Rage: A Love Story (6 page)

We race across the granite path, tossing off our shoes and shirts. I’m chasing Reeve to Fallon Falls. She’s agile and her small, angular body fits between the crevices as she slithers through the rocks to the river
.

I’m laughing, my hair whipped by the stiff wind, and I’m breathless from chasing her and being this close to catching her
.

“Reeve!” I call. “Wait up.”

“Hurry. The show is starting.”

Firecrackers from nowhere dazzle the sky. It’s night and the falls reflect the blue and red and gold, streaks of rainbow water cascading over the edge
.

Reeve ducks behind the falls, then splits the water, lifting her arms to take the power of the river. She cries out, “Ahweeeeeeeeee. Johanna, come and get me.”

I’m close, a hand touch away
.

Then the water sucks her up and she vanishes
.

• • •

By Thursday all seniors are supposed to have reconciled their student fees and fines and cleaned out their lockers. We were advised a month ago to pick up our graduation announcements. The list of graduating seniors is posted on the wall at the guidance center and we have to check the spelling of our names for our diplomas.

I stay home and think off to Reeve.

The ringing phone jolts me aware. Still tingling all over, I straggle out of bed, but I don’t get there in time. Novak leaves a message: “Johanna, where are you? I thought we were going to the senior picnic.”

That was today? I squint at the clock on the TV. 4:38, p.m.?

“Hey, lesbo. I miss you. Call me as soon as you get this. And, Dante and I are still planning to use your place tonight, right? Okay? Call me. You didn’t miss anything at the picnic. You had to bring your own meat, so I took Dante. Caw.”

Did Reeve go to the picnic?

I’m starving. If I go grocery shopping, I’ll have to write a
bad check. I’m not scheduled to work until Saturday, but I call Bling’s on a whim. Shondri says, “I got tonight covered.”

Figures.

She adds, “That new girl just quit on me, though, so I’ll need someone tomorrow night. Maybe all weekend.”

“Put me down,” I tell her. Yay. I get to eat.

Shondri says, “Is that more than thirty hours? I can’t pay you overtime.”

“I don’t care. I need the work.”

“We have to keep it under thirty hours, but plan to be here by four tomorrow and stay till closing.”

“You got it.”

She hangs on. What?

“You’re the most reliable kid I’ve ever known.” Shondri disconnects.

Wow. First of all, I’m not a kid. Second, what’s wrong with me that I stay and no one else does?

Novak falls into my arms at the door. “So wasted,” she slurs. Her breath exceeds the legal limit. Behind her, Dante smirks.

Detaching from Novak, I grab my bag off the chair and mumble, “Have fun.” I want to add, Don’t foul my sheets.

Dante says, “You don’t have to leave.”

“What?”

Novak teeters a moment, then flops onto the divan.

Dante raises an eyebrow.

What is he suggesting?

My eyes fix on Novak. She didn’t. She wouldn’t tell him. Dante doesn’t know I’m a lesbian. But that smirk on his face …

Ew
. Ickiness crawls under my skin.

I stomp out the door and down the stairs. Novak, how could you? I trusted you. And how could you sink so low? This one service project we did as juniors was going around to sixth- and seventh-grade girls, talking to them about the pressures they’ll face in high school, the perils of dating. Our group would do role-plays to show girls how to get out of risky situations. Novak was better at it than me, since she’d had experience. Her closing line was always, “No means no. Respect yourself. Protect yourself. Just. Say. No.”

In real life, how many times has Novak actually said no to guys, about anything?

All the way to Rainbow Alley, I think about it—her. Novak’s been dating since she was twelve; hard dating by middle school. I don’t know how many times she’s asked me to buy her pregnancy kits.

I’m still shuddering and feeling sort of tainted when I turn into the alley. Does he want, like, a three-way?

Do people actually do that?

Maybe they do.

I’m only looking for a one-way—a one-on-one way.

