“I don’t think so,” I say breathlessly, still confused.
Why break into my locker and not take anything?
I look around nervously, noticing no one else’s locker has been vandalized that I can tell.
“I wonder what that means,” Ten says.
“What?” I look up, following his gaze.
He holds my locker door closed, showing me the word written in black Sharpie on the front.
Empty.
I stare at it, confused. What?
My lungs feel heavy, and I search my brain, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
Empty? And why just my locker?
I gather up all of my belongings and pack them in my duffel, completely creeped out that someone was doing this while I was at practice. The office is closed now, but I’m definitely reporting this in the morning.
Slipping on my black fleece jacket, I head out to the parking lot with Ten and climb into my car as he hops into his. I immediately lock my doors.
I’ll have to get a new locker tomorrow, too. I can’t carry all this shit with me every day. Even if there’s only a little over a month left of school.
Goddammit. Who would root around in my stuff? Not everyone likes me—in fact, Ten is the only person who probably doesn’t have a motive to piss me off—but no one in particular sticks out. And what if it happens again?
I quickly drive home and pull into my driveway, parking in the garage and seeing no other cars home yet. My sister is probably still in class, and my mother’s car is parked at the airport, waiting for her when she gets back tomorrow morning.
I stare down at my phone screen, sending a quick reply to her text that she sent earlier.
I’ll be home late tomorrow. Cheer…swim…, I type.
K. Dinner will be waiting, she replies. Don’t forget to pack extra food tomorrow.
Yeah, yeah. I stuff my phone in my duffel. A couple nights a week, I stay late at school for cheer practice and then to teach swim lessons for a couple of hours afterward. I have a small break in between to eat something, since I won’t be home for dinner, and to get some homework done.
Closing the garage door, I gather my bags and enter the kitchen through the door off the carport, grabbing a water bottle out of the fridge before dashing up the stairs.
I’ll feel better after a shower.
With what happened to my locker and the episode in the cafeteria today, it’s been a long time since I’ve had that feeling. People don’t laugh at me, and guys like him don’t put me in my place. I’m not going to let him in my head like I let them in all those years ago. I’m stronger now.
I swing my bedroom door open and walk in, my bags falling from my hands.
What the fuck?!
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout.
Masen, the new guy, sits in my desk chair, leaning back with his hands locked behind his head. I hear music and glance over at my iPod dock, seeing that he’s playing Garbage’s “Stupid Girl.”
He smirks and stares at me, relaxing as if he hasn’t broken into my house and planted his ass somewhere it doesn’t belong.
“Hello?” I bark. “What are you doing in my room, asshole?”
Exhaling a slow breath, he jerks his chin at me. “I went to, what I assume is, your sister’s room first. That seems more you. Hot pink princess bullshit with the zebra print bedding.”
I quickly close my door, not wanting my sister to get home and see him in here. “How did you get in?”
But he ignores me and keeps going. “However, I don’t think it was your name in purple neon lights above the bed.” He starts laughing, probably at my sister’s stupid narcissistic decorating, and stands up. “Ryen, right?” he asks, looking around my room. “I must say, this is not at all what I expected.”
I’m a lot of what you’re not expecting, dickhead. “Get out.”
“Make me.”
I fist my hands. “How did you get in?”
“Through the front door.” He steps toward me. “So where is it?”
I pinch my eyebrows together, confused. “Where’s what?”
“My shit.” His teeth are bared, his smile gone.
His shit? What’s he talking about?
“Get out!” I yell. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You seem nervous.”
“You think?!” I retort. “I don’t like strange guys in my house, and I really don’t like anyone in my room.”
“Don’t care,” he replies, looking bored. “You took something of mine. Two things of mine, actually, and I want them back.”
“No, I didn’t. Now get out!”
He reaches behind himself and pulls something out of the back of his jeans, holding it up. My face falls, and a knot tightens in my stomach.
Shit. My notebook.
A large, white leather-bound diary of rants and pity parties I’ve thrown for myself over the past three years, and something I don’t want anyone to see. Ever. Every bad thought or feeling I’ve ever had about myself, my family, and my friends, that I couldn’t voice out loud, is in that book.
How did he find it?
“Under the mattress isn’t exactly a novel idea, you know?” he says. “And yes, I read that part. And the other one. And the other one.”
My heart pounds in my ears, and a scream creeps its way up my throat.
I lunge for him.
I grab hold of the book, but he shoves me back, and I stumble onto the bed, his body coming down on mine.
I grunt and cry out, trying to get the book.
He reaches for something, and then my scissors from my desk is pointing at my face. I freeze, staring at the tip.
“Don’t worry,” he taunts in a dark voice. “I won’t make sure this falls into your mom’s hands. I’m going to rip out every fucking page and plaster them all over school, so listen loud and clear, you stupid cunt. I’m done talking to you, and I’m done looking at you. I want the locket, and I want the piece of paper you took at the Cove.”
“The Cove?” I gasp under the weight of his body. “Wha—“
What the hell is he talking about?
And then I pause as it hits me. The Cove. Last night. The piece of paper.
