Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

  “She said you’re going to prom with Trey,” my mom says, walking over to me in her bathrobe and her hair up in a bun. She empties her coffee cup into the sink. “She wanted to know your favorite color for the corsage. Why didn’t you tell us he’d asked you?”

  “I forgot.” I shrug, relaxing a little. “You were gone, and I’ve been busy.”

  Actually, I didn’t feel it was worth mentioning. Popular girl is going to prom with popular guy. My place in the yearbook is secure.

  But I care so little all of a sudden. I wonder how that happened.

  She nods, her blue eyes smiling at me as she brushes a fly-away off my cheek. “You’re too busy. You leave for college soon. I want to see you.”

  I kiss her on the cheek and grab an apple out of the bowl on the center island. “I’ll be home later.”

  “Well, where are you going now?”

  “To see a friend,” I tell her, turning and walking for the foyer. “I’ll be back.”

  “Ryen?” my mom protests.

  “Oh, just let her go,” my sister grumbles, standing up and carrying her plate to the sink. “Ryen is so busy and important now. We should be grateful when she graces us with her presence.”

  I grab my wallet and keys off the entryway table, clenching my jaw. I don’t remember the last time my sister said anything nice to me. Or me to her, for that matter.

  “Carson,” my mom warns.

  “What?” my sister says. “I’m happy for her. At least it’s not grade school when she had no friends, and I had to take her everywhere with me so she wouldn’t be alone.”

  I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth, not looking at her. She always knows what to say to make me feel small again. The smile I can usually force for my mother’s sake is pressed down deep in my stomach, contained under a pile of bricks, and the agreeable words I can always spit out don’t want to play this time. I’m tired.

  I walk out the front door and hop in my Jeep before she says anything else. I don’t care if it’s just his town, just his house, or whatever. I need to see something that’s Misha.

  I drive down the quiet, pristine lanes of Thunder Bay, the wind blowing through the open cab of my Jeep as loose strands of my hair fly wildly around me. The sun flickers through the leaves in the trees above, and the sea air wafts all around, filling my lungs with its fresh scent.

  Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” plays on the radio, but I don’t sing along like I usually do. And I barely notice the slight wheezing coming up from my chest as I gape at the homes and lawns on both sides of me.

  Holy shit. I’m way out of my league.

  Two and three-story homes with gates and acres and circular driveways bigger than my house stand before me, and the cars that pass by probably cost just as much.

  Jesus, Misha.

  Not that my house is shabby, of course. It’s more than big enough, and my mother has done a beautiful job decorating it, but these houses are the high-life. For once, I’m really glad I’m driving a Jeep so I can blend in. It’s the only car on the market that doesn’t give away how much or how little you’re worth. There are rich and poor Jeep enthusiasts.

  I continue driving, glancing at the map on my GPS and taking a right on Birch and then a left on Girard.

  248 Girard. I’ve known his address by heart since I was eleven. At first I thought, with us being only a half hour away from each other, of course we’d see each other eventually. When we got our licenses and had more freedom.

  But by the time that day came, we had lives, friends, and obligations, and it seemed to be enough to know we could see each other anytime we wanted to.

  If we wanted to.

  I pass the houses and read the numbers written on the columns, walls, and gates at their entrances. 212, 224, 236, and then…

  I see it. On the left with a hedge of trees and two small rock columns featuring a walk-through gate and a drive-through gate, which is currently open. It’s a three-story, Tudor-style house, balancing the wood and rock beautifully, and I pull to a stop on the other side of the road to stare at it for a minute.

  It’s quaint and picturesque but not as massive or pretentious as so many of the homes I saw on the way here.

  But it does have a fountain in the front.

  He grew up here. This is where my letters have been coming.

  No wonder he complains so much, I laugh to myself. It’s a great house, but it isn’t him at all. Misha, who got suspended for fighting twice, plays the guitar, and thinks that beef jerky and Monster energy drinks make for a healthy breakfast lives in a house that looks like it could have a butler.