Fewer cars are parked in the lot, and no kissers or smokers occupy the fire escape. I take the metal stairs two at a time and hit the landing. Posters collage the door—an ad for an indie-band fest, a poetry slam. Music and voices seep into the night from inside. I pull the door open and step in. A bunch of people are sprawled on rugs and pillows in front of the TV—movie night? Robbie’s there, sitting on his case on the floor. If he’s here …

My heart pounds.

She’s lounging on a long couch, flipping through a zine. She doesn’t see me come in—or does she? She drops the zine on the floor and scoots to curl up against the armrest, hugging her knees.

Nameless girl sits down beside her. She says something to Reeve, smiles and laughs, and nudges Reeve a little on the shoulder. Reeve lashes out an arm, clubbing the girl in the face.

Geez
. What’d the girl say to her? Because Reeve definitely said NO.

The girl staggers to her feet and starts to cry. Reeve unfolds herself, springs upright, and embraces the girl. She places her hands on either side of the girl’s face and kisses her.

I don’t see that. It’s not real.

Reeve’s
mine
. She’s saving herself, her
best
self, for me.

I exit the way I came in, clomping down the stairs, tracing the route to my car. A roar in my ears drowns the static and I take off.

My head hurts. My heart hurts. She’s everything, everyone I want and need.

Why do I continue to allow myself to believe we’re a possibility?

Blindly, I drive into the school parking lot. I don’t hear the other car drive in, or the door open, or the footsteps. I don’t see it coming. My passenger door swings open and a guy climbs in beside me.

I have the presence of mind to scream.

T
he night swallows me whole as I fling my door open and am submerged in darkness. An SUV swerves into the lot and almost hits me. Brakes squeal. Or is that me, screaming? Headlights flood the interior of my Tercel and the guy gets out. He limps away.

Reeve springs from the SUV. “Who was that?”

I crush her in a hug. “God, if you hadn’t come …” My arms tighten around her.

She goes stiff and I loosen my grip.

“Who was it?” she says again.

“I don’t know. Some guy. He just got in my car.”

She searches my face. “I didn’t do anything with her,” she says.

“What?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

I’m shaken, confused. “I’m sorry.” I reach for her. “I mean, I’m glad.”

Her lips part and a shallow breath escapes. I’m still hyperventilating, so I draw in a deep breath and exhale hard.

Reeve is here. Close like this, she seems fragile, like a dragonfly.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Her eyes flit around the parking lot. “Saving your ass from getting raped?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thank you.”

We stand for a moment, looking at each other, into each other. Reeve saw my pain; she saw me run out, ran after me.

She says, “Did you know you were screaming?”

“Was I?”

“I’m deaf, aren’t I?”

I grin. She smiles.

She adds, “Why did you come here?”

I check out the lot. “I don’t know. It seemed like a safe place to go?”

She just looks at me. “You’re kind of weird, aren’t you?”

“Possibly.”

She tilts her head. “That’s a total turn-on for me.”

All the blood rushes to my face. Thank God it’s dark.

Her eyelids droop. They’re painted silver and gold tonight, dazzling and reflective in the moonlight. This night, and that moon, and Reeve.

“Do you have any Orbit?” she asks.

“Will you go out with me?” The words just belch from my brain.

She blinks. “Now?”

“No. I mean, sometime.”

“Why not now? Are you hungry?”

“Always.”

“You have a cell? We’ll call for pizza. Have it delivered here.”

My eyebrows arch. “To the parking lot?”

“Hey, it’s where you go,” she says.

God, she’s here, joking around with me. Flirting? I hate to admit I can’t afford a cell. “I have a better idea. Let’s go get a pizza.”

She doesn’t say yes or no. It’s a stupid idea. “Or—”

“You drive,” she says.

The closest pizza place I know is Montoni’s, three blocks from the school in this melting pot–ish neighborhood—Italian, Middle Eastern, Vietnamese. Our service club used to meet here.

“I’ve seen this place,” Reeve says as we pull to the curb. “I’ve never eaten here.”

