Punk 57 Read online

  My body is on fire, and when she leans in farther to bite off a bit extra, her lip grazes mine, and I groan.

  I pull away, swallowing the goddamn chunk whole. Damn.

  She chews the bit of marshmallow, licking her lips and stepping down off the stool. “Thank you.”

  I nod. I can feel Dane’s eyes on me, and I’m sure he knows something is wrong. I toss the skewer down on the bar and meet his eyes. He’s wearing a coy smile.

  Fucktard.

  Yeah, okay. I liked the marshmallow, Dane. I’d like to eat a dozen of them with her. Maybe I won’t rush home quite yet, okay?

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out, seeing Annie’s name. I hit Ignore. She’s probably wondering where I am with her snacks. I’ll call her back in a minute.

  “So…” Dane says. “All these pictures you’re posting on the page…you don’t have a boyfriend who’s going to come hunting us down, right?”

  I tense. Ryen doesn’t have a boyfriend. She would’ve told me.

  “Nah,” she replies. “He knows I can’t be tied down.”

  Dane laughs, and I stand there, listening.

  “No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she finally answers seriously.

  “I find that hard to believe—”

  “And I’m not looking for one, either,” she cuts Dane off. “I had one once, and you have to bathe them and feed them and walk them…”

  “So what happened?” Dane asks.

  She shrugs. “I’d lowered my standards. Too low, apparently. After that, I got picky.”

  “Does any man measure up?”

  “One.” Her eyes dart to me and then back to Dane. “But I’ve never met him.”

  One. Only one guy who measures up. Does she mean me?

  My phone vibrates again, and I reach in my pocket, silencing it.

  I glance up and see cameras flashing all over and spot people taking a pic in front of the graffiti wall to the right.

  I step up and take her phone, surprising her. Walking around behind her, I turn on the camera, changing it to selfie mode, and lean down, capturing our faces on the screen. But I adjust it to also include the guy behind us taking a picture of two girls in front of the graffiti pictures. “A picture…”—I speak low in her ear, indicating our selfie— “of a picture” —I point to the guy behind us on the screen taking a pic— “of a picture.” And I gesture to the graffiti wall they’re standing in front of.

  A smile finally breaks out on her face. “That’s clever. Thanks.”

  And I click the pic, saving the moment forever.

  Before pulling away and saying goodbye, I inhale her scent, frozen for a moment as I smile to myself.

  You’re really going to hate me, Angel, when we finally do meet someday and you put all this together.

  Ryen takes the phone and slowly walks away, looking back over her shoulder at me before disappearing in a throng of people.

  And already I want her back.

  I dig in my pocket and pull out my phone, dialing my sister. How much will she hate me if I ask her to go get her own snacks? I’m not sure I’m ready to leave yet, actually.

  But when I call back, there’s no answer.

  Three months later…

  Dear Misha,

  What. The. Hell?

  Yeah, you heard me. I said it. I might also say this will be my last letter, but I know that’s not true. I’m not going to give up on you. You made me promise I wouldn’t, so here I am. Still Miss Fucking Reliable after three months of no word from you. Hope you’re having fun, wherever you are, douchebag.

  (But seriously, don’t be dead, okay?)

  You have the notes on the lyrics I sent with my previous letters. Kind of wishing I made copies now, since I feel like you’re gone for good, but what’s the point? Those words are meant for you and only you, and even if you’re not reading the letters or even getting them anymore, I need to send them. I like knowing they’re in search of you.

  On the current news front, I got into college. Well, a few, actually. It’s funny. I’ve wanted everything in my life to change for so long, and when it’s finally about to, my urge to escape slows down. I think that’s why people stay unhappy for so long, you know? Miserable or not, it’s easier to stick with what’s familiar.

  Do you notice that, too? How all of us just want to get through life as quickly and as easily as possible? And even though we know that without risk there’s no reward, we’re still so scared to chance it?

