Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

  School ended four hours ago, but the parking lot is packed full of cars as we stand behind our table, greeting people before they enter the ball park. The sun has already set, and the field lighting overhead shines down, brightening the area as the last of the crowd filters through the gates.

  Lyla and I were picked by the coach to work the bake sale tonight, and as a requirement, we have to wear our cheer uniforms. Fundraising is one of our many duties, and since we’re not busy rallying the crowd during the baseball game that’s about to start, we’re trying to earn some money for the team and acclimate some of the new girls coming in next year.

  Technically we were supposed to bake the goods we’re selling—with the help of the team moms—but we’d dropped the ball, not planning ahead. It’s spring, school’s almost over, and I’m already swamped as it is. So we raided Lieber’s Bakery during school today and got dismissed from final period to package everything in our own bags with ribbons of the school’s colors.

  “Come on, freshmen!” Lyla claps her hands. “Smile. It’s your new thing. I promise.”

  I laugh to myself. I don’t envy them at all. The will to plaster a smile I don’t feel on my face has very nearly left the building.

  I push the packages of cookies and brownies up to replace what has already been sold. Looking up, I see Masen standing near his truck with a group of guys from school. My stomach somersaults.

  He’s watching me with an amused look on his face. I’d told him about the bake sale during Art today, so we agreed to meet afterward to do whatever it is he’s got planned, God help me.

  After sneaking into my room this morning, catching me with my vibrator, and damn-near waking up the whole house—because he needed to get laid—the rest of the day passed relatively calmly. Everything else was easy peasy compared to that.

  I resist the urge to pull out the huge-ass black bow on top of my head that we’re required to wear as part of the uniform. I can feel the laugh he’s holding back all the way from here.

  I see him and his friends approach.

  “Jesus, it’s like the Disney channel puked all over this table,” he jokes, scanning the array of polka-dotted plastic bags and the flowery tablecloth.

  I put my hands on my hips.

  “Nice bow.” He jerks his chin, eyeing the top of my head. “If I pull it, does it have a string that makes you talk and move?”

  A snort breaks into a laugh, and I shoot a glare over to Ten, standing behind Lyla. He hunches over just a little, his body shaking.

  He glances up at me, sees my stare, and tries to hold it back. “I’m sorry, okay? It was funny.”

  I arch an eyebrow and turn my eyes back to Masen. He cocks his head, looking delighted with himself.

  I grab the collar of his black hoodie and pull his face close, leaning into his ear and covering my whisper with my hand. “You left bruises all over my tits this morning,” I tell him, “and if you’re not nice, I won’t let you kiss them better later.”

  He sucks in a breath.

  “Now buy some cookies,” I order, pushing him away.

  A smile pulls at his mouth, but I raise my chin, watching him pull out his wallet.

  He hands Lyla a hundred-dollar bill, and I blink, trying not to look like I’m taken off guard. Okay. I guess he’s okay on money, after all.

  Where’d he get that much cash? An unnerving feeling settles in my gut.

  “How much will this buy me?” he asks her but keeps his eyes on me.

  She takes the bill and stares at it for a moment. But then she takes a package of ten cookies and shoves it at him. “Here.”

  A laugh catches in my throat. That stack of sweets costs five bucks, but I don’t care that she’s hustling him. He deserves it.

  He gives the package a look, clearly knowing he’s being swindled, but he keeps quiet and tosses it to a friend behind him. Slipping his wallet back into his pocket, he holds my eyes briefly before walking away, his crew following.

  “Nice.” Lyla waves the hundred in front of me. “What did you say to him?”

  “I forget.”

  I don’t fear Lyla’s judgement about Masen, and part of me wants people to see him touch me, but for some reason, Masen still feels like a fling, and I don’t want to try to explain it to others. I’m still trying to figure him out myself.

  And part of me likes the sneaking around. I love having this one thing that makes me happy that I don’t have to share with anyone else.

  Kind of like Misha.

