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.”
People had started buzzing, giggling nervously, shifting. Now the stillness was replaced with an electric energy. And as Nat took one halting step toward the gate, and then another, the tigers, too, stood up—twisting onto their feet, stretching, yawning their enormous jaws so their teeth glistened in the floodlight—as though they had decided to perform.
Nat paused with a hand on the gate. Then her other hand. Then both hands. Her mouth was moving, and Heather wondered if she was counting or praying, whether for Nat they were the same thing. Dwarfed by the gate, silhouetted against the sharp, unnatural light, she looked unreal, one-dimensional, like a cardboard cutout.
“You don’t have to do it.” Dodge’s voice was loud, and so unexpected that everyone turned to stare. Nat turned too, and Heather saw her frown.
Then she pulled open the gate and stepped inside.
“Start the timer,” Heather cried out. She saw Diggin fumbling for his phone. “Now.”