“I have. It’s good.” I reach for the door handle and Reeve clenches my arm. “I want this to be the first,” she says. “For both of us.”

First what? Date? Orgasm?

“What about there?” Reeve points. “Have you eaten there?”

My eyes follow her finger across the street to the Ishtar Café and Hookah. “No.”

She takes off and I’m sucked into the wake of her comet tail.

The inside of the café is smoky, amber lamps diffusing the haze. There’s no hostess or wait staff in sight. Reeve chooses a booth by the lotto machine.

A waiter appears out of nowhere and drops off two menus. He says, “You want hookah?”

Reeve and I look at each other. “Sure,” we say together.

The waiter leaves.

Reeve picks up her menu and studies it for a moment. She catches me staring.

“What do you see?” she asks, lowering the menu.

The urge is strong, but I don’t jump the table between us. “Two eyes, a mouth, a nose.” Real poetic, Johanna. God, I’m freaking out here. I’m with Reeve Hartt on a date.

She smiles. A smile so tender and sad, I want to go to her, hold her, caress her face, kiss her lips, her eyes, nose, throat.

She resumes scanning the menu.

Something stops me from asking the same question of her. No doubt she sees a pathetic, desperate, freaking-out freak. The waiter sets a brass-and-glass urn or vase or goblet thing on the table and sprinkles these round, flat charcoals into a bowl. He lights the charcoal and says, “Shisha?”

Reeve and I go, “What?”

I giggle hysterically. She levels a stare at me.

The waiter says, “Eighteen?” pointing to me, then Reeve.

“Yeah. Do you need ID?” I ask.

He waves me off. “What flavor you like? Apple, melon, mint, cherry, banana, mix fruit …” He rattles off a dozen more.

Reeve looks at me and I shrug. We both say, “Cherry.”

I smile into my chest. She lets out a small laugh.

He opens a wooden box and selects a square package. Tobacco, I guess. We both watch intently as he fills bowls and assembles the hookah urn. Snaking out from either side are long, skinny hoses covered in braided cord.

The waiter picks up one pipe and mimes what we’re supposed to do. He hands me the hose, while Reeve takes the other. The waiter vanishes.

Reeve says, “It’s like a bong.”

There are mouthpieces at the ends of the pipes and Reeve inserts hers into her mouth. I copy. I suck a little and nothing happens.

I’ve smoked before with Novak. Not from a bong.

Reeve’s eyes rest on me. “Are you getting anything?”

“Dizzy.”

She cricks a lip. “Any smoke?”

“No. Are you?”

She shakes her head.

We must not be sucking hard enough, I figure. I try again and water bubbles in the clear globe of the urn. Smoke fills a chamber, and a second later I feel it on my tongue. A bite. It tastes like bark. Or burnt candy.

Reeve’s eyes widen.

Oh wow. This is nice.

I inhale and the smoke tickles my throat. It isn’t harsh, like cigarettes. Cool, I think. Warm. My muscles and bones and shoulders relax. Reeve closes her lids and inhales.

Her eyes are beautiful tonight. She looks like an angel. Or a water nymph. Provocative pastel eyes. She removes her mouthpiece and smiles.

That smile is total surrender.

“Oh, baby,” she says. “So fly.”

I’m soaring, all right. Is this legal?

The waiter comes to take our order and we both quickly scan the menu again. I don’t know what most of this stuff is. Hummus, I’ve heard of. Reeve says to the waiter, “Number nine?”

I close my menu. “Same.” The waiter leaves.

Reeve picks up her pipe. “Nine’s my lucky number.”

“Yeah? I’ll remember that.” We both inhale. Breathing out my last knot of nervousness, I ask, “Why?”

Reeve holds the cherry smoke in her lungs, then expresses a long, visible stream of breath. “That’s how many girls I’ve fucked.”

The shock registers only slightly, in my conscious brain. I suck in on the hookah extra hard, filling my chest cavity.

Reeve lowers her pipe. “What do you see now?”

