In the distance, sirens began to wail. The show stopped abruptly: ghostly fingers of smoke crept silently across the sky. At last Nat stopped running. Whipping around to face Heather and Bishop, she said, “What? What is it?”
Heather shivered, even though it wasn’t cold. The air smelled like smoke, and the wail of the fire trucks cut through her head, sharp and hot.
“It’s the next challenge,” she said. “It’s Panic.”
It was just after eleven p.m. by the time Bishop dropped Heather off in front of the trailer. Now she wished she hadn’t had the beer—she felt exhausted. Bishop had been quiet since Natalie got out of the car.
Now he turned to her and said, abruptly, “I still think you should quit, you know.”
Heather pretended not to know what he was talking about. “Quit what?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Bishop rubbed his forehead. The light shining into the car from the porch lit up his profile: the straight slope of his nose, the set of his jaw. Heather realized that he really wasn’t a boy anymore. Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, he had become a guy—tall and strong, with a stubborn chin and a girlfriend and opinions she didn’t share. She felt an ache in her stomach, a sense of loss and a sense of wanting. “The game’s just going to get more dangerous, Heather. I don’t want you to get hurt. I’d never forgive myself if . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.
Heather thought of that awful text message she’d received. Quit now, before you get hurt. Anger sparked in her chest. Why the hell was everyone trying to make sure she didn’t compete? “I thought you were rooting for me.”
“I am.” Bishop turned to face her. They were very close together in the dark. “Just not like that.”
For a second, they continued staring at each other. His eyes were dark moons. His lips were a few inches away from hers. Heather realized that she was still thinking about kissing him.
“Good night, Bishop,” she said, and got out of the car.
Inside, the TV was on. Krista and Bo were lying on the couch, watching an old black-and-white movie. Bo was shirtless, and Krista was smoking. The coffee table was packed with empty beer bottles—Heather counted ten of them.
“Heya, Heather Lynn.” Krista stubbed out her cigarette. She missed the ashtray on her first try. She was glassy-eyed. Heather could barely look at her. She better not have been messed up and driving with Lily in the car; Heather would kill her. “Where you been?”
“Nowhere,” Heather said. She knew her mom didn’t really care. “Where’s Lily?”
“Sleeping.” Krista stuck a hand down her shirt, scratching. She kept her eyes on the TV. “Big day. We saw fireworks.”
“Piss-packed with people,” Bo put in. “There was a line for the goddamn porta-potties.”
“I’m going to sleep,” Heather said. She didn’t bother trying to be nice; Krista was too drunk to lecture her. “Keep the TV down, okay?”
She had trouble getting the door to the bedroom open; she realized that Lily had balled up one of her sweatshirts and shoved it in the crack between the door and the warped floorboards, to help keep out the noise and the smoke. Heather had taught her that trick. It was hot in the room, even though the window was open and a small portable fan was whirring rhythmically on the dresser.
She didn’t turn on the light. There was a little moonlight coming through the window, and she could have navigated the room by touch, anyway. She undressed, piling her clothes on the floor, and climbed into bed, pushing her blankets all the way to the footboard, using only the sheet as cover.
She had assumed Lily was sleeping, but suddenly she heard rustling from the other twin bed.
“Heather?” she whispered.
“Uh-huh?”
“Can you tell me a story?”
“What kind of story?”
“A happy kind.”
It had been a long time since Lily had asked for a story. Now Heather told a version of one of her favorites, “The Twelve Dancing Princesses,” except instead of princesses, she made the girls normal sisters, who lived in a falling-down castle with a queen and king too vain and stupid to look after them. But then they found a trapdoor that led down to a secret world, where they were princesses, and where everyone fawned over them.
By the time she was done, Lily was breathing slowly, deeply. Heather rolled over and closed her eyes.
“Heather?”
Lily’s voice was thick with sleep. Heather opened her eyes again, surprised.
“You should be sleeping, Billy.”
“Are you going to die?”
The question was so unexpected, Heather didn’t answer for a few seconds. “Of course not, Lily,” she said sharply.
Lily’s face was half mashed into her pillow. “Kyla Anderson says you’re going to die. Because of Panic.”
Heather felt a current of fear go through her—fear, and something else, something deeper and more painful. “How did you hear about Panic?” she asked.
Lily mumbled something. Heather prompted her again. “Who told you about Panic, Lily?” she asked.
But Lily was asleep.