Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

  “I don’t think I’m going to disappoint.”

  His threat lingers between us, and I look down, seeing the tip of a tattoo coming out of his shirt from his shoulder and drifting up just about an inch onto his neck. I can’t tell what it is, but I lean down and kiss it, trailing my lips slowly up his neck, to his ear.

  “Sorry to eat and run,” I whisper, “but my friends are waiting for me.”

  I don’t want to leave, but I have to.

  I move to get up, but he yanks me back down. “That’s not how this works, princess.”

  His eyes challenge me, and I feel his fingers squeeze around my thighs.

  My heart beats faster. “Someone could come in,” I warn.

  “And what? Find out I’m your dirty little secret?”

  “Mas—” But he leans up and snatches my lips, cutting me off. He kisses me deep, and all of a sudden I just want to wrap my arms around him again.

  “Don’t call me that when we’re like this,” he whispers against my lips.

  Don’t call him Masen? “Why?” I ask.

  “Just don’t.” He shrugs me off and stands up, forcing me to climb off his lap. “Now do me a favor and go in the lunchroom and sit in Trey’s lap, would you? I wanna look while your fucking prom date has no clue that I just had that ass grinding my cock a minute ago.”

  He gives me a cruel smile, and I inhale a deep breath, raising my chin and trying to look unfazed.

  But my heart pounds like a jackhammer. What an asshole.

  Before I can reply with a witty, sarcastic, or utterly childish remark, he walks past me and out the door while the sound of the students in the lunchroom floods in.

  An ache digs into the back of my throat, but I refuse to cry. Turning, I look out the window and see my reflection in the glass. I blink away the tears and check my face to make sure my mascara and lips aren’t smeared. Checking that my hair is smooth and perfect again.

  Making sure the girl who got out a few minutes ago is tucked back inside, down deep.

  I take a deep breath and walk out the door, joining my friends in the cafeteria.

  Sitting in an empty Ferris wheel car, I tip my head back and close my eyes, letting the night wind blow across my face.

  The ocean waves in the distance curl and crash ashore, filling the darkness with a steady presence at my back as a car above me creaks in the wind, the rest having been rusted silent a long time ago.

  The camping lamp I’ve been using in the room sits under my propped-up legs, and I hold a pen in my hand and a notepad on my lap.

  Fifty-seven times I didn’t call

  Fifty-seven letters I didn’t send,

  Fifty-seven stitches to breathe again, and then I fucking pretend.

  I open my eyes and jot down the last two lines, barely able to see what I’m writing in the near darkness. Doesn’t matter, I guess. I can write it tonight and read it tomorrow.

  I’ve been writing this song for two years, ever since Ryen started talking about “the cheerleader” in some of her letters. I got stuck half-way through, because I wasn’t sure where the story was going, just that I needed to tell it. I had Ryen’s impression through her words, but I couldn’t get further than that.

  But leaving school two days ago, after finally having her in my arms in the lab, I needed to write. I was feeling things.

  She knows how to work me. How to drive me insane, acting like I’m dirt under her shoe in public but like she can’t get enough of me in private. Her tongue and mouth, the little obsession she has with my lip ring, the way she grinded into me, and if it weren’t for a couple layers of clothes, I would’ve been inside her…

  Yeah, that prissy little act drops like a bad habit, and she can get so hot, I want to take off everything except that lame-ass skirt and see how every inch of her feels.

  If her whole stuck-up crew knew how their little princess melts for me…

  But I look up, staring out at the theme park and realizing.

  No. Not for me.

  For Masen.

  Damn, I can’t keep this up. I have to leave, or I have to tell her. She’ll never forgive me for betraying her like this. For being right under her nose and damn-near seducing her.

  “I’m ashamed I didn’t guess you were here a long time ago!” a voice calls out, and I jerk, looking down at the ground.

  Dane stands below with a flashlight in his hand.

  I watch him start climbing the beams up to where I sit about five cars off the ground, and let out a sigh. I’m working. For the first time in months, I’m writing. Just my luck.

  “You and your cousin loved this place as kids,” he yells up. “I should’ve known you’d be hiding here.”

  He crawls up, past the empty cars, and heaves himself over the beam where my car sits. The wheel creaks with the extra weight, but it doesn’t budge. Years of rain and moist sea air have taken care of that.

  He takes a seat, and I notice he’s wearing our band’s black T-shirt. Our name, Cipher Core, with some artwork Dane designed, is on the left side of the chest. I have a few at home. Even Annie has some, which she used to sleep in.

  I see Dane’s eyes fall to my notepad, and then he raises them to me, the wheels in his head probably turning.

  “You got something there for me?” he prods, meaning lyrics.

  I laugh to myself, tossing him the book. What the hell? Let him tell me it sucks, so I can give up, and we can go to Sticks and get drunk instead.

  He barely looks at the pad, though. He eyes me hesitantly, as if he’s searching for words.

  “Your dad isn’t looking too good, man,” he says, keeping his tone even. “The stores are closed, and no one sees him anymore. He misses you.”

  “He misses Annie.”

  “He still went to work after Annie,” he points out. “It was when you left that he retreated.”

