All the Rage(18)

I fall into a hazy sleep that feels like a second by the time I jerk awake, drool all down my chin, but I know it must have been longer than that. I wipe my mouth and check the time on my phone. Five minutes before the bell and it’s too quiet. That’s the first thing I notice. It’s too quiet. This should be the mad rush before third period, halls congested with students trying not to get to their next class too early or too late. But it’s not.

I get to my feet and walk until a murmured frenzy reaches my ears and guides me toward the front of the school. Two girls hurry past and when they see me, they explode into giggles that tell me they know. They know what it is.

Two giggling girls.

A dull, warning ache.

This is what comes next:

Jane. It’s so funny, what’s been done to her. It’s funny that her cheerleading outfit is in a crumpled heap at her feet, exposing her body, all those years of wear and tear to anyone who wants to look, except for this small allowance of modesty— She’s wearing my bra.

My vision tunnels. I step back until the dark edges fade, allowing me to see more of this thing I don’t want to see.

The red.

They’ve painted her nails and her lips red.

Her mouth is a perfect, startled O.

John’s hands are raised triumphantly over his head.

My underwear is draped over his fingers.





i hide behind a nearby locker row and watch Coach Prewitt chase away the crowd until the bell rings. Stragglers amble by after that, braving her wrath, hoping for a glimpse of the show even though nothing they see will be as good as the retelling.

When the hall is completely empty, Prewitt redresses Jane carefully, shaking her head and muttering to herself. Stupid goddamn kids. My bra and underwear are clutched in her hands. She contemplates them a moment, then, disgusted, shoves them into a nearby garbage can and leaves. I wait until I’m sure I’m alone and then I go to her. Jane.

I hold my hands out next to hers and exhale. This close, I can see a subtle difference in shade. Off by degrees. That’s not my red. It’s some other girl’s. Problem is, far enough away, it’s easy to mistake for mine. I have to make sure no one else does. I bring my fingers to Jane’s mouth. Marker. Permanent. The nails too.

But I can get rid of this.

I pick at the surface of her “skin” until it starts to flake. The circle around Jane’s lips goes slow. The outer layer is weirdly stubborn. I want to talk to her, ask her how she’s doing because it feels like she’s real and I’m not. You okay, Jane? No, nobody saw. But if they did, it doesn’t matter. Whatever, you know? Fuck them.

It takes a bit of elbow grease until the red O is gone except it makes it worse somehow—what’s left behind is a white stain. I work on her right hand, chipping the polish off her fingernails carefully, to preserve my own. Pieces of her get under my thumbnail, make me hiss and wince, but I keep going until there’s no red on her anymore and then—I’m done. I step back and stare at her and I know who she’s not.

I go to the garbage and my hand is almost in it before I realize what I’m doing and it’s that exact moment I feel eyes on me.

Penny’s at the end of the hall. Her face is blank, but there can’t be a single part of her not enjoying this and I wonder how long she’s been there, if she saw it all. I try to think back, try to pick her out of a crowd of blurred faces, but I can’t. It doesn’t matter. She knew it would happen. She let it happen.

I’m not allowed to leave? but they can’t expect me to stay. I walk out of school, scratching at my arms until angry finger marks flare on my skin and slowly disappear. By the time the house is in sight, I remember my bike but I’m not going back to get it.

The front door is locked, even though the New Yorker is in the driveway. I knock, just to test it, and no one’s home but I have a key for the house because it’s my house now.

I have a key for the car too. Emergencies only.

This feels like it could be one.

I stand in the sun porch and the quiet pulls at me, and different parts of me want different things. There’s the part of me that wants to go inside and sleep. There’s the part of me that wants space, distance, because it all feels too close.

The part of me that wants to go is louder.

And then I’m in Todd’s car, I’m in it and it’s on and then I’m outside of Grebe, twisting along back roads so deserted it doesn’t even matter which side I drive on. I forgot how it felt to push foot to pedal, to go fast, fast, faster and break, watching the tires kick up dust in the rearview. I learned to drive when I was fourteen. My mom took me to an abandoned lot out of town and showed me in case there was an emergency and my father was too drunk to get behind the wheel, like we lived in a world where help could never come to us. It wasn’t long after when I discovered my father was the emergency. Mom saw it coming, what I didn’t. She finally got a steady cleaning job and started working nights and he’d get so wasted, just drink the house dry and still be thirsty after and what do you do when you’re thirsty? Get more to drink. Couldn’t walk straight but sure he could drive and hell, no he wouldn’t call a taxi and you can’t call the cops on your dad because—you can’t. So you beg him to wait until it’s dark out and the streets are empty and you take him yourself and you never get caught.