Panic by Lauren Oliver Read Free Book Online

Hepley’s brain to delicious, gooey cheese.”
    “Amen,” Heather said, and raised her arm.
    “Amen.” They pretended to clink.
    Heather stood up again and moved to the door. Dodge was still not back; she wondered what he was doing.
    “Do you think—” Heather took a deep breath. “Do you think anyone will ever love me?”
    “I love you,” Nat said. “Bishop loves you. Your mom loves you.” Heather made a face, and Nat said, “She does, Heathbar, in her own way. And Lily loves you too.”
    “You guys don’t count,” Heather said. Then, realizing how that sounded, she giggled. “No offense.”
    “None taken,” Nat said.
    After a pause, Heather said, “I love you, too, you know. I’d be a basket case without you. I mean it. I’d be carted off and, I don’t know, drawing aliens in my mashed potatoes by now.”
    “I know,” Nat said.
    Heather felt as if all the years of their lives together, their friendship, were welling up there, in the dark: the time they’d practiced kissing on Nat’s mom’s sofa cushions; the first time they’d ever smoked a cigarette and Heather had puked; all the secret texts in classes, fingers moving under the desk and behind their textbooks. All of it was hers, hers and Nat’s, and all those years were nestled inside them like one of those Russian dolls, holding dozens of tiny selves inside it.
    Heather turned to Nat, suddenly breathless.
    “Let’s split the money,” she blurted out.
    “What?” Nat blinked.
    “If one of us wins, let’s split it.” Heather realized, as soon as she said it, that she was right. “Fifty-fifty. Thirty grand can still buy a lot of gas, you know.”
    For a second, Nat just stared at her. Then she said, “All right. Fifty-fifty.” Nat laughed. “Should we shake on it? Or pinkie swear?”
    “I trust you,” Heather said.
    Dodge returned at last. “It’s clear,” he said.
    Heather and Dodge supported Nat between them, and together they made their way underneath the water towers and into the clearing that had so recently been packed with people. Now the only evidence of the crowd was the trash left behind: stamped-out cigarette butts and joints, crushed beer cans, towels, a few umbrellas. The truck was still parked in the mud, but its engine was cut. Heather imagined the cops would bring out a tow for it later. The quiet was strange, and the whole scene felt weirdly creepy. It made Heather think that everyone had been spirited away into thin air.
    Dodge gave a sudden shout. “Hold on a second,” he said, and left Nat leaning on Heather. He moved several feet away and scooped something up from the ground—a portable cooler. Heather saw, when he angled his cell phone light onto it, that it still contained ice and beer.
    “Jackpot,” Dodge said. He smiled for the first time all night.
    He took the cooler with them, and when they reached Route 22, made a makeshift ice pack for Nat’s ankle. There were three beers left, one for each of them, and they drank together on the side of the road, in the rain, while they waited for the bus to come. Nat got giggly after just a few sips, and she and Dodge joked about smoking a cigarette to make the bus come faster, and Heather knew she should be happy.
    But Bishop’s phone was still going straight to voice mail. Matt and Delaney were probably cozy and warm and dry somewhere together. And she kept remembering being high in the air, teetering on the flimsy wooden plank, and the itch in the soles of her feet, telling her to jump.

dodge
    DODGE NEVER SLEPT MORE THAN TWO OR THREE HOURS at a stretch. He didn’t like to admit it, but he had nightmares. He dreamed of long, chalky roads that ended abruptly, leaving him to drop; and sometimes, of a dank basement where he was contained, with a low, dark ceiling crawling with spiders.
    Plus, it was impossible to sleep past five a.m. once the garbage truck came rattling by on Meth Row. Impossible to nap, too, during the day, when the lunch crowd made a