  I prop my arm up on the back of the seat and rub my forehead. He’s not going to the shops? To open up or anything?

  Dane’s right. My father was in pain after Annie’s death, but he didn’t abandon his responsibilities. Other than me, of course. No, he gave me all the space I told him I wanted.

  But he still took care of the house, ran the shops, did the paperwork, and went on his morning runs.

  He hasn’t called me, though.

  If he’s hurting—if he needs me—would he tell me?

  I stopped being able to talk to you. I stopped looking for a way to talk to you.

  Guilt chips away at some of my anger. Annie loved him. She wouldn’t want him alone.

  I look over at Dane and see him holding up the flashlight and reading the lyrics I wrote. His eyes move intently but slowly over the paper, and I can tell he’s reading every word.

  He looks up and meets my eyes, nodding. “We’re ready to get back to work. You coming home?”

  I don’t know. There were reasons I left, but now I worry that I have reasons to stay. And they’re not the reasons I came for. That’s the problem.

  I should never have gotten this close to Ryen. It’s complicated now. Either leave and keep my friend or stay and lose her forever.

  “I still need to get one more thing,” I tell him. “And then I’ll be home.”

  Coming up on the house, I slow to a stop and check the clock on my dash. It’s after midnight, and the street is silent, all of the houses dark.

  Except one.

  I gaze out at the two-story brick home, a single light coming from the den and a figure moving inside. All the cars are in the driveway, Trey’s Camaro sitting in the middle.

  What I need is in that house.

  Something of mine—something of my family’s—and I’m getting it back. Fuckface has a baseball game Friday night, and the whole family will be there. I can do it then, and then I can get out of here.

  The shadow passes in front of the large den window again, and I follow it with my eyes, the warm light from inside so inviting, making my chest ache. How nice to think your children are safe
under your roof, warm and sleeping peacefully, surrounded with love in their perfect world.

  That’s about to change.

  I put the truck in gear and speed off, heading around the corner toward the school. Ryen’s house is on the way, and I want to see her all of a sudden.

  I’ve wanted to talk to her for the past two days, but yeah… I’d just dig myself into a bigger hole, because that’s all I know how to do it seems. I want to crawl in through her window and just touch her and talk to her and see if she can make me see the end of this. Make me figure out how to rewind and start over, before I abandoned her all those months ago when I should’ve clung to her and let her know how much I need her.

  But if I could go back—to before I met her in person—would I really want to?

  No. I wouldn’t trade those minutes in the lab for anything. Or the ones in the back of my truck.

  Eventually we all have to weigh what we want more: wanting back what we had or wanting what could be. To stay or to risk everything to move forward.

  I pass her house. She has a temper, and I’m tired tonight.

  Besides, I need a shower before I try to crawl into bed with her.

  Parking on the other side of the street, in front of the school, I grab my duffel with a change of clean clothes and jog across the road, keeping an eye out for passersby. Not that it’s not dead as doornails at this hour, but you never know.

  I run across the school parking lot, not seeing any cars, but I look around just in case. I heard they were going to start hiring security to do sweeps every so often, trying to catch the little vandal who’s decorating the walls, but I don’t see any security vehicles. And they’re still in the process of getting the cameras working, so for now, it’s safe.

  Jumping the fence to the practice field, I hike up onto some old football equipment and lift up the loose screen leading into the men’s locker room. Raising the window, I hop up and plant my ass on the sill and swing my legs over. I throw my duffel on the floor and jump down, turning around to close the window again.

  I’ve only risked this a few times in the past couple of weeks, but I’m tired of mooching off Dane for his shower, too. And plus, I could take all night here if I wanted. Even the couches in the library are more comfortable than the Cove.

  I grab a towel and strip, stepping into a stall and turning on the water. The hot spray spreads chills down my body, and I damn near groan at the pleasure. This is definitely a perk of not living at the Cove. I miss my shower at home with my dry-erase marker I used to write on the wall and all the time alone I want.

  I wash my hair and body, savoring the soothing temperature of the water probably longer than I should. As soon as I’m done, I dry off and dress in a clean pair of jeans and a black thermal, packing my dirty clothes back in my bag.

  But suddenly I hear a beeping and then quick stutters of white noise. I freeze, training my ears.

  “Yeah,” a male voice says. “I’ll sweep down here and meet you upstairs.”

  “Shit!” I whisper. I stuff the rest of my clothes in the bag and jump behind a row of lockers just as the door opens.

  Fuck. Okay, my car’s not in the school parking lot, I closed the window on the way in, I picked up all my shit, and … My eyes fall on the steam from my shower still floating around the ceiling.

  Son of a bitch.

  I peer around the corner, seeing the security guard flash his light into the shower. My fucking heart pounds in my chest, and I shoot a glance to the window, knowing there’s no way I’m getting out that way. Darting my eyes to him once again, I see him check out the steam hovering high and then immediately shoot his light around, looking for me. He knows someone’s here.

  I bolt. Twisting on my heel, I dart down the row of lockers and swing open the door, a huge creak filling the quiet.

  “Hey!” he shouts. And then I hear him getting on his radio, alerting the other one.

