I sit in the Crossfire for two or three minutes, swooning, scared to crank the ignition. Plus, I don’t know where to go. The hospice? The tweenie town mall? What a waste of a hot car.
Slowly, carefully, I shift into first and inch away from the curb. I drive around the neighborhood, getting used to the gears, the feel of the clutch and brake. The Crossfire was Novak’s eighteenth-birthday present from her parents. My parents didn’t quite make it to mine. The interior is white leather, no backseat. Too cramped for sex. But there’s an MP3 player, GPS, OnStar.
Mickey D’s is all lit up, a queue of cars at the drive-thru, honking and flashing their lights. Someone moons out the top of a convertible.
I idle at a red light, accidentally gunning the engine. A guy hollers, “Novak, you cunt! Suck my bone!”
I auto the window down and flip him the bird. Guys are so … typical.
An idea springs loose and I zip into the far-left lane, gunning for the Interstate.
I only know about Rainbow Alley from a flyer in film class. The Gay/Straight Alliance was hyping this horror-movie night at Rainbow Alley. I was too gutless to join the GSA, mostly because I knew Reeve was in it. Reeve and the other LBDs. Those girls, their tribal unity, intimidate me. Reeve doesn’t just scare me. She terrifies me. It gets worse every day, this smoldering want, my crushing need. I think I’ve been in love with Reeve Hartt since the first time I saw her.
Why can’t I just approach her, talk to her? The ache I feel every time I see her. It’s killing me.
In downtown Denver, I drive past 1050 Broadway three times. No neon pink triangles or flashing rainbow flags. But there is an actual alley behind the building, so I veer into it.
Suddenly, the night opens up like Narnia. Lights glow, music blares.
Two people come racing down the alley, one squealing, the other chasing her with a pump water gun. They run in front of me and the guy with the gun thunks on the hood of the Crossfire.
“Hey!”
“Sorry.” He holds the water gun over his head and sticks his face in my open window. “Tight wheels.”
“Thanks.”
He streaks off again.
I take a deep breath. Okay, I can do this. Now or never? Now.
Cars and SUVs hog the cramped parking lot. The back door to the two-story building is propped open with a chair, and voices and music float out. On the fire escape stairs, a couple of girls are cuddling and kissing.
Can I do this?
Yes! Dammit.
I lick my dry lips. Will I see her?
The door to the Crossfire opens and my legs swing out. The girl from the chase-down says, “Bitchin’ car.” Her shirt’s soaked.
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s not mine.”
Her eyes waffle. “You jacked it?”
I stare at her nipples. “It’s a friend’s.”
She eyes the interior over my shoulder. “Bitchin’ friend. Introduce me.”
I laugh, and so does she. She’s a boy dyke, or whatever, with a shaved head and hairy legs. Not really my type, but what is my type? I have only one: Reeve Hartt.
“You here for the karaoke?” she asks.
“Um… I guess.”
“Starts soon. I’m Tiffany.” She extends her hand. “T.”
“Johanna,” I say, shaking it. She holds my hand longer than a simple greeting requires. Testing, feeling out the possibilities.
I loosen my grip.
T sighs and says, “Come if you’re coming.”
Am I? The lock on the car door clicks. I guess I’m coming.
The kissers on the stairs part to let us through. They nod at Tiffany and check me out. What do they see?
Tall girl, broad shoulders, average weight, longish, straight hair, tight jeans, sleeveless shirt. Converses. God, I should’ve dressed more sexy. I should’ve put on makeup.
T slows at the top of the stairs and leans against the door to let me pass. She checks me out the whole way. My eyes avoid hers as they soak up the scene.
A rectangular room, painted all different colors, a mural on the far wall. I can read the letters: PRIDE. There are two long couches and armchairs, people lounging. A girl sitting on a boy’s lap. A guy fiddling with a microphone in the center of the room puts his mouth to it and says, “Pick up. Shut up.” People begin to claim folding chairs and scrape them around to sit closer to the karaoke machine.
T touches my back. “See you,” she says, and takes off.
