Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

  He’s my handful. I squeeze my fists, finally raising my eyes to hers. Don’t worry, lady. I know exactly how to handle my problems. Your son will stay out of my way, or I’ll make him stay out of my way.

  She smiles, and I stand up, not waiting to be dismissed. I walk out of her office, feeling my stomach uncurl and taking in quick, shallow breaths when the adrenaline finally hits me, coursing down my arms and legs. Once outside the office doors, standing in the empty hallway, I stop and smile to myself.

  She didn’t find me out. Not only can I leave whenever I want, but I can stay as long as I like.

  No one knows.

  “You’re just smearing it,” an amused voice says behind me.

  I turn my head to see Ryen standing with her back to her open locker, smirking. I take my hand away from the back of my neck, throwing the wet paper towel in the trash next to the water fountain. While I thought I wouldn’t care about having Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole written on my neck for everyone to see, I was wrong. I feel like an idiot.

  She turns and reaches into her locker, pulling out a long piece of fabric. “Wanna borrow a scarf?”

  She laughs, and I arch an eyebrow, unamused. Glancing into her locker, I see the bottle she loaned the janitor this morning back on the shelf, and I walk over. “Nail polish remover. Now.”

  But she simply folds her arms over her chest and positions herself in front of her locker, not budging.

  “Don’t play with me.” I hold out my hand. “We’ve been keeping our shit PG. I can go R if you want.”

  She twists up her lips and lets out a small sigh. “Fine. I can pick my battles, I guess.”

  She twists around and takes out the bottle, flinging it toward me. I catch it and twist off the cap, quickly pulling the scarf out of her hands, too.

  “Hey!”

  But it’s too late. I dump some of the acetone onto the soft beige fabric and use it to rub the pen off on the back of my neck.

  “Bastard!” she cries out. “That’s cashmere!”

  I pull the scarf away from my neck, seeing the black ink now on her scarf and off my neck. At least most of it, I think.

  “Yeah.” I toss the scarf back at her and cap the bottle. “It works great. Thanks.”

  She twists up her face in anguish and holds up the scarf with both hands, inspecting the damage.

  I set the bottle back on her shelf and walk off before we have time to get into it again. I hear her let out a little growl behind me and slam her locker shut as I make my way for the front of the school.

  I need to stop challenging her, despite the amusement I feel. Engaging her is just too easy. Why, when I walk into this building, is she the first thought that comes to my mind and not the real reason I’m here?

  If she hadn’t happened upon my spot at the Cove and stolen my shit that night, I might never have crossed her path here. Maybe we would’ve been in some of the same classes, while I lurked quietly around, waiting to take care of business, but I never intended to…

  No. That’s not right. I knew better. I kind of knew this would happen, and I knew I was walking into a temptation. I knew Ryen would be here, I knew I would see her and hear her, and I knew my attention would be drawn to her, because despite everything else on my mind, I wouldn’t be able to contain my curiosity.

  And then when I found out she was popular, not an outcast, and a cardboard cut-out, not at all original, I became angry. She led me to believe those things, and my muse was a lie.

  Until yesterday in the parking lot when I bit and she bit back.

  That’s my Ryen.

  And I want to see more.

  I take out my keys and glance around me, checking the windows of the main house. I didn’t see my dad’s car in the driveway, but it could be in the garage, too. Since he deals in antiques and art, owning a few shops along the coast, his schedule is flexible. He can be gone all day or home at any time.

  I unlock the guest house door and step inside, closing it behind me. It’s not even noon, so it’s still light out, but I blacked out most of the windows when I moved in here after Annie’s death. I take out my small flashlight and switch it on. I don’t want to turn on the big light in case my dad sees.

  Most of my clothes and belongings are still here, and since Dane wants to grill me every time I mooch off his washer and dryer, I decided to come back here and pick up some more stuff to avoid his third degree this time.

