo of negative space—like she was contaminated with something contagious.
Heather jogged over to her. Now the dogs started up again, shattering the stillness, and Heather hushed them sharply as she passed the kennel. She pushed easily through the crowd and stepped into Nat’s open circle, feeling as if she were trespassing.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here.” But Nat didn’t seem to hear her.
“The rules are simple,” Diggin said. Even though he was speaking at a normal volume, to Heather it sounded like he was shouting. She began praying the tigers wouldn’t wake up. They still hadn’t even lifted their heads. She noticed a bit of the steak she’d given them earlier was still untouched, buzzing with flies, and couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. “You go into the pen, you stand with the tigers for ten seconds, you get out.” He emphasized this last part just slightly.
“How close?” Nat said.
“What?”
“How close do I have to get?” she asked, turning to him.
Diggin shrugged. “Just inside, I guess.”
Nat pushed out a small breath. Heather smiled at her encouragingly, even though she felt like her skin was made of clay about to crack. But if the tigers slept, Nat would have no problem. They were a full forty feet away from the gate. Nat wouldn’t even have to go near them.
“I’ll time you,” Diggin said. Then: “Who has the key to the gate?”
“I do.” Heather stepped forward. She heard a slight rustle, as everyone turned to stare at her; she felt the heat of all those eyes on her skin. The air was leaden, totally still.
Heather fumbled in her pocket for the key to the padlock. Nat’s breathing was rapid and shallow, like an injured animal’s. For a second, Heather couldn’t feel the key and didn’t know whether to be relieved; then her fingers closed around metal.
In the silence and the stillness, the click of the padlock seemed as loud as a rifle report. She unlooped the heavy chain carefully and laid it on the ground, then slid the metal latches back, one by one, desperately trying to stall, trying to give Nat a few more seconds.
As the final latch clanged open, both tigers lifted their heads in unison, as though sensing that something was coming.
The whole group inhaled as one. Nat let out a whimper.
“It’s okay,” Heather told her, gripping Nat by the shoulders. She could feel Nat trembling under her hands. “Ten seconds. You just have to step inside the gate. It’ll be done before you know it.”