  I’m afraid, to be honest. I keep thinking things won’t be any different at college. I still don’t know what I want to do. I won’t be any more confident or sure about my decisions. I’ll still pick the wrong friends and date the wrong guys.

  So, yeah. I’d love to hear from you. Tell me you’re too busy to keep this up or that we’re getting too old to be pen pals, but just tell me one last time that you believe in me and that everything’s going to be fine. Shit always sounds better coming from you.

  I Don’t Miss You, Not Even a Little,

  Ryen

  P.S. If I find out you’re ditching me for a car, a girl, or the latest Grand Theft Auto video game, I’m going to troll the Walking Dead message boards under your name.

  Capping my silver-inked pen, I take the two pieces of black paper and tap them on my lap desk before folding them in half. Stuffing them in the matching black envelope, I pick up the black sealing wax stick and hold it over the candle sitting on my bedside table, lighting the wick.

  Three months.

  I frown. He’s never been quiet this long before. Misha often needs his space, so I’m used to spells of not hearing from him, but something is going on.

  The wax starts to melt, and I hold it over the envelope, letting it drip. After I blow out the flame, I pick up the stamp and press it into the wax, sealing the letter and finding the fancy, black skull of the imprint staring back at me.

  A gift from Misha. He got tired of me using the one I got when I was eleven with a Harry Potter Gryffindor seal on it. His sister, Annie, kept making fun of him, screaming that his Hogwarts letter had arrived.

  So he sent me a more “manly” seal, telling me to use that or nothing at all.

  I’d laughed. Fine, then.

  When we first began writing each other years ago, it was a complete mistake. Our fifth-grade teachers tried to pair up our classes as pen pals according to sex to make it more comfortable, but his name is Misha and my name is Ryen, so his teacher thought I was a boy, and my teacher thought he was a girl, etc.

  We didn’t get along at first, but we soon found that we had one thing in common. Both of us have parents who split early on. His mom left when he was two, and I haven’t seen or heard from my dad since I was four. Neither of us really remember them.

  And now, after seven years and with high school almost over, he’s become my best friend.

  Climbing off my bed, I slap a stamp on the letter and set it on my desk to mail in the morning. I walk back, putting my stationary supplies back in my bedside table.

  Straightening, I place my hands on my hips and blow out an uneasy breath.

  Misha, where the hell are you? I’m drowning here.

  I guess I can Google him if I’m that worried. Or search him on Facebook or go to his house. He’s only thirty miles away, and I have his address, after all.

  But we promised each other. Or rather I made him promise. Seeing each other, where we live, meeting the people the other one talks about in their letters, it’ll ruin the world we created.

  Right now, Misha Lare, with all of his imperfections, is perfect in my head. He listens, pumps me up, takes the pressure off, and has no expectations of me. He tells the truth, and he’s the one place I never have to hide.

  How many people have someone like that?

  And as much as I want answers, I just can’t give that up yet. We’ve been writing for seven years. This is a part of me, and I’m not sure what I would do without it. If I search him out, everything will change
.

  No. I’ll wait a little longer.

  I look at the clock, seeing that it’s almost time. My friends will be here in a few minutes.

  Picking up a piece of chalk out of the tray on my desk, I walk to the wall next to my bedroom door and continue drawing little frames around the pictures I’d taped up. There are four.

  Me last fall in cheerleading, surrounded by girls who look exactly like me. Me last summer in my Jeep, with my friends piled in the back. Me in eighth grade celebrating 80’s Day, smiling and posing with my whole class.

  In every picture, I’m up front. The leader. Looking happy.

  And then there’s the picture in fourth grade. Years earlier. Sitting alone on a bench on the playground, forcing a half-smile for my mom who brought me to Movie Night at my school. All the other kids are running around, and every time I ran up and tried to join in, they acted like I wasn’t there. They always ran off without me and never waited. They wouldn’t include me in their conversations.