  I left school after the scarf thing with Ryen, leaving my truck in the parking lot and taking the ferry to Thunder Bay. I didn’t want my dad or anyone else we know to spot my car.

  He doesn’t know where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way. It isn’t like he’s called, either.

  Digging a duffel bag out of the closet, I empty drawers and stuff the clothes in the bag, bringing a folded T-shirt to my nose. The scent brings needles to my throat.

  Annie’s fabric softener. She was good about doing the laundry, since my dad was busy and I always did it wrong. I complained about the flowery scents she used for my clothes, but now I close my eyes, feeling only home. I made sure to keep using it after she was gone. Nothing would change. We would never change anything she did.

  Annie. I blink, feeling my eyes water. I finish gathering the clothes I need and pack an extra pair of shoes as well as the pictures of Annie and me that I have taped to the wall above my desk.

  I pass by my guitar, resting on the stand, and a pile of our band’s posters that never got used. Three months ago I had three things I loved. My music, my sister, and…

  Everything empties from my lungs, and I turn away from the guitar, unable to look at the fucking thing. It doesn’t matter what I had. Annie’s gone now. My words are gone, and Ryen’s… I don’t know what she is.

  And that’s when it occurs to me. I got a letter from her last week. She’s probably sent me another one by now, since she writes like I breathe air. Not that I ever minded, though. They were the best things to come home to.

  I leave the guest house, carrying the duffel bag and locking up behind me. I notice that everything seems darker, and I look up and see thunder clouds hovering low. Shit. Did I leave the windows down in my truck? I better get back to school. Falcon’s Well might not get hit with the rain, but it’s possible.

  I hurry to the back door of the main house and unlock it, dashing inside. The kitchen is dark, so my dad must be out. Heading over to the counter, I find the pile of mail, all of it mine, and immediately scan for a smoky black envelope with a skull seal.

  But I don’t find one. There’s nothing there but college brochures and credit card applications. Has she stopped writing me then?

  Relax, dude. You came home last week and checked, and there was a letter there. It’s only been six days.

  But I’m curious to see if she writes about Masen. What will she say about him?

  Ryen rarely ever mentions another guy in her letters. After the one she told me about when she was sixteen—the one she lowered her standards for—she seems to have kept guys at a distance. In fact, it’s almost like she’s lost interest, because she told me that foreplay is overrated in a letter once.

  I told her I might consider that a challenge. After all, seven years of writing letters is epic foreplay, and she’s addicted.

  Six days. My last letter from her was six days ago. Her last letter from me was over three months ago. I made her promise never to stop writing me, and she never has. She remains constant, even despite the lack of faith she must have by now that I’ll ever write her again.

  My shoulders slump a little, thinking about how she’s always been there for me. Her bullshit pisses me off, but to Misha, she’s been a friend. And a very good one.

  Annie would be disappointed in me if I treated badly the only person left who loved everything about me.

  Goddammit. Fuck.

  I let out a hard sigh and walk into the hallway, rounding the bannister and jogging up the stairs. Approaching my sister’s room, I slowly twist the door k
nob and enter, her smell and the remnants of her carpet freshener suddenly wafting over me.

  My heart aches, seeing everything the way she left it. Tidy and ready for her to come home from her jog that night. A bed she would never sleep in again, make-up she would never touch again, assignments that lay unfinished on her desk…

  An ache lodges in my throat, and I feel like I want to scream. Annie, what were you thinking? But then I’m angry with myself, too. And my dad. How did we not see it? Why didn’t we take care of her better?

  I walk slowly over to her dresser and open drawers carefully and quietly, as if she’ll come bursting in at any moment, scolding me for being in her room. When I open the top drawer of her chest I see her scarves, folded neatly and stacked in two piles. I smell her perfume, and my chest shakes with a sob that I force back down as I sift through, finding one that feels like Ryen’s. It’s not beige, but it’s cashmere. I feel a moment’s guilt, but my sister would rather Ryen have it than let it sit in her empty room, forgotten.