People are talking and laughing, flipping through the karaoke notebooks. Reeve materializes out of the mural. She’s playing pool with two other girls behind a beaded curtain.
She bends over to line up her shot and I can see clear down her halter. One of the girls with her I know from school. Brittny? Britt? She and Reeve were together last year, then they weren’t.
Someone nudges me and I gulp a can of air.
“In or out?”
A kinetic surge draws me in, toward her. I stall under a string of twinkling lights.
I can’t see if Reeve makes her shot. Her eye makeup tonight is dark and heavy. She’s intense. Guarded.
Britt saws her cue stick back and forth over her hand three, four times, and strikes the white ball. It smacks one of the striped balls, sending it careering into a side hole. Britt whoops.
Reeve’s expression doesn’t alter, even when she glances up and catches my eye. Or does it?
Does she recognize me? She circles the table, her back to me, and lines up her next shot.
She turns slowly toward me. Her eyes, they drink me up. She closes the distance between us and asks, her voice low and sultry, “Do you play?”
I smile. “I never have,” I say.
She knows the truth when she hears it. “Do you want to learn?”
My smile widens. “I do.”
I sweat and shiver at the same time. She doesn’t speak, but the vibes between us are fingernails on a chalkboard, increasing their pressure and volume until my ears whine and my teeth hurt.
She leads me to the table. Hands me her cue stick and slides around behind me. All eyes in the room are on her—us. All the girls want her, and some of the guys too. She takes me in her arms and I drop the stick on the floor.
She laughs. So do I. I retrieve the stick. She sets it on the table.
Her lips start out hard as molded plastic, then turn soft as padded felt.
She runs her hands up under my shirt and the twinkling lights explode.
• • •
“Excuse me.” A guy touches my arm. “I have to use the john.”
I step aside to let him pass.
The karaoke blares and I’m swarmed; I lose sight of Reeve. As the crowd clears, I see her kissing a nameless girl. The girl has no face, no arms or legs or physical presence. No meaning to me.
A sharp edge gouges my arm.
“You want the book?” a guy asks. The black three-ring binder. The karaoke songbook.
“No, thanks.”
Everything’s tilting, listing in place. I refocus.
Where is she?
I scan, but don’t see her. Maybe what I saw was a … projection? The person she was kissing was me, the girl I want to be.
The cue sticks are on the table, as if her game was interrupted. There, at the top of the stairs leading to the exit, I catch a glimpse of her ice blue halter.
A mob of people cram the doorway, all coming in for karaoke. I murmur, “Excuse me. Excuse me. Sorry,” as I maneuver my way through. “Ow!” a girl yelps when I step on her foot.
“Sorry.” I wince.
She smiles. “That’s okay. Hi.”
Reeve is bounding down the stairs, the other two girls ahead of her. She leaps from the bottom step, throws back her head, and cries, “Yee-ow-eeee!” at the top of her lungs. She smacks each of the girls on the back, sending Britt stumbling forward into an SUV and the other girl tripping. Reeve dances in a circle.
Britt hollers, “Reeve, dammit! That hurt.”
Reeve l
aughs and laughs.
I stand on the landing, at the railing, breathing in her laughter. She slows near an SUV and pounds on the hood, as if she’s beating out excess energy.
Britt goes, “What is your problem?”
Reeve says, “You.”
The other girl, who isn’t anyone, who isn’t even there, unlocks the car door. Reeve dances over to her and grabs a clump of her hair. She yanks the girl’s head back, gazes down into her face, and kisses her. I black out.
When I come to, Reeve is staring at me.
“Butt brain!” she yells. “Move ass.”
Robbie emerges from under the stairs. He ambles to the car. Tossing his case over the seat to Reeve, he squishes into the back with her.
As the car pulls away, Reeve’s head pops up through the moon roof. She cups both hands around her mouth and calls, “Cooperate with Johanna!”
OMG. She knows my name!
Chapter 5
The apartment door is hanging wide open. I barrel up the stairs and stop. There’s a tall, shadowy figure in the kitchen, behind the refrigerator door.