  I feel my lungs growing heavy and thick, and I take out the extra inhaler I keep in a secret compartment in the console. Spring is here, and my allergies are going haywire.

  I take two puffs, slowly feeling my lungs start to open up again.

  I check my phone, seeing the time is nearly ten. I can’t sit here all day, can I? I look up, noticing a couple of women jogging toward me on the sidewalk, and I hear a kid yelling from somewhere in the neighborhood. I tap my foot against the pedal, suddenly torn.

  I said I wasn’t going to get out of the car, but... Being this close, possibly only feet away from him, I miss him so much. I need to know what’s going on.

  If I go up to that door, our relationship is over as I know it. Maybe it will go on in some other way, when I find out what’s wrong with him, but it won’t be the same once I see his face. Things will change, and I will have broken what worked. It will be awkward, and he won’t have been prepared for me just to show up like this. What if we both just sit there, twiddling our thumbs and not saying anything, because I’m the crazy stalker who hunted him down, and now he feels weird?

  “Screw it,” I snap, realizing I’m talking to myself, but I don’t care.

  I rely on him. I have a right to. We’ve had that commitment for seven years. If he doesn’t want me to show up, then he damn-well should’ve written back and told me it was over. I have a right to know what’s going on.

  Pushing open my door, I hop out of my Jeep and slam it shut. With weak legs and shallow breaths, I jog across the street, pushing my fear out of my head.

  Don’t think. Just go. He’s driving me crazy, and I need it to end. I just need to know.

  Walking up the driveway, I dart my eyes around, looking at the windows to see if anyone sees me approaching. I smooth my hair back, readjusting my ponytail as I step up to the door.

  I should’ve dressed right. I should be wearing make-up. What if he’s home and sees me and starts laughing? I’m a mess.

  No, Misha knows me. He’s the only one who knows the real me. He won’t care what I look like.

  I pull the collar of my shirt away from my body and dip my nose in, sniffing. I shower twice a day—at night because I usually get sweaty at cheer and swim and in the morning after my workouts—but I didn’t have one yet today.

  Smells fine, I guess. Although my sister did say once that you can’t smell yourself.

  I bring up my hand and rap on the door several times. Then I see a doorbell to the right. Dammit, I should’ve rung that.

  It doesn’t matter. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging myself, and shift on my feet as I bow my head and close my eyes.

  Misha, Misha, Misha, where are you?

  I hear the door open, and my heart skips a beat.

  “Yes?” someone says.

  I blink up and immediately relax a little, taking in a little more air. It’s a man, much older than Misha would be, with graying dark hair and green eyes. His dad?

  He’s wearing a dark blue robe, tied over a full set of pajamas, and embarrassment warms my cheeks. It’s a Saturday morning. Maybe he just woke up.

  “Uh, hi,” I finally say, unfolding and then folding my arms again. “Is, uh…Misha here? By any chance?”

  I see his back straighten a little, as if on guard. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t,” he replies quietly.

  He isn’t. So he lives he
re. This is his house. I don’t know why having that confirmed fills me with dread and excitement at the same time.

  And this guy must be his father.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask as politely as I can. “I’m a friend of his.”

  His chest rises with a heavy breath and his gaze falls. I notice his cheeks look sunken, and he has bags under his eyes, as if he’s sick or tired or something.

  “If you’re a friend, I’m sure you can call him and find out,” he says.

  I falter. Yeah, if I were his friend, why wouldn’t I have his cell number?

  Maybe he knows who Ryen is. Maybe I should tell him who I am.

  “Would you like to leave a message?” he prompts, starting to inch back and preparing to close the door.

  “No,” I rush out. “Thank you, sir.”

  He nods and swings the door closed.

  But I shoot my hand out, stopping him. “Sir?” He looks up, stopping. “Is he okay?” I ask. “I just… I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

  His father is silent for a moment, watching me, before answering with a resolute tone. “He’s fine.”

  And then he closes the door, and I stand on the front step, frozen and confused.

  What does that mean?