Defiance? Daring? For a moment, though, she lets down her guard. “Two eyes, a nose, a mouth.”

Reeve looks away.

“I see nine girls who didn’t know what hit them.”

A smile curls her lips. “You got that right.”

I wave my pipe in the air. “Hookah!” I say.

She laughs, this silky, serpentine laugh that ribbons down my throat.

The waiter sets two football-sized plates in front of us filled with skewered meat and rice and globs of purplish goo. He uncovers a basket of pita bread.

Reeve sets her pipe beside her plate. “I hope you’re paying,” she says. “I don’t have any money.”

“I asked
you
out, didn’t I?”

She spreads her napkin in her lap. “Thanks,” she says. “Seriously.”

“Hey, you saved my life. It’s the least I can do.”

She picks up her skewer of meat and sniffs, then nibbles the tip.

The meat is both chewy and tender. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to just eat it off the stick, but that’s how Reeve’s doing it, so I do too. It’s good.

We eat in silence for a minute, testing everything. Reeve says, “So what are the best and worst moments you’ve had in high school and how has each changed your life?” She dips her skewered meat into the purply gunk. “For extra credit, who gives a shit?”

“Really.” Not me. Not now.

Reeve says, “Since you’re having difficulty nailing it, I’ll go first. Best moment? The day my dad left. Worst moment? The day my dad left.”

I feel my forehead furrow.

“He’s not the biggest asshole in the world.” She lifts her pipe. Her hand is trembling a little when she adds, “There’s always someone worse. At the time, you can’t imagine who …”

We’ve spiraled into this deep discussion without warning. The urge to reach across and take her hand is overpowering, but my reflexes are slow and my arm won’t move.

“Do you have one?” she asks. “Let me rephrase that. Is there an asshole in your life?” She blows out smoke.

My first thought is Dante, but he’s
not
in my life. Then the door opens and a guy staggers in. His rheumy eyes graze the booths and glue on me. My stomach lurches. It’s the guy who got in my car.

“You don’t have to answer,” Reeve says.

“No, I …” He slumps onto a barstool, turning his back to me.

I refocus on Reeve. “My dad is dead. When he was alive, he wasn’t an asshole.”

Reeve concentrates on my face. “How’d he die?”

“Parkinson’s. Pneumonia, actually. He was older.”

Reeve asks, “Well, is your mom a bitch at least?”

My eyes fall. “She’s dead too. I live alone.”

“How?”

“Cancer. She was—”

“How do you live alone?”

I look up. What does she mean? Like, how do I manage?

“Never mind,” she says. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“What?”

She’s scooting out of the booth.

“Reeve—”

“I left Robbie all alone.”

“Reeve!” I throw down my skewer. Scrambling to move, I snag my bag and slide out of the booth.

I have to dodge a drunk woman who stumbles off her barstool, then stop at the door because … we haven’t paid.

I don’t have any cash on me, and my checkbook’s at home.

Reeve slips out as a man and woman come in. I insert myself between them to follow her. The guilt will gnaw at me later. I can come by tomorrow and pay. I will. But now—

She vanishes in the night. The sidewalk is empty, the street deserted. “Reeve!”

Her slim figure zips between parked cars across the street and I dash after her. The sharp night air is sobering.

My legs are longer and she isn’t running very fast, so I catch her and spin her around. She shoves me. She pushes me so hard I fall on the asphalt, crunching my tailbone.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t come any closer.” Her voice sounds threatening. “I mean it.”

I push to my feet, slowly. “Reeve, I …”

She backs up a step, then turns and flees. Over her shoulder, she yells, “Don’t follow me!”

My heart screams, Go after her! Don’t let her go! But my head rules. It always has.

I drag to my car and sit inside, stunned. My butt hurts. What just happened? What did I say, or do?

And what’s that on my windshield? I open the door and get out to remove the paper from under my wiper blade. A fifty-dollar ticket for a busted headlight.

Fuck. Can I just catch
one
break?