Rage: A Love Story by Julie Anne Peters Page A

I just can’t believe Dad’s on her side this time.”
    She’s talking fast and loud. Where is she? I can hear voices and laughter behind her.
    “Johanna, are you there?” she screeches.
    “Where are you?”
    “It’s like child abuse, you know? Neglect. They’re throwing me out on the street.”
    Except you’re not a child, I want to say. And they’ve given you everything.
    Novak says, “She won’t even let me use the pool.”
    “Well, fuck,” I say.
    “I
know
. Bitch. I was going to invite you guys over for a party. You could stay the weekend, like you used to. Except instead of sleeping with me, you’d be fucking Reeve Hartt.” She coughs a short laugh. “And I’d watch.”
    “I’m hanging up.”
    “Come on, Johanna. I didn’t mean that,” she says in a rush.
    The last time I stayed over at her house was Thanksgiving. Tessa and Martin had flown to Minnesota to be with his family, and even though Martin had asked me to come, I knew he was only being nice. But Tessa could’ve insisted.
    We spent the whole weekend at Novak’s in the greenhouse getting wasted. Then she and Dante had a fight. She wanted to ask him for Thanksgiving dinner, but her mother said not now, not ever.
    “I love you, Johanna Banana,” Novak says softly, then hangs up.
    Novak. She drives me crazy. But I don’t know what I would’ve done without her, especially this last year.
    “What would you do if you knew someone who was in an abusive situation?” I ask Jeannette. We’re sitting at the crafts table, molding Play-Doh with Mrs. and Mr. Mockrie. They have Alzheimer’s, which I think is kind of sweet, both of them losing their minds together.
    “Who?” Jeannette asks. “Who’s in an abusive relationship?”
    “Someone. A friend. It’s a family situation.”
    Mr. Mockrie rolls a fat snake.
    Jeannette stops pounding her Doh and looks hard at me. “Is this someone I know?”
    “No.” I see what she’s getting at. “It’s not me. It’s a friend of mine.”
    Mr. Mockrie grunts and I help him dig off another glob of blue Doh to mold. Jeannette moistens her lips. “How old’s this friend?”
    “Seventeen. Eighteen.”
    She says, “You know this for sure? That there’s abuse?”
    “I know. But, I mean, I don’t have it on film.”
    The buzzer sounds up front and Jeannette scrambles. “If that’s Evelyn …” Her jaw sets. Evelyn is Carrie’s mother. “Don’t get involved.” Jeannette scrapes back her chair and stands.
    “What?”
    She smashes her Doh back into the container. “You don’t want to get involved in someone else’s family business. Believe me.”
    What I believe is I want to be so deeply involved in Reeve’s business there’s no way out.

Chapter 12
     
    A message on the closed door reads: NO CLASS TODAY. PICK UP YOUR REPORTS IN MY BOX . I don’t care about the Film Studies report, except for everyone else in class seeing my grade.
    My grade is 73. I spent at least an hour thinking about narrative structure and “how non-narrative short film applies the structure in the way documentaries don’t.” The note under my grade says, “You didn’t credibly prove your point.” Did I have one?
    I stuff my report folder into my pack and head for my locker. As I round the bend, I’m obliterated by Reeve, slamming me up against the wall and saying, “Is this a good time for you?”
    Her hand is splayed on my breastbone and I wonder if she can feel my heart exploding. “Absolutely,” I say.
    She hitches her head to the left, then takes off. My lungs empty as I peel off the wall and follow her.
    We pass the band rooms, the practice studios and recording lab, and zip into a zigzagging hall. I’ve never even been in the new Arts wing of the building before. “Down here,” Reeve says over her shoulder. She wrenches open a steel door marked B2 and holds it for me.
    My eyes adjust to the red emergency light glowing halfway down the wall where more stairs descend.
    When the door slams, Reeve