  Tears spring to my eyes, and I reach out and touch the face in the picture. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. Like I was at a party I wasn’t invited to.

  God, how I’ve changed.

  “Ryen!” I hear someone call from the hallway.

  I sniffle and quickly wipe away a tear as my sister opens my door and waltzes into my room without knocking. I clear my throat, pretending to work on the wall as she peeks around the door.

  “Bedtime,” she says.

  “I’m eighteen,” I point out like that should explain everything.

  I don’t look at her as I color in the same section I finished yesterday. I mean, really? It’s ten o’clock, and she’s only a year older. I’m more responsible than she is.

  I can smell her perfume, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that her blonde hair is down. Great. That probably means she has some guy coming over and will be well-distracted when I slip out of the house in a bit.

  “Mom texted,” she tells me. “Did you finish Math?”

  “Yes.”

  “Government?”

  “I finished my outline,” I say. “I’ll work on the paper this weekend.”

  “English?”

  “I posted my review for Brave New World on Goodreads and sent Mom the link.”

  “What book did you pick next?” she asks.

  I scowl at the wall as white shavings drift to the floor. “Fahrenheit 451.”

  She scoffs. “The Jungle, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451…” she goes on, listing my latest non-school books Mom gives me extra allowance to read. “God, you have boring taste in books.”

  “Mom said to choose modern classics,” I argue back. “Sinclair, Huxley, Orwell…”

  “I think she meant like The Great Gatsby or something.”

  I close my eyes and drop my head back, releasing a snore before popping it back up again, mocking her.

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a brat.”

  “When in Rome…”

  My sister graduated last year and goes to the local college while living at home. It’s a great arrangement for our mom, who’s an event coordinator and is frequently out of town for festivals, concerts, and expos. She doesn’t want to leave me alone.

  But honestly, I have no idea why she puts Carson in charge. I make better grades and stay out of trouble—as far as they’re aware—a hell of a lot better than her.

  Plus, my sister only wants me in bed and out of the way so she can get it on with whatever guy is on his way over here right now.

  Like I’m going to tell our mom.

  Like I care.

  “I’m just saying,” she says, planting a hand on her hip, “those books are a lot to wrap your head around.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.” I play along. “All those big concepts inside my itty bitty brain. It’s enough to make me feel as dumb as a bag of wet hair.” And then I assure her, “But don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I need help. Now can I get my nine hours? Coach is taking us through a circuit in the morning.”

  She shoots me a little snarl and glances at my wall. “I can’t believe Mom let you do this to your room.”

  And then she spins around and pulls the door closed.

  I look at my wall. I decorated it using black chalkboard paint about a year ago and use it to doodle, draw, and write everywhere. Misha’s lyrics are scattered over the wide expanse, as well as my own thoughts, ideas, and little scribbles.

  There are pictures and posters and lots of words, everything meaning something special to me. My whole room is like that, and I love it. It’s a place where I don’t invite anyone. Especially my friends. They’ll just make a joke out of my really bad artwork that I love and Misha’s and my words.

  I learned a long time ago that you don’t need to reveal everything inside of you to the people around you. They like to judge, and I’m happier when they don’t. Some things stay hidden.

  My phone buzzes on my bed, and I head over to pick it up.

  Outside, the text reads.

  Tapping my middle finger over the touchscreen, I shoot back, Be out in a minute.

  Finally. I have to get out of here.

  Tossing the phone down, I peel off my tank top and push my sleep shorts down my legs, letting everything drop to the floor. I dash to my arm chair and snatch up my jean shorts.

  Pulling them on, I slip a white T-shirt over my head, followed by a gray hoodie.

  The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it.

  I’m coming. I’m coming.

  Stuffing some cash and my cell phone into my pocket, I grab my flip flops and lift up my window, tossing them out and sending them flying over the roof of the porch, down to the ground.