  Misha. Why do I feel like I’m betraying him? He abandoned me.

  After the national anthem and the first pitch, Lyla, Ten, and I call it a night, sending the other girls home and then packing up. Lyla grabs the rest of the snacks, saying we’ll just give them to the baseball team when they’re done, and Ten heads into the game, probably to find J.D. and the rest of our friends.

  I hook my bag over my shoulder, grab my water bottle, and walk for the parking lot instead of the ball field.

  “Where are you going?” Lyla asks, turning with the box of cookies in her arms.

  I gesture to my bag. “Taking this to my car.”

  I walk away, not waiting for a response, and head straight for my Jeep, seeing that Masen’s black Raptor is parked on the other side of the aisle.

  His eyes are on me as he leans against his door and two of his pals stand in front of him, their heads turned and watching me, too.

  Tossing my bag into the back, I reach up and unclip my bow and pull out the rubber band that held the top half of my hair back. I comb the strands with my fingers and fluff it up, letting it hang loose down my back. Turning around, I lean back on my Jeep and hang my elbows over the edge of the car, looking straight at him.

  “I don’t know, man,” Finn Damaris muses, smirking. “She looks like she wants something. What do you think?”

  “Yeah.” The one with the Mohawk whose name I don’t know nods and bites his bottom lip, letting his eyes fall down my body. “She definitely wants something.”

  Masen watches behind them, amusement in his eyes.

  “She’s so clean,” Finn comments, turning to his friend. “I’ll bet she likes to get dirty, though.”

  Mohawk laughs. “Oh, yeah.”

  I roll my eyes, waiting. I’m sure they’re loving this. The stuck-up girl playing with one of their own…

  “You guys take off,” Masen says. “I got this.”

  I walk over, fall gently into his chest as his friends disappear, snickering.

  “So where are we going?” I hover over his lips.

  He inhales a deep breath and plants a quick peck on my cheek, standing up straight. “Come on. Get in.”

  I cross my arms over my chest to keep from fidgeting. “I should’ve changed my clothes.”

  Masen peers over, driving past my neighborhood and deeper into the countryside. “Why?”

  “Because if we’re seen doing whatever it is we’re doing,” I explain, “I won’t be hard to identify in a Falcon’s Well cheer uniform.”

  He smiles to himself and looks back at the road. “You won’t be seen.”

  I take in a deep breath and reach over and turn up the radio, trying to drown out the worry in my head as Breaking Bejamin’s “So Cold” plays.

  I try to act like a badass, but honestly, I’m nervous as hell.

  I should’ve told him no this morning. I’d stopped writing on the walls, and doing anything more illegal would be risking too much. I have acceptance letters to NYU, Cornell, and Dartmouth. Like I’m going to jeopardize that simply because I’m infatuated with him and will use any excuse to be close to him.

  Actually it was hard to refuse him anything while he was inside me. I would’ve told him I’d tattoo his name on my neck if he wanted.

  He’d probably love that. I glance over at him, laughing inside at the idea. His brown hair, wispy and sticking up a little, is pushed forward, and I stare at his mouth, remembering the warmth of the smooth metal ring grazing the doz
ens of places he’s kissed on my body.

  I suddenly want to know everything. What he was like as a kid. What his favorite kinds of music are. Where he goes when he wants some peace and quiet and whom does he go to when he needs to talk.

  Who does he love? Who’s there for him? Who knows him best?

  Who knows him better than me? I can’t help the jealousy I feel at that thought. He has an entire life and history with people who aren’t me.

  I chew on the corner of my mouth, feeling so many things I know I shouldn’t say.

  But I want to.

  “I like you,” I tell him, looking down, my voice quiet.

  I see him turn his head toward me, not saying anything.

