Punk 57 (37 page)

“Where were you this morning?” Ten asks, a hint of worry in his voice. “Lyla said you skipped practice.”

I walk down the hall at school with him beside me, having left myself barely enough time to hit my locker and race upstairs to Art before first period starts. He walks at my side.

“I was tired.” I pull my baseball cap down a little farther to shield my red eyes.

“You slept in?” His tone is confused. “Coach is going to make you run laps for that.”

I’m sure he’s right. But I can’t bring myself to care right now.

While I showered, blew out my hair, and put on make-up this morning, my brain kept drifting back to Misha, and I started tearing up again. I couldn’t keep mascara on, so I gave up and grabbed a hat.

My eyes burn, and my lids just want to close forever. I blink hard at the shot of pain digging into my skull between my eyes and clutch the strap of my bag tighter, hoping against hope that he isn’t here today. If I can’t think about him without crying, I certainly can’t look at him.

Veering toward my locker on the right, I spot a group of students ahead, some pausing to read something on the wall and some taking pictures of it. I look up, immediately recognizing the Eminem lyric.

Needles prick my throat, and I look away. He can go screw himself. He doesn’t like that rapper, and even though I do, quoting his songs isn’t going to get on my good side.

“Well, well, well,” Ten muses. “I thought he got caught or something. He’s been slacking on the messages.”

I walk up to my locker and start dialing in the combination. Ten follows, fiddling on his phone.

“‘
Love the Way You Lie’
by Eminem,” he says. “Hey, he’s speaking your language now.”

I force a little smile for Ten’s sake. He’s the only one in my life who’s easy, and I don’t want him to know anything is wrong. Our friendship is uncomplicated.

And in all honesty, he’s been good to me. I may not be sure where his loyalties truly lie, but he’s here now. I’m grateful for that.

I empty my bag, stuffing in the books I took home over the weekend and pulling out what I need for the morning. I haven’t seen or talked to Misha since our fight, and I’m still in shock. I’m angry, but I’m sad, too. I would’ve thought that the reality of Masen being Misha would’ve set in by now and crystallized into hatred.

But it hasn’t. I’m hurt.

“Are you okay?” Ten asks, hovering close, his eyes on my face. “You look like you were up all night,
not
sleeping in.”

“I’m fine.”

I finish getting my things and close my locker, Ten and I walking farther down the hall. But then I glance up and notice more writing on the wall.

Everything was real.

I suck in a small breath, feeling my chest shake with a sob. It’s in large black paint, surrounded by messy paint streaks of blue—my favorite color—and purple. I stop and stare at it, my shoulders feeling heavy.

He broke into the school this weekend and did this.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ten whispers, this time sounding more concerned. “Tell me the truth.”

I wipe away a tear before it has a chance to fall. “Nothing,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “My sister’s just harassing me about mixing whites and colors in the wash again, so you know…”

He scoffs, but I can tell he doesn’t buy that excuse.

I make a quick right into the stairwell. “I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

“Ryen?”

But I keep going, jogging up the stairs and pausing briefly when I see yet another message written on the wall, reading it as I pass by.

I didn’t mean to lie, but I meant every kiss.

Damn him
. I break into a run.

I shouldn’t have come to school today. I hoped he’d gone back to Thunder Bay, but he must’ve painted those messages last night. There are too many people in the school over the weekend and too much of a chance the staff or janitors would’ve gotten all of it taken down by this morning if he’d done it earlier than that.

No. He was still in Falcon’s Well last night.

I want him gone. I can’t help my heart and what it wants despite the pain, but I can help what I do with those feelings. Everything I told him—about Misha and how he didn’t like my music and the stuff at the drive-in and all the things he wanted to know that were true—he already knew all of that shit from my letters. What a kick, to sit there and humor me to get my clothes off.

I approach the door and arch up on my tiptoes, peering in the window. He’s sitting at his seat, one earbud in his ear while he twirls a pen in his fingers and stares at a notebook.

I slump back down.

Great. You would think he could back off, at least for a while. It’s not like he needs to be at school anymore anyway. Misha had written me last fall and told me that he had enough credits to graduate early, so if he didn’t come here for me, then why the hell is he playing student when he doesn’t need to?

Why is he really here?

I whip open the door and make my way down the aisle, trying not to look at him but already feeling his eyes on me.

He’s all I’m aware of, and the memory of the Physics lab suddenly hits me, the feel of my legs wrapped around his body and his piercing between my lips.

He can’t be here. I can’t do this. Tears spring to my eyes.

But then someone standing in the aisle suddenly turns toward me, and something wet and orange slams into me, covering my hands and T-shirt.

“Ugh!” I growl, inspecting my hands and clothes.

Manny Cortez scurries backward, taking his freshly-painted clay bowl with him. “I’m sorry!” he exclaims, looking scared.