  I pull out the light blue scarf and close the drawer, sticking it in my duffel bag.

  “Hello?” I hear a muffled call from the hallway.

  I jerk my head toward the doorway, recognizing the voice.

  My father. “Shit.”

  I look around, knowing there’s no other way out of here. I slip behind the privacy screen my sister put up as decoration by the wall and lock my teeth together to calm my breathing.

  I see a shadow block out the hallway light streaming through the doorway and falling on the carpet.

  “Misha?” my father asks hesitantly. “Are you here?”

  He knows I’m here. He has to. I left Annie’s door open when I came in, and it’s always closed.

  But I don’t move. I can’t talk to him.

  I peer through the holes in the screen, trying to see him, but I can’t. He’s not in my eyesight.

  He doesn’t say anything more, but I watch as his shadow falls farther into the room, my pulse pounding in my ears.

  He enters my sight as he sits at the end of the bed, wearing his usual shirt, tie, and sweater vest. He used to dress me like that when I was a kid. Until I turned nine and started having an opinion. That was the beginning of our fighting.

  “You were always so different,” he says, staring off.

  I can barely breathe.

  “T-shirts and jeans to family functions, guitar lessons instead of the violin or piano, always so difficult to get motivated for anything other than what you wanted to do…always so difficult. Period.”

  My eyes water, but I don’t budge. He’s right. In his head, I fought about everything. I made arguments where there weren’t any.

  In my head I just wanted him to accept me. That’s why I held onto Ryen so hard for so long.

  “I stopped being able to talk to you,” he nearly whispers. And then he drops his eyes, correcting, “I stopped finding a way to talk to you.”

  He picks up my sister’s blanket at the end of the bed and slowly brings it to his nose, and then his body immediately shakes as he lets out a sob.

  I pull my lip ring in between my teeth and tug until I feel a sting. Everything hurts, and I hate this. I hate that Annie’s room is empty. I hate that our house is dark. I hate that I don’t know where I’m supposed to be—I don’t belong anywhere. And I hate that I hate he’s alone. He didn’t comfort me after Annie’s death. Why should I want to be here for him?

  And why do I feel a sudden need to tell Ryen everything? For her to know what I haven’t said and to tell me just the right thing, just like she does in her letters. To forget Falcon’s Well and what I’m doing there.

  To go back, simply because that’s where she is.

  I make it back to the school just as the final bell is ringing. The rain had started in Thunder Bay just as I jumped on the ferry, but it still held off here, the clouds threatening but not giving in yet.

  My father left Annie’s room as soon as he started crying, and once I heard the hum of Brahms coming from his office, I knew it was safe to get out of the house. He’d be in there the rest of the night, drinking scotch and working on his model WWII battlefield.

  I can see the soccer team practicing on the field off to my right, and I hook the duffel bag over my head, hanging it across my chest. Digging the scarf out of my bag, I reach into Ryen’s Jeep and set it on the driver’s seat. I pull my Sharpie out of my pocket and look around, pulling out a small piece of paper I spot in a cup holder. I leave a note on the back of the receipt.

  You’ll look better in blue. (And no, I didn’t steal it.)

  I drop it on top of the scarf as students start flooding the parking lot and climbing into their cars. It’s Friday afternoon, so I doubt Ryen has any team practices, but I keep an eye on her Jeep anyway as I head to my truck, making sure no one tries to take it out of the open cab.

  I toss my duffel in the bed of my truck but suddenly look up, noticing people crowding around my hood, at the front of my vehicle. They stare at something, and unease coils its way through my body. What now?

  Gasps and whispers fill the air, and more people head over. I charge to the front of the truck and stop, finding a whole fucking mess.

  Large circles of white paint are splattered on my hood, shooting out in all directions and spilling down the sides, as if someone took a paintball gun and used the car for target practice. Some of it is already dried, which means it was done a while ago, probably right after I left campus.