Retreat? Go downstairs? Call 911? Scream? The guy leans back. It’s Dante, buck naked. He shuts the refrigerator door and says, “Joho.” He hitches his chin at me, then guzzles the beer. My apartment reeks. He burps. “Whassup?”
“Where’s Novak?”
He notices he’s dangling all over and steps behind the counter. Novak appears in the hallway, also naked, tossing her hair over one side of her head with her arm.
She’s illuminated by light filtering through the hall from the bathroom. Her eyes meet mine, but I can’t hold them. She has smaller breasts than I imagined, probably because she always wears push-up bras. Her hair is reddish blond … down there. She drops her arms and straightens her back, like she doesn’t mind me looking, like she’s inviting me to look.
Dante skitters past Novak, covering his privates, clipping her arm and spinning her sideways.
“You were in my room,” I say.
Novak crosses her arms over her breasts.
Fuck, I mime. My glare reams her out.
“Hang on.” She backs up and disappears into the room—my room—behind Dante. I fling my pack on the divan. Damn. Damn her!
In a moment Dante comes out dressed, Novak cowering behind him. “Later, Joho,” he says to me.
“Don’t ever call me that.”
He saunters past, taking his sweet time. I plant my feet and stare at Novak.
She bites her lip, nears me, shoulders hunched. “I’ll buy you new sheets?” she offers.
God! I clench my jaw and turn away. Novak stops me, her hand extended.
“What?”
“My keys?”
I dig them out of my pocket and smack them into her palm. She goes, “Johanna, you just don’t understand. You’ve never been in love.”
“You just shut up. And leave.”
She looks stung.
She’s hurt? How dare she invade my bedroom? The place where Reeve and I … Where Reeve and I …
What? There is no Reeve and I. But one day … there might … Will.
“Johanna … I’m sorry.”
She made my bed, which makes it worse. I never make my bed. Bundling the sheets in my arms, I storm downstairs to the garage, stuff the sheets in the washer, and dump a heap of Cheer on top. It’s jammed wall to wall in here. Mostly Mom-and-Dad things. Tessa said I should go through them and I said she should.
As the washer fills, I flip over a full laundry basket and plop on top, elbows on knees, staring into the abyss. My face drops to my arms, then hands, and I feel it. The longing.
I miss Mom so much. Dad had Parkinson’s and died of complications when I was twelve, but he was never all that present in my life. Mom and Dad met late in life and didn’t start having kids until they were ancient. After Dad died, Mom sank into this deep depression. No one could lift it. Certainly not me. She just deteriorated, then she got sick and I got stuck.
No. Not for one moment do I regret a single second I got with Mom. The service club, chorus, all my extracurricular activities, time I might’ve spent with friends—I don’t feel I sacrificed anything to make Mom’s life easier at the end.
Don’t think about it, Johanna.
Think about how hot Reeve looked tonight. In that faded baby blue halter with her destroyed jeans that sit so low they expose her sharp hip bones and smooth belly. She’s so small, tiny. Lately she seems even leaner. I bet I could get one hand around her upper arm. I’d like to take both of them and pull her into me. Kiss her, meld her lips to mine. Her lips aren’t small. They’re her most distinguishing feature. Lush. Her eyes and her legs, her hips, waist, breasts. She has bigger breasts than Novak, I bet. Reeve tests the limits of the school dress code, for sure. She always wears these revealing tops with plunging V’s, or string camis to show off her breasts. Why not? They’re … scrumptious. She doesn’t need a damn push-up bra.
That’s Reeve, always flaunting it and proud to show it off.
Wish she’d flaunt it at me.
“Johanna?”
My elbows buckle and I wobble to my feet.
Tessa pushes her bangs back and a shock of hair sticks up in front. “Why are you doing laundry at this hour?”
“Did it wake you up? I’m sorry.”
“Nah, I was up.”
She still has her name badge on from work. She shakes off her fatigue, or whatever, and says, “If you get the urge …” Her arm sweeps across the ocean of laundry at our feet.
“I’m not feeling it,” I say.
