“I’m not—”
“You’re lying, you—”
Todd slams his hand on the table. “Don’t call her liar—”
“Romy,” Mom says. “Romy—”
“Where does she think she’s going?”
Going. I’m going. I push through the door and the screen door and step onto the walk and then they’re following after me, and I hear my name at my back.
“Romy—”
And I run.
I run and I see Penny—
I see Penny, sitting in a booth across from me and I see her and she says—
No. I focus on my pulse. I breathe hard, forcing the air into me and I run and I see Penny, sitting in a booth across from me and she says—
I want to talk to you and then I’ll leave.
No, no. I don’t have to hear this because you’ve already left, Penny. You’re gone. You traded your life for a girl who was already dead and I’m sorry you gave up everything for her, but I can’t listen to you now.
Sweat coats my skin. My shirt clings to my back. I run and I see Penny, sitting in the booth across from me, and I don’t know what I can give her for what’s been taken away.
Please.
I know I can be faster than this, I know I can be faster than this. I can outrun the boy in the truck bed. I can outrun the boy in the truck bed and all the boys who made themselves in his likeness just because they could, just because no one said they couldn’t …
Godwit … there was this girl … she told me it wasn’t safe to be alone with him. She wouldn’t say why, but the look on her face …
You can still report it.
And then the sick give of my body, the sound of it when I hit the ground. I push my palms to gravel, try to struggle to my feet, but I can’t, so I sit in the road with my hands against my knees, pressing my fingernails into new wounds and when I pull them away, they’re red.
They are so red.
AFTER
“my question is, how does an entire community turn a blind eye—”
It’s cold out now. The air like metal in your mouth.
“—to a party where teens are unsupervised and known to drink in excess? This isn’t a party nobody knew about. It’s a tradition. We’re so eager to point fingers at this boy—and I wish people would stop calling him a young man, because he is a boy—but how much of the blame truly falls on him? It’s sort of inevitable, isn’t it? What happened?”
I stand on the porch, staring at the street, trying to block out the voices on the radio in the kitchen, even though I was the one who turned it on.
“I don’t think second-degree murder is an inevitability of a high school party—”
“Sorry to break in, but did he rape her? Have they—”
“His legal team has vehemently denied that he raped her and the authorities have also confirmed no evidence has come to light suggesting that he did—”
Because he wasn’t there to do that to her. He wouldn’t have done that to Penny.
Just me.
“—well, now that we have that as fact, I hope people stop asking that question, but to go back to what you were saying—Laura, would you argue that teenagers and alcohol usually lead to very, very poor decision making?”
“That’s not what you were saying, Jean.”
I stare at my phone. Yesterday, Leon sent me a text message. GOT THE HAT YOU LEFT AT SWAN’S FOR AVA. IT WAS SWEET. THANKS FROM ALL OF US.
This morning my fingers trembled a text back, YOU’RE WELCOME, and I’ve been staring at his reply ever since.
IT’S ALWAYS GOOD TO HEAR FROM YOU.
I close my eyes. I can’t stand if he knows but I also miss him and it depends on the day, which one of these feelings is stronger than the other.
YOU TOO.
I turn my phone off and then I see her.
Tina. Coming up my side of the street. She reaches the house and hesitates when she sees my silhouette through the mesh. I raise my chin and she starts over the walkway. I open the door, stopping her at the steps because she’s not coming in. She looks up at me, holding herself like she always does even though she doesn’t look the same anymore. She’s hollowed out a little, like maybe she’s not sleeping as well as she needs or eating as much as she should. But that’s me too. These days.
“Thanks for seeing me,” she says.
She wouldn’t stop calling. The first time her number lit up my phone, I didn’t know who it was and when I answered, and heard her voice, heard her asking me to meet her, I hung up. She left messages, texted me. Every time I thought she’d finally given up, she’d start all over again. Yesterday, I finally told her to come and then to leave me alone. Now she’s here, waiting for me to speak.
“I’m not going to stand out here forever, Tina.” I say because I’ll make this as easy for her as she would for me. “You’re lucky I’m standing out here at all.”
“Look—” She pauses. “Whatever you think of me, I didn’t cover for Brock—for him.”
“It wasn’t for Penny.”
“Yes, it was,” she says shakily. “It was. He told me he took you to that road. That he knew Penny wasn’t there and they’d just be wasting time if they searched it. He said he couldn’t tell them what he’d done or he’d lose his place on the football team. I didn’t want anyone to waste any time. I just wanted them to find her. I—miss her.”