I want a lick while you still taste like you.
And then today… You taste like shit.
I stare at him, dumb-founded. “Oh, my God.”
That was his room?
I was right. There was someone there in the tunnel. He saw us.
And then I widen my eyes. He was the one who broke into my locker! That’s why nothing was missing. He didn’t find what he was looking for.
He darts to my side and snaps the scissors, and I wince as he brings the scissors back up, a few of my light brown hairs floating in the air.
“Stop!” I yell. “I don’t…I…”
His dark green eyes narrow on me, threatening and cutting right through me.
I growl, grappling for my pillow and reaching inside, pulling out a folded, worn piece of paper.
I shove it at his chest.
He takes the paper. “Now the necklace.”
“I didn’t take a necklace!” I shout. “Just the paper.”
He snaps the scissors at my hair again, and I scream. “Dammit! I told you! I didn’t take it! It—”
Ten. Ten was with me. He took it.
Shit.
“What?” Masen growls, probably seeing the realization on my face.
I breathe hard, flexing my jaw. “My friend was with me. I’ll get it. Alright? I’ll get it. Now get off me!”
He pauses, staring down at me. But eventually he pushes off the bed and tosses the scissors onto the desk, sliding the poem into his back pocket.
I shoot up, grabbing at my ponytail and finding the small bit of hair that was snipped. Only about half an inch from a few strands.
I scowl at him. “Prick.”
“Tomorrow,” he orders, ignoring my insult. “The parking lot
after school.” And then he holds up my notebook. “I’m keeping this as insurance.”
“No. I don’t trust you.”
“What do ya know, Rocks?” He smiles. “Something we have in common. I don’t trust you, either.” He curls the notebook, squeezing it in his fist. “Now don’t waste any more of my time. Tomorrow.”
I grind my teeth, watching him walk toward the door. He stops in the doorway and turns around, taking a last look around my room.
“You know… I really do like your room,” he muses. “Maybe if you were more like this at school, people wouldn’t talk behind your back so much.”
He walks out, slamming the door behind him, and my face falls.
I stare at the word written on the back of my door, in large, chalk letters that I didn’t write.
Fraud.
The next morning, I make my way to Ten’s locker, but only after stopping by the school office and reporting my own vandalized and getting a new one assigned. Students crowd the halls, and I hold my books in my arm and turn inward, trying to avoid any attention.
“Do you have it?” I ask without saying hello first.
He glances up from his locker and sighs, looking a little embarrassed. I’d texted him last night, demanding he bring the locket today.
Reaching into the pocket of his knee-length shorts, he pulls out a long chain with a circular, silver locket hanging off it.
I take it, instantly feeling a little relief at having what that asshole wants. Now I can get my notebook back.
“Why would you take this?” I snap. Did he think it would go well with his J. Crew T-shirts?
But Ten just shrugs. “It looked like an antique. I thought maybe it might be worth something.”
I slip the necklace into my pocket. “Klepto.”
“How did you know I took it anyway?”
Because the hot new guy, who also happens to be squatting in an abandoned theme park, broke into my bedroom last night, cut my hair, and threatened to expose my hideous inner musings about all of my friends if I didn’t get it back.
Yeah, no.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” I say, ignoring his question and turning around to head to Art.
Digging the necklace back out of my pocket as I walk, I flip it over, studying the aged silver and intricate detail around the large moonstone set in the middle. Ten is right. It looks like an antique. There are several scratches, and the metal feels thicker, more solid than your typical Target jewelry.
What does the necklace mean to Masen Laurent, though? I open the locket, slowly climbing the stairwell, the people jogging and laughing around me a distant echo.
But as soon as I pop it open, I dig in my eyebrows, seeing, not pictures as I expected, but a tiny, folded-up piece of paper.
Taking it out, I unwrap it and turn it over, reading the words.
Close your eyes. There’s nothing to see out here.
I slow to a stop, staring at the note and saying the words to myself again.
It sounds familiar, like I’ve heard them before. Or said them or something…
The second bell rings, our one-minute warning, and I fold the paper back up, stuffing it into the locket and closing it.
Everyone around me hustles up and down the stairs, and I jog to my class, slipping the necklace back into my jean shorts.
Who does the locket belong to? A family member? A girlfriend? Maybe he stole it. He’s living at the Cove, after all, and judging by the state of his hands and jeans, it doesn’t look like a parent is watching over him. He probably doesn’t have any money, and if he can break into my house without leaving a scratch, then I’m sure he’s done it before.
I’m tempted to seek him out now and get my notebook back, but it’s probably in his locker or his car, and I don’t trust him to be able to do a quick exchange without others spotting me talking to the weirdo who dumped me on my ass yesterday. I don’t want to be seen with him again.
And luckily, I don’t see him in Art today. Perhaps he got out of the class.
Or—my heart sinks a little—maybe he’s not at school today. Agitation boils under my skin. If I have to go back to that junkyard again and search him out, I’ll be pissed. I’m getting that book back.
After Art, I head to English IV, carrying my text, notebook, and copy of Lolita. But as soon as I step into the room, I spot him sitting in the row to the left of mine, one desk back.
