All the Rage

by Courtney Summers

  “Sorry,” I mumble and I sense an apology coming because Todd isn’t the kind of guy who makes digs and he thinks I took it that way. He was just saying how it is. Mom didn’t get much sleep this weekend and it was because of me. “Any word about Penny?”

  “Only if word is she’s still missing.” He crosses his arms and leans against the counter. “Be front of the Grebe News, I bet. Definitely talk of the school.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bet plenty of people’ll be relieved about that, after the lake.”

  Sometimes I want to ask Todd how he’s so good at that. Knowing more than he lets on. But I have a feeling it’s from all those years he spent on the outside after his accident. When all you can do is watch, you see.

  “Maybe. Anyway. I better go.”

  “Straight to school.” He says it so firmly, it startles me, seems to startle him a little too. “You go straight to school.”

  “I will.”

  I walk slowly. I’m in no hurry to get there. When the building finally comes into view, my body starts to rebel, one part of me right after the other. My chest tingles, my pulse doubles, my throat constricts. A girl is missing.

  Let that girl be the one they talk about.

  It’s quiet when I reach the parking lot, a point in the morning between arrivals. I spot something out of place on the student side, sinister as a black dog; Turner’s Explorer. There’s life past the front doors—bodies moving on their way to wherever. John and Jane holding up the background. Jane. That was less than a week ago.

  I take a deep breath and step inside. There are eyes on me, eyes giving me good, long looks that make me want to disappear but what they’re talking about is Penny.

  While they look at me.

  I pass the main office, and I see Turner, the grim center of a group of faculty members pressing him with questions. His mouth is moving but his gaze flicks my way and lingers. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I don’t want people to see me near Turner, for the thoughts that would make them think. I slip past some lockers, turn a blind corner, and then I’m standing in an alcove and Brock is nearby, at his locker. He spots me before I can find somewhere else and at first, it seems like he’s not sure what he wants to do about this. Alek isn’t with him. Penny gone. Me, here. He closes his locker, takes me in from the bruise on my cheek down.

  “Wow,” he says softly. “You sure got fucked on Friday.”

  My heart in a fist. Is a fist.

  “Say that again, Brock.”

  “Up,” he amends. “I mean fucked up. You need someone to tell you about it?”

  “What makes you think I need telling?”

  “Well, the good sheriff says you don’t remember a goddamn thing. But I could let you in on it. You want to hear?”

  “Where’s Alek?”

  “That’s nothing you need to know.”

  “Why are you here if he’s not?” I ask and his cheeks turn just pink enough to stand out. “Oh. He told you to be here, didn’t he? You’re here. Because he told you.”

  “Just being a friend,” he says. “But I guess you wouldn’t know what that’s like, on account of you not having any.”

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “I could do a lot worse.”

  I look down the hall. It’s just the two of us here, alone together, and I’m the one that has to bear the burden of it. He steps forward—I walk away.

  “So did you enjoy it?” he calls at my back. “Getting fucked?”

  In homeroom, everyone is quiet, even McClelland. His hands are clasped, brows drawn together. I sit at the back of the room and watch people come in, faces so sad. I stare at Alek’s and Penny’s empty seats. The bell rings, but the cue for video announcements doesn’t sound.

  “There will be a special assembly,” McClelland says. “There’s a special assembly—” He glances at the clock. “Now. In the auditorium. Line up single file and follow me there.”

  We do as we’re told. It reminds me of elementary school, of being escorted from one class to the next because we were too young to be trusted to do anything on our own.

  But now we’re supposed to be old enough to look after ourselves.

  Mr. McClelland opens the door. Mrs. Leven’s class is lined up across the hall and we all march together, side by side, to the auditorium. We’re directed into rows, don’t even get to pick where we’ll sit.

  I keep my eyes on the stage. There are three empty chairs behind the podium and when everyone is seated and the lights are dimmed, Principal Diaz, Vice Principal Emerson, and Sheriff Turner walk out. Emerson and Turner take the first two chairs but Diaz takes the mic.