“You covered for him even though he wrote rape me on my stomach.”
“I didn’t know he did that to you before you said it in the locker room.”
“But you knew Alek took the pictures of me. You were there for that, weren’t you?” I ask and she doesn’t even have the good grace to look ashamed, just keeps her eyes on me, like she’s waiting for some kind of give. And it happens because I’m weak. “He said I let—” I stop. “Forget it. I don’t need to know.”
“I can tell you,” she says and when I don’t say anything—she does. “You said you were hot. Alek told you to take off your shirt and you said you wanted to go home and he said if you gave him your phone, he’d call your mom…”
I stare down the empty street. I was right. I didn’t need to know.
“Brock brought GHB to the party,” she says, like she’s saying something new. “I think maybe he gave you some and that’s how you got so messed up…”
“Oh. I thought that was just the best impersonation of my father you’d ever seen.” I look back in time to see her wince. There’s nothing satisfying about it. “Alek was going to send those pictures to the school. Penny stopped him. But you watched.”
“Yeah,” she says and she does, finally, look away at this. I stare at my nails, bare. She doesn’t move. I don’t know why, when this is so finished.
“I know Turner cut you out of this. My dad says I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
“Then stop talking about it,” I say. “And go home.”
“No,” she says. Then I’ll stop talking about it. I turn away from her and she says, “Romy, wait.”
I turn back. “Tina—”
“No, just listen. I don’t think Brock would just leave you on that road and leave it at that. I don’t think Penny died because she found you, I think she died because she stopped him—” Her voice breaks, and it breaks me, a little. “In the locker room, you said if she got raped, she’d be better off dead and you meant it. But you weren’t talking about her. You were talking about what happened to you with Kellan.”
His name winds itself tight around me.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
“You should have believed me.”
It’s been inside me so long, I can barely choke it out. I carried it to the lake, when I thought I would say it to Penny, and I’ve buried those words since the lake with all the other things I’m never going to get to say to Penny. I bring a shaking hand to my eyes.
“I don’t know why you didn’t—” And then there are tears hot on my face before I can stop them. “Why—”
&nbs
p; “Because it was easier.”
She stares at me. Her hands are so empty.
“You’re not better off dead,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I can’t … I know I can’t make it right but I just wanted to say that to you because—I don’t think anyone else here would—”
I can’t stay for it anymore. I leave her there because I don’t want sorry. It doesn’t bring dead girls back. I go to the kitchen and brace myself against the table, listening to myself breathing. Those voices on the radio.
“—we need to talk about how this is a very promising boy who is now facing second-degree murder charges. His life is ruined and I barely have a sense of who he is. I want to know his story—”
I reach out and turn the radio off so fast it clatters back. You’re not better off dead. It’s suffocating, it’s suffocating, hearing that when all this place has given me is the feeling that I should be, I would be, better off if I was one less girl …
You’re not better off dead. I close my eyes, a fury building inside me, starting in the center of me, bleeding its way out because even now, you’re not better off dead but I can’t make it right. The same words Penny said to me in the diner. I can’t make it right. But who could.
Where do you even start.
I open my eyes. I head back outside and Tina’s halfway down the walk now, a slow leaving, like she hopes I’ll call her back. I say, “Tina,” and she turns. My heart is heavy with the weight of my body and my body is so heavy with the weight of my heart.
“You want to help me find a girl in Godwit?”
before I tore the labels off, one was called Paradise and the other, Hit and Run. It doesn’t matter which is which. They’re both blood red.
Proper application of nail polish is a process. You can’t paint it on like it’s nothing and expect it to last. First, prep. I start with a four-way buffer. It gets rid of the ridges and gives the polish a smooth surface to adhere to. Next, I use a nail dehydrator and cleanser because it’s best to work with a nail plate that’s dry and clean. Once it’s evaporated, a thin layer of base coat goes on. The base coat protects the nails and prevents staining.
I like the first coat of polish to be thin enough to dry by the time I’ve finished the last nail on the same hand. I keep my touch steady and light. I never drag the brush, I never go back into the bottle more than once per nail if I can help it. Over time and with practice, I’ve learned how to tell if what’s on the brush will be enough.
Some people are lazy. They think if you’re using a highly pigmented polish, a second coat is unnecessary, but that’s not true. The second coat asserts the color and arms you against the everyday use of your hands, all the ways you can cause damage without thinking. When the second coat is dry, I take a Q-tip dipped in nail polish remover to clean up any polish that might have bled onto my skin. The final step is the top coat. The top coat is what seals in the color and protects the manicure.
