gaping audience.
Mike Dickinson came next, along with two friends, all of them visibly drunk. The Dickâs hair had started to thin, and patches of his scalp were visible when he bent down to deposit his cooler on the beach. His friends were carrying a half-rotted lifeguard chair between them: the throne, where Diggin, the announcer, would sit during the event.
Dodge heard a high whine. He smacked unthinkingly, catching the mosquito just as it started to feed, smearing a bit of black on his bare calf. He hated mosquitoes. Spiders, too, although he liked other insects, found them fascinating. Like humans, in a wayâstupid and sometimes vicious, blinded by need.
The sky was deepening; the light was fading and so were the colors, swirling away behind the line of trees beyond the ridge, as though someone had pulled the plug.
Heather Nill was next on the beach, followed by Nat Velez, and lastly, Bishop Marks, trotting happily after them like an overgrown sheepdog. Even from a distance, Dodge could tell both girls were on edge. Heather had done something with her hair. He wasnât sure what, but it wasnât wrestled into its usual ponytail, and it even looked like she might have straightened it. And he wasnât sure, but he thought she might be wearing makeup.
He debated getting up and going over to say hi. Heather was cool. He liked how tall she was, how tough, too, in her own way. He liked her broad shoulders and the way she walked, straight-backed, even though he was sure she would have liked to be a few inches shorterâcould tell from the way she wore only flats and sneakers with worn-down soles.
But if he got up, heâd have to talk to Natalieâand even looking at Nat from across the beach made his stomach seize up, like heâd been kicked. Nat wasnât exactly mean to himânot like some of the other kids at schoolâbut she wasnât exactly nice, either, and that bothered him more than anything else. She usually smiled vaguely when she caught him talking to Heather, and as her eyes skated past him, through him, he knew that she would never, ever, actually look at him. Once, at the homecoming bonfire last year, sheâd even called him Dave.
Heâd gone just because he was hoping to see her. And then, in the crowd, he had spotted her; had moved toward her, buzzed from the noise and the heat and the shot of whiskey heâd taken in the parking lot, intending to talk to her, really talk to her, for the first time. Just as he was reaching out to touch her elbow, she had taken a step backward, onto his foot.
âOops! Sorry, Dave,â sheâd said, giggling. Her breath smelled like vanilla and vodka. And his stomach had opened up, and his guts went straight onto his shoes.
There were only 107 people in their graduating class, out of the 150 whoâd started at Carp High freshman year. And she didnât even know his name.
So he stayed where he was, working his toes into the ground, waiting for the dark, waiting for the whistle to blow and for the games to begin.
He was going to win Panic.
He was going to do it for Dayna.
He was going to do it for revenge.
BEFORE
MARCH 27
Nick
âWant to play?â
These are the three words Iâve heard most often in my life. Want to play? As four-year-old Dara bursts through the screen door, arms extended, flying into the green of our front yard without waiting for me to answer. Want to play? As six-year-old Dara slips into my bed in the middle of the night, her eyes wide and touched with moonlight, her damp hair smelling like strawberry shampoo. Want to play? Eight-year-old Dara chiming the bell on her bike; ten-year-old Dara fanning cards across the damp pool deck; twelve-year-old Dara spinning an empty soda bottle by the neck.
Sixteen-year-old Dara doesnât wait for me to answer, either. âScoot over,â she says, bumping her best friend Arianaâs thigh with her knee. âMy sister wants to
Mike Dickinson came next, along with two friends, all of them visibly drunk. The Dickâs hair had started to thin, and patches of his scalp were visible when he bent down to deposit his cooler on the beach. His friends were carrying a half-rotted lifeguard chair between them: the throne, where Diggin, the announcer, would sit during the event.
Dodge heard a high whine. He smacked unthinkingly, catching the mosquito just as it started to feed, smearing a bit of black on his bare calf. He hated mosquitoes. Spiders, too, although he liked other insects, found them fascinating. Like humans, in a wayâstupid and sometimes vicious, blinded by need.
The sky was deepening; the light was fading and so were the colors, swirling away behind the line of trees beyond the ridge, as though someone had pulled the plug.
Heather Nill was next on the beach, followed by Nat Velez, and lastly, Bishop Marks, trotting happily after them like an overgrown sheepdog. Even from a distance, Dodge could tell both girls were on edge. Heather had done something with her hair. He wasnât sure what, but it wasnât wrestled into its usual ponytail, and it even looked like she might have straightened it. And he wasnât sure, but he thought she might be wearing makeup.
He debated getting up and going over to say hi. Heather was cool. He liked how tall she was, how tough, too, in her own way. He liked her broad shoulders and the way she walked, straight-backed, even though he was sure she would have liked to be a few inches shorterâcould tell from the way she wore only flats and sneakers with worn-down soles.
But if he got up, heâd have to talk to Natalieâand even looking at Nat from across the beach made his stomach seize up, like heâd been kicked. Nat wasnât exactly mean to himânot like some of the other kids at schoolâbut she wasnât exactly nice, either, and that bothered him more than anything else. She usually smiled vaguely when she caught him talking to Heather, and as her eyes skated past him, through him, he knew that she would never, ever, actually look at him. Once, at the homecoming bonfire last year, sheâd even called him Dave.
Heâd gone just because he was hoping to see her. And then, in the crowd, he had spotted her; had moved toward her, buzzed from the noise and the heat and the shot of whiskey heâd taken in the parking lot, intending to talk to her, really talk to her, for the first time. Just as he was reaching out to touch her elbow, she had taken a step backward, onto his foot.
âOops! Sorry, Dave,â sheâd said, giggling. Her breath smelled like vanilla and vodka. And his stomach had opened up, and his guts went straight onto his shoes.
There were only 107 people in their graduating class, out of the 150 whoâd started at Carp High freshman year. And she didnât even know his name.
So he stayed where he was, working his toes into the ground, waiting for the dark, waiting for the whistle to blow and for the games to begin.
He was going to win Panic.
He was going to do it for Dayna.
He was going to do it for revenge.
BEFORE
MARCH 27
Nick
âWant to play?â
These are the three words Iâve heard most often in my life. Want to play? As four-year-old Dara bursts through the screen door, arms extended, flying into the green of our front yard without waiting for me to answer. Want to play? As six-year-old Dara slips into my bed in the middle of the night, her eyes wide and touched with moonlight, her damp hair smelling like strawberry shampoo. Want to play? Eight-year-old Dara chiming the bell on her bike; ten-year-old Dara fanning cards across the damp pool deck; twelve-year-old Dara spinning an empty soda bottle by the neck.
Sixteen-year-old Dara doesnât wait for me to answer, either. âScoot over,â she says, bumping her best friend Arianaâs thigh with her knee. âMy sister wants to
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