  I bypass the nearest stairwell and race for the next one, skipping steps as I charge up to the main level, carrying my bag. I enter the hallway and glance in both directions, taking off left and jogging down the next hallway, keeping my eyes and ears peeled.

  I pass exits chained shut, and I keep running, searching for a way out.

  But then I pass the cafeteria and see something written on the windows looking in. I slow down, glancing around me to make sure the guards aren’t coming.

  I read the message.

  I see you, like pictures in a frame,

  But I can’t touch, and I can’t be the same.

  -Punk

  I smile to myself. Looks like the little punk struck again.

  The message is spray-painted in dark blue in two lines across all four of the large windows. Is he getting in the same way I have been? And even better, how is he getting out through the chains and without setting off the alarms?

  I look around, trying to figure out which window I should try to slip out of, but then I hear another door swing open, and I take off. I run down the hallway from one door to another, twisting knobs to check for open classrooms.

  The Physics lab Ryen and I were in two days ago opens, and I dart inside just as I see the glow of a flashlight bobbing up and down the floor from the other hallway.

  Closing the door gently, I scan the room, seeing the supply closet. Heading over, I open it and dart inside.

  I hear a small gasp.

  From right behind me.

  Every hair on my arms stand on end, and I turn around, my mouth suddenly dry.

  I’m not alone in here.

  Reaching up, I grab the chain for the light, but a soft hand takes mine and pulls it down.

  “No,” a female voice whispers. “They’ll see the light.”

  Ryen?

  I blink, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but she pulls me back, leading me around the partition of shelves to the other side, by the window. Moonlight streams through, and I see she’s wearing some black shorts and her rash guard. She must’ve been teaching lessons tonight. Her hair hangs loose and kinky from air drying, and she clutches the loop of a black backpack in her hand.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask her.

  She stands close, her breathing shaky and nervous. “Nothing.”

  “Ryen—”

  “Shh!” She grabs my wrists and pulls me down, both of us squatting low as I notice the muffled sound of talking coming from the lab.

  “No, I heard a door shut,” one of the guards says.

  “This was the only door open,” another says. “You check it out. I’m going to search the cafeteria.”

  I hear her shallow breathing as both of us look to the crack under the door, seeing the glow of a flashlight. Shit.

  I look back to Ryen and suddenly drop my eyes, stopping. There’s something on her hands.

  I shoot my eyes back up to her and then back down, taking one of her hands and turning it over.

  Blue paint.

  Or blue…spray paint.

  I survey the smudges all over her fingers and palm as realization starts to hit.

  Holy shit.

  I look up again, locking eyes with her. Well, well, well…

  “You just got a whole lot more interesting.”

  Fear flashes in her eyes, and she pulls her hand away, her breaths sounding like she’s about to cry.

  I smirk, and she shoots a glance to the door and then back to me. “Please don’t say anything,” she begs in a whisper.

  Why would I say anything? This is hilarious. Ryen Trevarrow, Queen Good Girl, sneaks into the school at night, breaking more than one law, to anonymously leave messages and air dirty secrets for the student body right under their noses.

  Excellent.

  I hear the guard’s radio beep and more muffled chatter, and I listen, hearing him talk, his voice moving away from the door.

  I take my bag and inch toward the door, listening again.

  His voice is farther away now, and I crack the door just a sliver and p
eek out. If we stay here, we’ll get caught. This isn’t the first time I’ve run from cops, and you don’t choose a hiding place without an out.

  “What are you doing?” Ryen asks.

  I look out, seeing the beam of his flashlight outside the classroom door as he talks on the radio. I glance across the lab, behind the teacher’s desk, and see the door to another classroom, connected to the lab. Grabbing her hand in mine, I pull her quickly across the room, hearing her suck in a breath as we tread softly and hurry into the next room.

  Pulling her through the doorway, I whip around a tall set of file cabinets and back her into the dark corner, squatting down and hiding.

  We hear him enter the other room again, a door creaks open and then shuts, and a grumbled “little shit” before he talks to the other guy on the radio again.

  I stare at Ryen.

  She’s Punk.

  Oh, my God. She’s been sneaking around right under everyone’s noses, carrying on this secret life at night. And then watching everyone’s reactions in the morning as they scurry about, trying to find out which of their own it is. Never suspecting her.

  Why would they, I guess? She’s never given the impression she’s any deeper than a teaspoon. The perfect cover.

  How long has she been doing this?

  “Stop looking at me,” she whispers, her tone finally finding its fight again.

  “I’m going to head downstairs,” I hear the guy on the radio say.

  “I’ll finish checking here and meet you down there,” replies the other one.

  I keep still, our bodies close as I look down at her. “Why do you do this?”

  She shoots her eyes up, her parted lips inches from mine. “You can’t tell anyone. No one will understand.”

  “Who cares?” I shoot back. “Your friends are losers.”

  “So are yours.”

  “At least I don’t have to fake anything around them,” I grit out. But then I realize that’s not true. The guys I’ve been hanging out with don’t even know my real name, do they?

  I push forward. “Why are you two different people, Ryen?”