The application of lipstick has similar demands. A smooth canvas is always best and dead skin must be removed. Sometimes that takes as little as a damp washcloth, but other times I scrub a toothbrush across my mouth just to be sure. When that’s done, I add the tiniest amount of balm, so my lips don’t dry out. It also gives the color something to hold on to.
I run the fine fibers of my lip brush across the slanted top of my lipstick until my lips are coated and work the brush from the center of my lips out. After the first layer, I blot on a tissue and add another layer, carefully following the line of my small mouth before smudging the color out so it looks a little fuller. Like with the nail polish, layering always helps it to last.
And then I’m ready.
look at me.
I want you to look at me.
acknowledgments
I would like to thank:
Amy Tipton, my agent, for all the doors she’s opened for me. She was the first person who saw All the Rage, years ago, and she’s read it a million times since. And she read it the millionth time with the same enthusiasm as she did the first. I can’t imagine navigating publishing without her smarts, her humor, her support, or her perfectly timed Apocalypse When e-mail. It’s an honor to have such a hardworking advocate.
Sara Goodman, for her sharp editorial eye and everything she’s taught me about writing. It has been a privilege to explore many dark fictional roads with her as my guide. This one was longer than most, but that’s what happens when you have an editor who never settles for less than what you’re capable of. I’m grateful to have worked with and learned from someone so passionately dedicated to good books.
Everyone at St. Martin’s who works tirelessly to bring my stories to readers. Special thanks to Lisa Marie Pompilio, Talia Sherer, Anne Spieth, NaNá V. Stoelzle, Anna Gorovoy, Stephanie Davis, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Michelle Cashman, Angela Craft, Vicki Lame, and Alicia Adkins-Clancy. Special thanks to Lauren Hougen for her incredible levels of patience.
Ellen Pepus at Signature Literary, for her hard work.
My family, of course. Immediate and extended. Always. All my love and gratitude to Susan and David, Megan and Jarrad, Marion and Ken, Lucy and Bob, and Damon. This is my foundation and it’s a good one.
Emily Hainsworth and Tiffany Schmidt, for seeing this book—and me—through more than I could possibly fit into this space. I am so thankful for their amazing critiques and, even more than that, for their friendship. Amazing ladies.
Kelly Jensen, for her wonderful friendship and her listening and for talking the talk and walking the walk. “Awesome” is her default setting. Her tireless support, generosity, and enthusiasm cannot be overstated and I am so very grateful for her.
CK Kelly Martin and Nova Ren Suma, two amazing women who inspire me both personally and professionally. I’m so thankful for their friendship, kindness, and support, and I am in utter awe of their writing talents.
These diamonds: Whitney Crispell, Kim Hutt, Baz Ramos, and Samantha Seals, for years of an incredible friendship that I cherish so much. Shine bright.
Stefan Martorano, for his gracious help with the law enforcement–related details.
Thank you to all my friends, for their support. Special thanks and much appreciation to these terrific people: Bill Cameron, Brandy Colbert, Kate Hart for all the good work she does and goodwill she inspires, Will and Annika Klein, Team Sparkle, Daisy Whitney, Brian Williams, and Briony Williamson.
My readers. The enthusiasm and support they have shown my work means more than I could ever say. I simply can’t thank them enough.
Lori Thibert. Last but never least. And for more than I could ever list here. For her talent, humor, kindness, generosity, and for being an awe-inspiring, amazing human being, which inspires me. Her unwavering encouragement and belief in what is possible over the years has meant the world and made all the difference. It was one of my very first stepping stones to becoming an author. As far as best friends go, mine can’t be beat.
Thank you.
Follow the latest news from Courtney at courtneysummers.ca
about the author
Courtney Summers lives and writes in Canada. She is the author of several novels for young adults, including Cracked Up to Be and This Is Not a Test. Visit her online at http://courtneysummers.ca. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY COURTNEY SUMMERS
cracked up to be
some girls are
fall for anything
this is not a test
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Now
Two Weeks Earlier
No
w
After
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Courtney Summers
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ALL THE RAGE. Copyright © 2015 by Courtney Summers. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Cover photograph © Joana Kruse/Arcangel Images
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to
[email protected].
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Summers, Courtney.
All the rage / Courtney Summers.—First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-250-02191-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-02192-2 (e-book)
[1. Conduct of life—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Rape—Fiction. 5. Bullying—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S95397All 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2014040846
e-ISBN 9781250021922
First Edition: April 2015
Courtney Summers, All the Rage
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