  “I wish I’d gathered you here under better circumstances,” she says. “I’m sure most, if not all, of you know about the unfortunate news regarding a beloved member of our senior class. In the interest of making sure you have the correct information, we thought it best if you heard it from us and the local authorities directly. Penny Young is missing.”

  And even though I already know this, the news goes over me like ice, like I never really believed it at all. Frantic whispers fill the room. The teachers allow us a brief conference about what we’ve just been told.

  I scan the rows and find Tina next to Yumi and Brock. Yumi is crying, but Tina’s face is angry, set. I can’t remember ever seeing Tina cry. When something hurts Tina, she hurts it right back. She doesn’t give herself over to it.

  “We’re not exactly sure what happened yet, so there’s no point in jumping to any bad conclusions,” Diaz continues and I think of what Leon said. Coming up on forty-eight hours, but we’re past that now. “But if you need someone to talk to, the guidance counselor is here to listen, as are all members of the faculty. Our hearts go out to the Youngs at this difficult time. We’ll be praying for Penny’s safe return. Sheriff Turner will speak now and I expect you to listen quietly and respectfully to what he has to say.”

  Diaz sits and Turner moves to the microphone, his expression so perfectly grave. Penny, the daughter he never had, the daughter-in-law he expected to have. I try to imagine Alek, desperately searching for the girl he thought he’d marry while the rest of us are here being told about how she’s gone. I am so hungry for the Turners’ pain, I will take it in any context.

  “Morning.”

  Turner surveys us, makes us shrink in our seats. It’s always uncomfortable around a cop, like they somehow know every terrible thing we’ve done or thought about doing.

  “This is what we know,” he says. “We know Penny was last seen on Friday night at the Wake Lake party. She left between ten-thirty and eleven on her white Vespa scooter. She was supposed to arrive at her mother’s house in Ibis, where she was spending the weekend, but never arrived. At this point, we don’t know if Penny left Grebe or made it to Ibis, but searches of the surrounding area have been and are currently underway. We’re working with the Ibis Sheriff’s Department and have their full cooperation.

  “If any of you have any information—if you saw something suspicious in person, if you saw or heard something online, on social media the night of the party or since then, if you spoke to Penny and she said something you think might be of any significance, a deputy will be in the school’s administration office until noon and, of course, you can call the station anytime. We have a number for anonymous tips. If you do know something, we encourage you to come forward as soon as possible. Time is of the essence in these matters.”

  “Does that mean you think she was kidnapped?”

  A boy asks it, some boy sitting somewhere up front.

  Diaz gets to her feet and her voice booms across the room without the aid of the microphone.

  “Lex Sanders? This is not a Q and A. See me in my office when this is over.”

  “We’ve told you what we can,” Turner says. “Penny hasn’t been seen or heard from since Friday night. Once again, I must emphasize the importance of you sharing any information you think might be useful in helping us to fin
d her. Thank you.”

  Sheriff Turner returns to his seat and Diaz goes back to the podium. “This is a time to respect your fellow classmates and the people who know and love Penny Young. When we have more information, you will have it. In lieu of your first-period classes, we are going to take this opportunity to process the news as a school community, together.”

  No one makes a sound until Diaz returns to her seat and Emerson and Turner lean in, murmuring quietly to each other and then the whole room comes alive and I can’t take it all in as fast as it’s happening. Our beautiful blonde. They cry for her and twist their hands in a way they never would for me. This is what happens when a girl befalls a fate no one thinks she deserves.

  prewitt stands before us on the dusty track, her clipboard tucked under her arm.

  “I know it’s hard, but you have to keep your head in it. It’s about focus. That’s how people get found.” She clears her throat. “Today, I want you to be faster. Better than you’ve ever been. Beat your personal best and tell Penny all about it when she comes back.”