  Scooping up my hair, I fasten it into a ponytail and climb out the window. I carefully push it down again, leaving my bedroom silent and dark as if I were asleep. Taking careful steps over the roof, I make my way over to the ladder on the side of the house, climb down to the ground, and pick up my sandals, dashing across the lawn to the road ahead where my ride waits.

  I pull open the car door.

  “Hey,” Lyla greets from the driver’s seat as I climb in. I glance back, spotting Ten in the backseat and toss him a nod.

  Slamming the door closed, I bend over and slip into my sandals, shivering. “Shit. I can’t believe how chilly it still is. Tomorrow morning’s practice is going to suck.”

  It’s April, so it’s warming up during the day, but the early morning and evening temperatures still drop below fifty. I should’ve worn pants.

  “Flip flops?” Lyla asks, sounding confused.

  “Yeah, we’re going to the beach.”

  “Nope,” Ten chimes in from the back. “We’re going to the Cove. Didn’t Trey text you?”

  I look over my shoulder at him. The Cove? “I thought they posted a caretaker on site to keep people out.”

  He shrugs, a mischievous look in his eyes.

  Oooookay. “Well, if we get caught, you two are the first ones I’m throwing under the bus.”

  “Not if we throw you first,” Lyla sing-songs, staring out at the road.

  Ten laughs behind me, and I shake my head, not really amused. The thing about being a leader is that someone’s always trying to take your job. I was joking with my comment. I don’t think she was.

  Lyla and Ten—a.k.a. Theodore Edward Neilson—are, for all intents and purposes, my friends. We’ve known each other throughout middle school and high school, Lyla and I cheer together, and they’re like my suit of armor.

  Yeah, they can be uncomfortable, they make too much noise, and they don’t always feel good, but I need them. You don’t want to be alone in high school, and if you have friends—good ones or not—you have a little power.

  High school is like prison in that way. You can’t make it on your own.

  “I’ve got Chucks on the floor back there,” Lyla tells Ten. “Get them for her, would you?”

  He dips down, rustling through what is probab
ly a mountain of crap on the floor of the 90’s BMW Lyla’s mom passed down to her.

  Ten drops one shoe over the seat and then hands me the other one as soon as he finds it.

  “Thanks.” I take the shoes, slip off my sandals, and begin putting them on.

  I’m grateful for the shoes. The Cove will be filthy and wet.

  “I wish I’d known sooner,” I say, thinking out loud. “I would’ve brought my camera.”

  “Who wants to take pictures?” Lyla shoots back. “Go find some dark little Tilt-a-Whirl car when we get there and show Trey what it means to be a man.”

  I lean back in my seat, casting a knowing smile. “I think plenty of girls have already done that.”

  Trey Burrowes isn’t my boyfriend, but he definitely wants the perks. I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length for months.

  About to graduate like us, Trey has it all. Friends, popularity, the world bowing at his precious feet... But unlike me, he loves it. It defines him.

  He’s an arrogant mouth-breather with a marshmallow for a brain and an ego as big as his man-boobs. Oh, excuse me. They’re called pecs.

  I close my eyes for a second and breathe out. Misha, where the hell are you? He’s the only one I can vent to.

  “Well,” Lyla speaks slowly, staring out the window. “He hasn’t had you, and that’s what he wants. But he’s only going to chase for so long, Ryen. It won’t take him long to move onto someone else.”

  Is that a warning? I peer at her out of the corner of my eye, feeling my heart start to race.

  What are you going to do, Lyla? Sweep in and take him from under me if I don’t put out? Delight in my loss when he gets tired of waiting and screws someone else? Is he doing someone else right now? Maybe you?

  I fold my arms over my chest. “Don’t be concerned about me,” I say, toying right back. “When I’m ready, he’ll come running. No matter whom he’s killing time with.”

  Ten laughs quietly from the backseat, always in my corner and having no idea I’m talking about Lyla.

  Not that I care if Trey comes running or not. But she’s trying to bait me, and she knows better.