  “You said some nice things last Friday night,” I go on, “and I wanted you to know—in case you don’t already—that I actually kind of like you.” I raise my eyes, seeing him watch me with something I can’t read going on in his eyes. “I know I can be…me. I don’t get sappy, and I don’t give up what’s going on in my head a lot. It’s hard for me.” I pause, feeling a little more resolute. I want him to know. “But yeah, I like you.”

  I know it’s not much, but it’s a lot for me, and I hope he knows that. Admitting I like him makes me vulnerable, and that’s not usually a card I ever give up. Not anymore.

  Because, to be honest, I don’t just like him. It’s more than that. I think about him.

  I miss him when he’s not around.

  It’ll hurt if he has to leave as suddenly as he appeared.

  He’s quiet, and the heat of embarrassment blankets my skin. Awesome. Good going, Ryen. Maybe all he liked about you was that you weren’t clingy, and now you’re acting like you’re in love with him.

  “When are we going to be there?” I ask, my tone curt as I try to change the subject.

  I watch as he slowly pulls over to the side of the road and parks next to a wall of trees.

  “We’re here now,” he answers.

  I peer around the hedge, taking a better look, and then dart my eyes around, taking in the quiet, spacious neighborhood.

  “This is Trey’s house,” I point out, my guard definitely up now.

  He nods, taking off his seatbelt. “There’s something of mine in there. A family heirloom.” He gestures to Trey’s house on the right. “And I need it back.”

  “What are you talking about? Why would Trey have something of yours?”

  He shakes his head. “Not Trey.”

  “What?”

  He takes my phone out of my hand and punches some buttons on the screen as I try to figure out what the hell’s going on. There’s something of his in there? Something he wants back? Trey and his entire family are at the baseball game, so no one’s home.

  Are we breaking in?

  “Masen, I’m not breaking into his house.”

  “You don’t have to.” He hands my phone back to me. “I programmed in my number. I think it’s about time you had it anyway. Call me if anyone comes home or you see anything weird.”

  What?

  I stare at him, appalled, but he just climbs out of the truck and jogs for the house.

  Excuse me?

  I push open the door, jump out, and slam it behind me, chasing after him. “I can’t believe you!” I whisper-yell, catching up to him in the middle of Trey’s lawn. “You won’t tell me anything, and now you’re breaking and entering, and you’re involving me? I could get into trouble, and yes, I don’t mean to seem like a hypocrite, being Punk and all, but I don’t want to do this.”

  He stops, and I clutch my phone in my hand, kind of wanting to throw it at him. Where the hell does he get off? He has friends. Why not ask them?

  “Why would you ask me to do this?” I demand.

  “Because it’s important.”

  He glares at me, but I don’t think he’s angry.

  Letting out a breath, his expression softens as he approaches me. “Because I need what’s in there, and because…you’re the one I trust. You’re the one I want here.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I’m serious, Ryen. Trust me, would you?”

  “I trust people who don’t deliberately put me in danger,” I shoot back. “I thought we were doing something at the Cove or climbing a water tower or something. Not breaking into the principal’s house.”

  “You break into the principal’s school,” he points out.

  I twist up my lips, folding my arms over my chest. Jerk.

  He regards me for a moment and then drops his eyes. Taking my hand, he places his keys in my palm. “You’re right. Go ahead and take the truck to your house. I’ll meet you there,” he tells me, relenting. “It’s only a mile away. I can walk it.”

  What? No—

  But he turns around and walks for Trey’s house, not giving me a chance to protest. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I don’t want him getting in trouble, either.

  Something of his is in the house. So we’re not taking anything that doesn’t belong to them then. Okay.

  I let out a sigh and run after him.

  Just go. Don’t think.

  I wonder how many people who got prison sentences said the same thing when they committed their crimes.

  I see him head for the front door, digging something out of his pocket, but I eye the doggy door on the garage and then look around me. Anyone could drive by or a neighbor could possibly spot Masen at the door, trying to get in.

  “The doggy door is a better idea,” I tell him, knowing Trey’s parents probably took the Husky with them to the game.