Relief and a touch of annoyance both hit me. He wasn’t in this class yesterday. Is he going to be in any more of my classes?
But he doesn’t seem to see me. Just like yesterday in Art, the guy simply sits there, staring ahead with a slight scowl on his face as if this is all such an inconvenience to him.
I take my seat, noticing his jeans and black T-shirt are actually clean today.
Mr. Foster fires up his projector, the screen of his laptop appearing on the big white board in front of the class, and he begins making the rounds, handing back our latest essays. The final bell rings, and the class lowers their voices, quietly chattering as the teacher walks up and down the aisles.
“So I’m going to go out on a limb,” Foster says, stopping at my desk and holding my paper as he peers down at me. “Did you actually read the book, or did you read reviews?”
I hear a snort behind me—from J.D., no doubt—and I smile.
“You asked for an analysis of the story, so I watched the movie,” I explain, plucking my Anna Karenina paper out of his hand. “Spoiler alert, there was a lot of sex in it.”
Laughter breaks out, and I feel a rush hit my veins, pumping me up after my minor humiliation yesterday.
Mr. Foster and I constantly go head to head, and while Art may be the class I enjoy the most, Foster is my favorite teacher. He encourages us to use our voice and is one of the only adults to talk to his students like adults.
“I asked for an analysis of the novel, Ryen.”
“And I tried” I tell him. “I honestly did. But it was depressing and in a pointless way. What was I supposed to learn? Women, don’t cheat on your husbands in nineteenth century Russia, or you’ll be cast out of society and forced to throw yourself in front of a train?” I sit up in my seat. “Got it. And the next time I’m in nineteenth century Russia, I’m going to remember it.”
I hear J.D. chuckle again behind me and more giggles break out in the room.
But Foster lowers his voice, looking me deep in the eyes. “You’re better than this,” he whispers.
I stare at him for a moment, seeing the plea in his eyes. Seeing how highly he thinks of my intellect and how angry he is that I don’t make better use out of it.
He backs away, moving onto the next student but still speaking to me. “Read Jane Eyre, and redo it,” he demands.
I should quietly accept my punishment and be grateful he’s giving me another chance instead of accepting the C that’s written on my Anna Karenina paper right now. But I can’t resist smarting off some more.
“Can I at least read something written in the past hundred years?” I ask. “Something where a middle-aged man isn’t conning an eighteen-year-old girl into committing bigamy?”
He turns his head, a stern expression on his face. “I think you’ve dominated the class’s attention long enough, Ms. Trevarrow.”
“In fact,” I go on. “I’m seeing a trend this semester. Anna Karenina, Lolita, Girl With a Pearl Earring, Jane Eyre…all stories featuring older men and younger women. Something you want to tell us, Mr. Foster?” I wink twice, teasing the older man.
The class’s laughter is louder this time, and I can see Foster’s chest rise with a huge, exasperated breath.
“I’d like the report tomorrow,” he says. “Do you understand?”
“Absolutely,” I answer and then drop my voice to a mumble. “There are tons of Jane Eyre movies.”
The students around me snicker under their breaths, because of course I can’t read a whole novel and write a report on it with cheer and swim tonight. I end my taunt
ing, satisfied that I won that argument. In their eyes, anyway.
The air is cool and fresh as it fills my lungs.
“What about Twilight?” someone calls out.
I pause at the deep voice behind me. Mr. Foster stands in front of his desk and looks up, focusing over my head.
“Twilight?” he asks.
“Yeah, Rocks?” Masen prompts me. “Did you like Twilight?”
My heart starts beating harder. What is he doing?
But I turn my head to the side, fixing him with a bored expression. “Sure. When I was twelve. You?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, and I’m once again drawn to the piercing on his lip. “I’ll bet you loved it,” he says, the entire class listening. “I’ll bet it was what got you interested in reading. And I’ll even bet you were at the movies opening night. Did you have an Edward T-shirt, too?”
A few chuckles go off around me, and the little high I felt a moment ago is sucked away at the sight of his gloating eyes. How could he have known that?
I picked up a Twilight paperback when I was younger, because Robert Pattinson was on the cover, and hey, I was twelve, so…
But immediately after reading it, I asked my mom to go buy me all the books, and I spent the next two weeks reading them with every free moment I got.
I arch an eyebrow, looking at the teacher. “While it’s fascinating that it’s finally speaking and all, I’m, again, wondering what the point is.”
“The point is…” Masen answers, “wasn’t Edward like a hundred years older than Bella?”
Eighty-six.
“See,” he keeps going, “you’re judging stories about older men and younger women as some sick, superficial perversion on the males’ part, when actually it was quite common during those times for men to wait until they had finished their education and established a career before being ready to support a wife.”
He pauses and then continues. “A wife, which was almost always younger, because she needed to bear many children. As society dictated. And yet, your precious Edward Cullen was over a hundred years old, still in high school, living with his parents, and trying to get in the pants of a minor in the twenty-first century.”
Punk 57 Page 7