  I guess I should be happy, right? He’s fine, isn’t he?

  He lives here. His father says he’s not home right now, which means he’s home sometimes, so he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army.

  But I don’t feel happy.

  He’s fine. He lives here. He’s not home right now. Everything’s normal. Nothing’s changed.

  So if he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army, then why the hell isn’t he writing me anymore?

  I spin around and charge for my Jeep, knowing what Ryen, Misha’s friend, would do. She’d never give up. She’d keep writing with undying loyalty, trusting that he has a good reason.

  But the Ryen that Misha doesn’t know, the survivor, is taking hold right now, and she doesn’t like being played with.

  You know my address, asshole. Use it or don’t.

  I’m not holding my breath anymore.

  “Can you believe Masen Laurent?” Lyla sneers, standing next to my locker as Ten texts on his phone beside her. She stares over her shoulder at Masen and a group of guys on the other side of the hallway. “He probably got kicked out of his last school for fighting, and Trey’s getting tons of shit on Facebook for that fight.” She narrows her eyes on Masen. “Definitely hot, but what an asshole. He should be arrested.”

  Trey’s getting shit for that fight? I keep my smirk to myself. You mean for getting his ass kicked.

  I glance over at Masen who’s surrounded by four other guys, all of them laughing and joking around as if they’ve been best friends forever. Masen smiles at one of them and shakes his head, sucking a straw between his lips as he takes a drink from a 7-Eleven cup.

  I feel my cheeks warm. Those lips. I couldn’t get enough of them Friday night, and he didn’t even kiss me.

  What if Lyla and Ten found out right now that he had me in the backseat of his car, and I didn’t want to stop?

  He seems to sense me watching him, because he turns his head toward me, both of us locking gazes across the crowded hall. His green eyes pin me to my spot, something hot flashing in them, and I suddenly can’t move a step. I spin back around, throwing my books in my locker.

  “Yeah, well,” I reply, forcing my voice flat and bored. “He seems to be finding his crowd.”

  “Yeah, the bottom of the barrel,” Lyla jokes, looking at the guys Masen is standing with. “All those guys will be in jail in a year.”

  They seem like the type. Masen has been here less than a week and already has a crowd of friends, all of whom seem to fit his style. A few piercings here, some tattoos there, and probably all of them well-versed on the bail process.

  “So I heard you ditched him at the car wash?” Ten tosses his gum into the gray trash can against the wall between my locker and a classroom door. “You’re so bad.”

  “Yeah, well.” I pull out my phone, so I can take it to lunch. “My time is precious. He better get used to manual labor, anyway.”

  Lyla and Ten snort, all of us shooting amused glances over at the delinquents.

  Friday Masen didn’t have any friends, and now… I’ll bet anything they came to him, too. Not the other way around.

  Now everyone knows him.

  “He keeps looking at you,” Ten says.

  I pretend disinterest as I cast a quick glance over to Masen.

  My pulse starts to race.

  He stands, leaning his back against the locker, and his eyes are on me. Challenging, amused, hot…like he hasn’t forgotten where we left off at all.

  “He can look all he wants,” I say, slamming my locker door and meeting his eyes as I speak to my friends. “He’s never gonna get it.”

  The corner of Masen’s mouth lifts in a smile across the hall, like he knows I’m talking shit about him.

  “But if he does,” Ten chimes in. “Make sure I’m the first to know, okay? I want details.”

  “I’m going to prom with Trey.” I hood my eyes at Ten. “Masen Laurent can admire from afar and enjoy the view.”

  Both of my friends laugh, but just then, something hits the garbage can and a stream of clear liquid shoots out and right for us. Soda splashes onto the floor, I gasp as it hits my legs and causes Lyla and Ten to jump back as sticky fluid hits their ankles and shoes.

  “Asshole!” Lyla screams across the hallway.

  Masen pushes off the lockers, still holding his straw as he chews on it, smirking. His friends follow, all of them chuckling.

  He must’ve thrown his soda from over there, into the garbage can.