  I think that’s pretty stupid, but maybe it would be worse if she hadn’t said it at all. We get in position and the short, sharp sound of her whistle starts us off. We run in silence, no one even attempting to pant out a conversation. I can’t keep my head quiet, though. My thoughts are a snake eating its own tail. Penny, the lake. Penny. I’m so mad at her. I’m mad at her for being at Swan’s, for making me go to the lake and I swear—it makes me faster. It makes me fastest.

  Come back, Penny. Let me tell you all about it.

  In the locker room, I peel out of my shirt and my shorts, I feel watched and when I turn, Tina’s leaning against her locker, staring. She’s half-undressed, her face shiny with sweat.

  “You plan it like this?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Penny going missing same night you get fucking sloppy at the lake,” she says. “Because if she was here, that’s what we’d be talking about right now.”

  “Never known anything to keep you from running your goddamn mouth before.”

  “You know how wasted you were?” she asks. “It was the best impersonation of your dad I’ve ever seen.” Her gaze wanders to my chest. “Nice bra, by the way.”

  I cross my arms but I don’t say anything. I don’t know if she’s talking about the bra I’m wearing now—or the one I was wearing then.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She pushes off the locker. The other girls undress around us carefully. Don’t want so much as a rustle of clothes to get in the way of what they’re hearing.

  “Know what Brock told me?”

  “I can only guess.”

  “Grey leaves the party.” Tina says this to Yumi, to everyone. “You saw how fucked up she was. She leaves and she wanders almost all the way to Godwit. Her mom reports her missing. Leanne Howard picked her up off the road next morning. Had half the department out looking for her. Half.”

  I glance in the direction of the showers and realize only after I’ve done it that I expect Penny to break this up, to wander out—I was here the whole time!—and tell us to shut up or something because as rarely as she defended me, it’s not like she was always in the mood for Tina’s bullshit, either. I ache and I can’t even pretend I don’t know why.

  I miss the unwelcome feeling of Penny in my life.

  “She gets drunk, she goes driving. She gets drunk, can’t drive, she walks. Don’t forget—she lies too. All the time. The girl who cries rape and half the department was out looking for her on Saturday morning. They brought Grey home. Not Penny.”

  I turn back to my locker and grab my clothes. I’m not staying here for this. I step through my shorts and button them up.

  Tina’s not done, though, no.

  “Better hope that wasn’t the half that would’ve made the difference,” she says.

  And it’s in their heads now, that I took something from the search for Penny. I feel the beginnings of a whole new level of hate stirring in them. I pull my shirt on and try to make my mind blank while the room turns to vicious whispers.

  “Why,” I hear a girl say, “her?”

  * * *

  when i get home, I go to my room, sit at my desk, and open my laptop.

  Sheriff Turner’s words followed me all day, made me feel stupid. If you saw or heard something online, on social media the night of the party or since … I deleted all my accounts a year ago, but I should’ve thought of this, that if it was bad—if I was as bad as Tina says I was—there’s going to be something of myself, of my night, in the last place I want to see it.

  I open a browser and stall for the longest time, chewing on my lip.

  I need this part over with.

  So get it over with.

  I know which sites to go to, where everyone in my high school is, because I used to be in all those places with them. I could start out by searching for a girl with my name, but I’m not ready to be that specific. I type in a hashtag, #WakeLake, instead. I get nothing. Of course they wouldn’t be that obvious, but they needed something, something that would have tied them together online, so none of them missed a single moment of the party they were all at.

  I find it.

  #WakeUp

  I click it and a story unfolds via status updates.

  I move past a week’s worth of anticipation (can’t wait for #WL #yes #WakeUp) until I’m at the party itself. It opens with Andy Martin, who posted a photo of a table full of plastic shot glasses, half of them filled to their brims with amber liquid. It’s a jolt, seeing the rows of shots and I’m afraid that means it’s a memory. Did I drink one?