She cracks a smile. It’s the most genuine exchange we’ve had since she moved home. Since Mom asked her to come back to handle all the financial affairs. Even though I could’ve done it. Tessa had been starting grad school; she flew home every other weekend, then flew back to be with Martin. I could’ve quit school and easily gotten my GED. I told Mom that.
Tessa and I stand for a long minute looking at each other, then it gets weird and we both look down.
“Martin has solemnly promised to go through all his boxes. He’s such a pack rat. He won’t throw anything away that has sentimental value.”
“Good thing you don’t have that problem.”
Tessa gives me a funny look.
My eyes stray to her belly. There’s maybe a bulge?
Why’d you leave Colorado? I want to ask. Why’d you have to go all the way to Minnesota? Didn’t you get my letter? I want to ask. The last one, the important one? Does Martin hold you at night and tell you he loves you? Does his skin feel warm and does he make love to you when you want him? Is he there for you when you need him? The way you weren’t there for me? And still aren’t?
Tessa yawns, then does this thing with her jaw where she shifts it left and right until it pops.
It’s always annoyed me.
She says, “Don’t stay up too late.”
I want to say, Talk to me. Will you please just talk to me about the letter?
Seniors have off-campus privileges and most drive to Pizza Hut or Mickey D’s, but Reeve always stays in for lunch. She sits with the LBDs.
She stays, so I stay. There are separate blocks of designated tables, like ethnic neighborhoods. The gays and lesbians don’t even associate much, since gay guys eat with their straight girlfriends.
When Novak’s here, we sit with the stoners and skaters, like today. She sets a tuna fish sandwich from the machine in front of me and slides in across on the bench. “I owe you so much,” she says. “You’re my BFF forever.”
“Redundant,” I say. I sit so I can see Reeve. So I can bore my eyes into her soul and hope she feels me.
Novak rips open a bag of Doritos between us. “Dante says thanks, by the way, for use of the hospitality suite.”
My gaze wavers long enough to fire a flare at Novak. I take a bite of sandwich. Reeve’s spearing green beans onto a fork. There’s a girl between her and Britt, some other nameless and faceless lesbian, jabbering away, tel
ling a joke or something. Everyone laughs. Except Reeve. She bites each end of bean off the fork and chews, then holds the rest between her teeth.
I concentrate hard: Look up, Reeve. Look at me. See me. Feel the purity of my love for you.
“… next Friday. And maybe Saturday too?”
Reeve raises her head a fraction of an inch and I think, Here!
Novak kicks my leg, diverting my attention.
“Are you listening to me?” She shakes the Doritos bag in my face. “Eat.”
I remove a chip. Reeve returns to stabbing beans.
“So, do you mind?”
Reeve stands with her tray and I almost shoot up in reflex. “Mind what?”
“Letting us use your place both nights? Note how I’m asking you in advance?”
Reeve dumps the remaining contents of her lunch into the garbage, stacks her tray on top, and takes off. Where does she go? It’s the same routine every day.
“Earth to Lesbo.”
I turn on Novak. “Don’t fuck Dante in my bed. Stay out of my room, I’m warning you. Don’t bring beer or pot to the apartment, and be gone when I get home.”
Novak flinches. Then she bats her eyelashes and salutes. “Yes, sir. Could you post the rules, sir? I’m a little slow, sir.”
She must feel my rising simmer, because she reaches across the table and runs her fingers under my jaw. “Johanna, whatever you want.”
I falter. I want it bad. Then I remember this is Novak.
Robbie doesn’t show after school. I wait forty minutes, sitting at Mrs. Goins’ desk, facing the door, watching the hall. Forty-two. Forty-three minutes.
He’s not coming. Neither is she. A curtain of despair draws closed inside me.
Chapter 6
The veg girl’s mother is leaving the hospice as I walk in. I shouldn’t call her that. Carrie—that’s the girl’s name. I’ve only seen her once, when I was delivering flowers to the private ward and her mother was carting in luggage.
Carrie was in a car accident. She was speeding, joyriding after a party, and the other three people in the car died. Carrie lived, if you want to call it that. Her family decided to take her off life support, hoping for the best—the best being that she’d pass quietly and quickly.
Rage: A Love Story Page 3