“You’re gonna be,” I threaten, pointing behind him. “The kiln’s that way, moron. Do you need a map?”

He winces, his eyes dropping as others around him laugh. My stomach rolls, and I grind my teeth together to hold back the sob as I push past him and charge toward my seat in the back.

He walks away, diving into the supply room.

Dropping my bag, I sit in my seat and pull out my sketch pad and pencils. Misha’s presence is heavy next to me.

“Yeah, I know,” I bite out, not looking at him. “I’m a vile bitch, right?”

“No,” he says quietly, staring ahead. “Just weak and stupid. And I’d tear you apart in front of this whole school if I wasn’t so sure you already feel like a pile of shit inside.”

I crack, my chin trembling.

“Alright, let’s get started!” Ms. Till says.

But my stomach is shaking with sobs I can’t let out. He’s right. This is who I am.

And we both know it.

“Ryen, are you ready to talk about your project and where you are on it?” Till asks.

But I just pick at my thumbnail as my hands rest on the desk in front of me. Everything on the table is turning blurry.

I lashed out at Manny because he’s an easy target. Because he’s weaker than me. Because he’s the
only
thing weaker than me. Everyone else sees through me, and Misha is disgusted by me. He hates me.

“Ryen?”

Who I am and how no one likes me isn’t Misha’s fault. I did this. I’m stupid, weak, and a waste.

I feel tears welling, and I choke on a sob. Reaching down, I grab my bag and hook it over my shoulder as I walk through the class, avoiding stares and hushed whispers as I leave the room.

“Ryen?”

But as soon as I hit the hallway, I let the tears loose and run to the bathroom.

“Where have you been?” Lyla charges as she walks up to my side in the lunch line. “You weren’t at practice this morning, and Ten said he saw you before first period, but then no one’s seen you since then. And rumor has it you broke down crying in Art?”

Her tone sounds disgusted, and I don’t spare her a look as I grab a salad shaker and a packet of dressing. I’m not hungry, and my limbs are tired and heavy, but I can’t hide out in the library anymore. I feel like I’m losing everything, and I need to stand the fuck up and get over it.

“Trey got in major trouble this weekend,” she says as if it’s my fault.

Well I guess it is, although she can’t know that.

“All of us, including the whole team,” she continues, “went to his house after the game Friday night. His stepmom went upstairs, came back down, and kicked everyone out.”

Her voice grates on my ears.

But she keeps pushing. “Which you might’ve known if you were ever around anymore.”

“I don’t care,” I grit out, turning to her, unable to control myself. “You got that? And I’m sick of you thinking that I should. Now leave me alone.”

She rears back, giving me a WTF look and then narrows her eyes, looking angry. “You want to be left alone?” she asks. “I can do that. We can
all
do that, because we’re sick of your shit.” Her eyes fall down my body, surveying me like I’m a piece of crap. “Always disappearing, treating Trey like crap…and don’t think it’s escaped anyone’s attention all the little looks you and Masen Laurent are giving each other. If you want to play with that piece of trash, do it quietly, because I’m not going to act like I like it.”

I squeeze the plastic shaker in my hand and take a step, advancing on her.
Bitch.

But then a guy steps between us, Misha’s friend with the Mohawk, and grabs a grape out of a fruit bowl. He pops it in his mouth, looking at Lyla. “Hey, baby. Wanna fuck?”

She grimaces, and I nearly snort. What the hell?

Her mouth falls open, staring at Mohawk guy, but then she spins around—probably having lost her train of thought—and storms back to wherever she came from.

Mohawk guy turns to me, winks, and then leaves.

What was that about?

I run a hand over my eyes, adjusting my baseball cap, and feel a sudden need to crawl in a hot shower and sit there for a year.

Turning back to the lunch line, I see Misha on my other side and jump, my heart skipping a beat.

“I need to talk to you,” he says.

I move around him and continue down the line. “I don’t want you here, Masen.” And then I stop, correcting myself. “Misha. Just go home. Go back to Thunder Bay.”

“I can’t.” He comes up behind me, placing his hands on the counter, blocking me in. “I have no life there if you’re not in it. You’re part of everything good I’ve ever done, Ryen. Please.”

People come up in the line and veer around us, continuing down to the cashier. I want to push away from him, but I can feel eyes on us already, and I don’t want to make a scene. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I know better. Lyla is taking note of everything I do.

“You’re in the music.” His low voice falls across my ear. “You’ve made me strong. I won’t do anything with my life if you’re not there. I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this—”

“You broke my heart,” I cut him off, turning around and looking up into his eyes. “I look at you, and I don’t see Misha.” Sadness burns my eyes, and I don’t care if he can see. “All the years, all the letters, it’s getting further from my memory now. Like Friday night clouded everything.”

His stare narrows.