  He captions it work in progress. #WakeUp

  Next, a photo of the lake’s placid surface, from Andy again.

  #WAKEUP

  Everyone does.

  I scroll past everything that means nothing to me. Outfit selfies, On the Way selfies, At the Lake selfies. It’s all so endless and once upon a time, it would have been mine. I would have been adding to the pool, so ready for it, feeling every possibility of what lay ahead like none of it could be bad, and maybe, once—it wouldn’t have been.

  I stare at lights strung up on trees, the place where all the cars were parked, blurry trails of people in motion, too fast for a camera. I can almost hear the music …

  Pictures of Penny and Alek show up, one after the other. Their faces manage to startle me because I’m looking so hard for myself. There are hasty snapshots of them, some filtered into something more intentional looking. It’s like everyone wants a piece of them, desperate to take a photo of the golden couple, hoping it’ll get a like or a favorite from either of them later, just so they can feel a little golden themselves.

  I scroll and scroll, until the shock of my name moves up the screen.

  who invited grey #WakeUp

  There’s a shaky photo—me? I recognize the shirt, the skirt. Oh, God. It’s me. Here. Here, here, here. I am at the party now. My heart beats fast, faster than it does after a run. I’m here, I’m at the lake. Now. Then. I swallow and scroll down, past other people living their own nights. It’s about an hour after my arrival when a status update lands in front of my eyes and bites.

  how does a girl get that wasted in an hour #damn #talent #WakeUp

  Doesn’t mean it was me. It doesn’t mean it was me, but the indictment is all over me because why couldn’t it have been me? Why couldn’t it have been about me? My hands start to shake. I scroll until another familiar name shows up. It’s not my own, but it’s as painful as a kick in the teeth.

  Paul Grey WELL represented tonight #WakeUp

  Tina posted that. So many people have favorited it.

  There’s nothing for a little while. Everyone else, the star of their own movies, reaching out to each other in @ replies, so they can know what’s happening where and make themselves there. I’m looking for moments I’m the walk-on, and then—

  wow sloppy drunk mess by the bonfire #WakeUp

  An
d all the people who aren’t by the bonfire want to know who??

  I open the conversation.

  RG.

  Everything disappears but those initials—my initials—starred and starred again by my classmates. This is what Tina promised me I was, a sloppy drunk mess at the lake. I stare at the exchange, trying to will it into nonexistence, either it or myself, because I don’t want to be in a world where I’m those words, where I was those words. And what’s behind them? What does that mean? What was I doing? My head, infuriatingly blank. It won’t let me have my night. I scroll through the rest of the #WakeUp hashtag for more, worse. There are photos, lots. I go through them fast, forcing myself to look but there are none of me, just updates that might be about me.

  that was pathetic #WakeUp and dumb drunk bitches #WakeUp

  A memory of Penny’s voice comes to me, soft and teasing.

  You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?

  Did I?

  I keep going and all I see is #WakeUp #WakeUp #WakeUp #WakeUp and then, hours after me, hours after I think I must’ve been gone, Alek asks the question on everyone’s lips now:

  Where’s @PennyYoung?

  I click to her stream and I find the last update she posted. It’s time-stamped when the night began, after she talked to me at the diner.

  I’m here

  at swan’s, tracey calls me into her office.

  She sits behind her desk, looking as stern as I’ve ever seen her, and my stomach somersaults at the thought of her asking me about Penny, what Penny was doing here the same night we both disappeared because Holly doesn’t miss a trick. She has to have figured it out by now and told it to everyone.

  But it never comes up.

  “I’ve fired people for less than what you did,” Tracey says. “But I’m glad you’re okay. Consider this a warning. Now get out there and get back to work.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her. I step into the kitchen, my skin crawling from the reprimand. I hate being scolded like a little kid. When Holly comes in, I ready myself for more of the same but she passes me, grabs her apron, and puts it on without a word.