  And right in the middle, on top of the hood, in big white letters, is the word FAG sitting bright and loud, glaring back at me.

  Rage heats up every single muscle in my body. Motherfucker.

  I raise my eyes, anger and readiness boiling under my skin as I let my gaze slowly scan the parking lot. I spot Trey Burrowes near what I assume is his car—a blue Camaro that his doting little step-mommy probably bought him. I ignore the people gathering around and narrow my eyes, seeing him stroll around all cocky, chewing on a straw and shooting Lyla a lascivious glance that his best friend probably doesn’t see.

  I take off. Stalking right for him, I dig in my heels, ready to slam his fucking face into the hood of his fucking car. I’m almost glad he’s picking a fight right now. I’ve wanted to hit something all day.

  I hear someone call “Masen” but I don’t stop to find out who. I lunge straight for him and grab his collar, throwing him around and slamming him up against his car.

  He growls, taking my jaw in his hand and trying to push me off, but I twist away from him and swing my fist back, landing a punch in his stomach.

  I hear screams and shouts around me, feeling a crowd close in, and I quickly grab him again, slamming him against the car.

  “Fuck you, faggot,” he bursts out, swinging his fist back and knocking me in the face. The metallic taste of blood seeps into my mouth from the inside of my cheek, but I still don’t release my hold on him.

  “Can’t take a joke?” he yells.

  I bring my knee up, hitting him in his stomach. He hunches over, and I raise my fist high, pounding down on the back of his head twice.

  “Masen, stop!” I hear someone yell, and I think it’s Ryen.

  I grab him by the collar again and throw him down on the ground, sweat covering my back and my lungs begging for air. But before I can get to him and land another hit, hands grab my upper arms and haul me back. I struggle against the hold, and the guy holding me stumbles forward, trying to keep a grip on me as I glare at Trey.

  “What’s going on?” a woman barks.

  “It took you long enough!” Trey snarls at the guy behind me, and I gather it must be J.D., his friend, holding me back.

  The principal appears between us, looking at me as Trey pushes himself off the ground. “Calm down!” she orders me.

  I breathe hard, dragging in air through my nose. Every muscle in my body is tight, and I keep my eyes on Trey as the arms behind me finally let go.

  “What happened?” Burrowes demands, look
ing between us.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Trey shouts. “This asshole shows up and jumps on me!”

  She looks to me for an answer, but I don’t say anything. Everyone stands around us, their attention held captivated, a few people putting away phones now that the principal is here, and I can’t help but let out a small smile, seeing a drop of blood at the corner of Trey’s mouth.

  “Whose car is that?” the principal questions, gesturing to my truck off to the right.

  But Trey and I are locked in a stare, both of us refusing to say anything.

  She seems to draw her own conclusions, though, because she looks at Trey, her voice turning stern. “You will get a bucket and the hose, and you will clean every inch of it. Both of you! That better not be permanent paint.”

  “But—”

  “Now!” she cuts him off. “And I warned you what would happen if you pulled anything else…”

  “It wasn’t him, Mrs. Burrowes.”

  I blink, hearing Ryen’s voice. The principal stops and turns toward her.

  “Trey’s just covering for me,” Ryen says. I hear her voice off to the side somewhere, but I refuse to look at her.

  What the hell is she doing? I might believe she’d vandalize my car, but to write FAG on the hood? Not a chance.

  “Excuse me?” Burrowes asks her.

  “Yeah,” Ryen goes on. “It was a stupid prank. I’m sorry.”

  Voices sound off around us as everyone starts whispering, and I blink long and hard. Her prom date was about to get in trouble, and she couldn’t let that happen, could she? It would just be too humiliating to show up to prom alone.

  Stupid girl.

  “You did that to his car?”

  “It was a joke.” Ryen’s voice is calm and convincing. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take it for a car wash and pay for it. Right now.”

  “Hell no,” Trey chimes in.

  “Just shut up,” Ryen snaps at him and then lowers her voice. “I’ll be right back.”