  Prick.

  “Sorry, Rocks.” Masen pulls the straw out of his mouth, a cocky look in his eyes as he stares at me. “Didn’t mean to make you dirty.”

  His words are filled with innuendo, and his friends laugh louder around him. I flex my jaw, dying to slap that smile off his face as he and his new friends walk away, down the hall, and toward the lunchroom.

  He never fails to make an impression, does he?

  “Jerk,” Lyla grits out. “I’m going to the bathroom to clean up.”

  She brushes past me and Ten follows her, shaking his head with an amused smile. “We’ll meet you in the lunchroom,” he says as he passes.

  I turn and reopen my locker, taking out the cashmere scarf Masen ruined. It’s already dirty, so what does it matter? I dry off my legs and ankles and throw it back in the locker, making a mental note to take it home tonight and get it cleaned.

  The bell rings, and I head to the cafeteria, actually feeling hungry enough to leave my books in my locker today and eat something.

  But when I pass the Physics lab, I see something dark come at me on my left, and I barely have time to realize it’s Masen before he shoves me through the door. I stumble into the empty classroom, sucking in a breath as he shuts the door and advances on me, backing me up into the wall.

  My heart pounds in my chest, and butterflies flutter in my stomach. But I stamp it down. I look at him with my hands on my hips and my chin up, forcing myself to look calm.

  He stares down at me, not saying anything as his chest touches mine. The room is dark, except for the dim light coming through the windows, and muffled sounds of laughter and talking drift through the wall from the lunchroom.

  He’s close.

  Everything heats up under my skin, and his breath falls across my lips.

  “This cheerleading outfit is fucking lame,” he says.

  I cock my head. “Funny, ‘cause you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off me in it a minute ago.”

  His eyes drop to my lips, and he leans in, both of our breaths turning shallow, and I can almost taste him.

  I lick my lips.

  And he loses it.

  He reaches down, grabs the backs of my thighs and hauls me up, and I wrap my arms
and legs around him, letting out a small whimper. Yes.

  I part my lips, running them over the lip ring and savoring the feel as he groans and digs his fingers into my thighs. I tighten my legs around him, needing to feel him.

  “Bitch,” he whispers.

  “Loser.”

  And when I dart out the tip of my tongue to lick the little piece of metal again, he’s done being patient.

  Masen Laurent slams his lips down on mine, moving hard over my mouth and brushing his tongue with mine, the heat and taste sending my mind reeling. I stop breathing. I don’t care. I just go in for more and more.

  He bites my bottom lip, moving his hands to my ass and squeezing, and I let out a little cry, the feel of him driving me mad. I don’t want people to hear us, but right now I don’t care about anything.

  My eyes close as his lips and teeth move over my neck, sending shivers down my spine. Heat gathers low in my belly as I tighten my thighs around him.

  I want to be closer.

  He presses his groin into me, and I come back down, taking his lips and dipping my tongue in, teasing him like that every time I come in for a kiss.

  “Keep doing that,” he gasps.

  I hear laughter outside and jump, twisting my head toward the door.

  But he doesn’t let my head leave the game. He reaches over and twists the lock and then carries me over to a chair at a lab table and sits down, keeping me straddling him.

  Grabbing my hips, he brings me chest to chest. “Did you think about me this weekend?” He bites my lip and lets go. “Hmm?”

  The feel of his teeth sends my stomach flipping, but I bite out anyway, “You wish.”

  I press my body into him and sink my lips into his as he pulls my hips in again.

  “You were talking shit to your dumb friends, weren’t you?” he pants, his kisses and nibbles quick and teasing. “I never wanted to teach someone a lesson as badly as I wanted to teach you one just now.” He pulls me again, my clit grinding against the bulge in his jeans. “I should’ve walked over, flipped up your skirt, and started going down on you right there, so they all know what you really like.”

  I start rolling my hips, slow and taunting, but when he darts out and tries to catch my lips again, I pull away, teasing him. “You don’t know what I like.”