  He jerks his head, eyeing the rectangular hole in the door. “I can’t fit through there.”

  Of course not. Their dog is big but not that big.

  I shake my head, hesitating for a moment. But then I heave a sigh and move toward the door.

  I can try to convince myself that I know this house, having been here before, and I can get him through it and try to find what he needs a lot faster than he can. But the truth is, I want to know what he’s looking for and why. So far he’s been like a ghost, and I’m curious.

  Crouching down, I push my hand through the doggy door, listening for feet to come running or a bark. But all I hear is leaves rustling in the wind.

  Mason comes up behind me, and I stick my head through, seeing only the inside of the pitch-black garage. Sliding my arm in, I turn on my side, maneuver my shoulders through the tight space, and put my hands down on the cold cement floor, wiggling my body through the small hole.

  I inhale the musty air and make out the little, green dot of light by the kitchen door, guessing that must be the opener.

  Stepping cautiously in the dark, I hold out my hands and move toward the door, trying to avoid the pool table, couch, and other furnishings I know are in the converted man-cave.

  “Don’t turn on any lights,” Masen calls.

  “Duh.” My foot hits the step, and I reach out my hand, pressing the button for the opener. The motor starts turning, and the garage door begins to lift up. Masen bends down and slides in under the door, and I press the button, lowering it again.

  I twist the handle to the kitchen door and open it, immediately seeing moonlight streaming through a large kitchen window. Masen comes in behind me, closing the door, and I inhale, smelling Trey. It’s funny how people smell like their houses. Or vice versa.

  Combinations of leather and wood furniture, Febreeze, laundry soap, the different colognes and perfumes your parents and siblings use, the food your family cooks…all coming together to create a single, solitary scent in your house.

  Except Masen. He smells like the leather from his truck with a hint of soap. That’s it.

  “Let’s go.”

  He leads me through the house, looking around as if figuring out where to go, which I could tell him if I knew what he was looking for. But rounding the stairs, he jogs up, and I follow.

  “Are you going to Trey’s room?” I ask.

  “If so, I’ll find it,” he bites out. “I don�
��t need to know that you know where it is.”

  I smile to myself. “I don’t. I was just asking.”

  He opens a door, and I peer into the darkness, seeing pink walls and toy hot air balloons hanging from the ceiling.

  It must be Emma’s room. Trey’s half-sister. I know Principal Burrowes married Trey’s dad when Trey was about four. Even though he calls her Gillian and doesn’t treat her like a mom, she practically raised him and then gave birth to a daughter several years younger than Trey.

  I look at Masen, wondering why he’s not closing the door. What he needs can’t possibly be in here. Emma is only like six. She didn’t steal anything from him.

  But he just stands there, letting his eyes drift around the room. His chest moves with his shallow breaths.

  “Masen?” I prompt.

  But he doesn’t answer.

  I touch his arm. “Masen?” I say louder. “What are we looking for? I want to get out of here.”

  He blinks, turning away, almost like he’s angry. “Alright, come on.”

  He leaves the room, and I shut the door again, catching a flash of movement. The shadows of the leaves outside the hall window dance over the carpet, and my heart skips a beat.

  Walking to the next door, Masen strolls in and stops for just a moment, looking around. Heading for the armoire, he pulls open a drawer and takes out a small flashlight from his pocket. He clicks on the small light and starts inspecting the jewelry case.

  “You can’t be serious?” I bark in a whisper, stepping up to him. “Did the principal steal your favorite string of pearls?”

  “It’s a long story, babe.” He pulls open drawer after drawer, quickly scanning the contents and shuffling items around, searching for what? I don’t know.

  “And I’m fascinated,” I retort. “But if you steal anything, I’ll make you bleed.”

  “Hold this.” He shoves the flashlight at me. “I won’t take anything that’s not already mine.”

  “What’s yours? What are we looking for?”

  “A watch.”

  A watch? “Why would the Burrowes have your watch?” I ask, confused.