Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

How did I get here? What do I do?

  After class, I shower and dress quickly, heading to my locker before lunch when I really just want to leave.

  It’s easier, isn’t it? Rather than facing people I don’t like and being where I no longer feel I belong?

  I’ve been here before. The uncertainty, the self-hate, the powerlessness…it’s all so familiar. But the last time, I took those feelings and turned them outward, making others feel what I felt. What I didn’t see is that those feelings came from people doing the same thing to me. I feel and fear exactly what they want me to feel and fear.

  I won’t respond the same this time. I’m better than this.

  I’m going to be better.

  Moving down the lunch line, I take an orange juice out of the cooler and walk for the cashier, but arms suddenly lock me in on both sides, keeping me from moving. My heart jumps, thinking it’s Misha, but then I turn around, seeing Trey behind me.

  “You know, if you wanted dirty, I could’ve done dirty,” he taunts, staring down at me. “Maybe it was good Laurent broke you in, though. Doesn’t take long for you little bitches to turn slut once you get a taste for it.”

  I breathe hard. What the hell did he just say?

  He laughs. “You should’ve seen the train we pulled on this girl last week. She had guys lined up. It was so fucking good.”

  I push through his arm and pay for my juice, carrying my drink and books to an empty table as far away from his as I can find. I feel eyes on me everywhere, like people are laughing. I haven’t sat at a table alone in a long time.

  Opening my juice carton and notebook, I dive into the Math homework due tomorrow, using it as a shield to not look so pathetic.

  “No one wants you in here,” a female voice says, and I look up to see Lyla. “I can’t even eat, looking at you.”

  And she picks up my carton of juice and pours it into my lap. I gasp, the ice cold drink making me shoot out of my chair as it cascades down my bare legs. I glare at her and dart out with both hands, shoving her away.

  She stumbles back, dropping the carton but comes back in, pushing me back.

  “Oh!” someone shouts. “Fight!”

  The cafeteria erupts in noise, chairs scraping against the linoleum and people shifting around for a better view.

  Lyla reaches for my hair, but I rear back and slap her arms away. My shirt and shorts stick to my skin, and anger rages in every muscle. She comes back for me, and I get ready to lunge, to push her back again, but then, all of a sudden, there’s a wall standing in front of me.

  A wall in a white T-shirt with tattoos.

  Misha.

  Trey comes around Lyla and inches into my and Misha’s space, a challenge in his eyes. “Move out of the way,” he demands.

  “Make me.”

  Trey scoffs, knowing Misha’s not kidding but clearly not ready to take him on here in front of everyone. Especially when he got his ass kicked last time.

  “If you want her, you’re going to have to go through me,” Misha states, and I step around to his side, refusing to hide.

  The O.J. sticks to my legs and seeps into my shoes, and I struggle to ignore the murmurs around me. Misha’s standing up for me in front of everyone, and against my will, my heart warms.

  “After school,” Trey says. “The drive-in.”

  “Nah, I’ll be busy tonight,” Misha replies.

  Trey laughs, looking round to his friends, all of them probably assuming Misha’s too scared to show up.

  “So how about we just do it now?” Misha tosses out calmly and then throws a punch across Trey’s face, surprising us all.

  Exclamations sound off around the crowd, and Trey stumbles back, cursing. “Fuck!”

  Misha dives in, but then J.D. grabs him from behind, holding him back as Principal Burrowes steps between the boys.

  “Stop it!” she shouts to both of them. “Stop it right now!”

  Misha fights against J.D.’s restraint, J.D. turning red just from the struggle to keep him back. “Okay, calm down, man. Calm down.”

  “Get this asshole away from me!” Trey gestures to Misha, screaming around his stepmom.

  “You fuck with her again,” Misha growls, “and I’ll make what just happened seem like a dream.” He pauses and then speaks to Lyla. “And you. Don’t talk to her again. You just want her to feel as ugly as you are.”

  She arches an eyebrow, folding her arms over her chest. She knows it’s true just like it was true for me, but she won’t credit it with a response.

  “I won’t fuck with her,” Trey taunts. “Looks like you already been there and done that.”

  A few giggles go off around me, and Misha breaks away from J.D., glaring at Trey and looking like he’s dying to make sure he never talks shit again. But instead, he twists around and takes my hand, leading us out of the cafeteria.

  “Mr. Laurent!” the principal calls.

  But Misha ignores her and pulls me into the men’s bathroom, wetting some paper towels and ringing them out.

  He pushes me back against the sink and kneels down, lifting my foot and setting it on his thigh, slowly wiping the drying orange juice off my leg.

  Pain springs to the back of my eyes, and I watch him, carefully and quietly taking care of me.

  Wetting more paper towels, he moves to the other leg and then starts untying my socked shoes.

  “Are we still friends?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Because I need Misha, not Masen.”

  I was wrong last night. Everything is Misha. They’re not separate.

  And I need my friend.

  Holding my soiled Chucks, he stands up and takes my hand, still silent as he leads me out of the bathroom.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Away from here.”

  We don’t bother to look back, and I’ll probably be in trouble tomorrow, but no one and nothing could drag me away from him right now. I tighten my hold on his hand, ready to follow him anywhere. At least for today.

  We drive for a long time, and we don’t speak. The music plays, the afternoon is overcast, and my eyelids are heavy, probably because Thursday night was the last time I slept well.

  I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive him, but I want him. The smell of him, the sight of him, the feel of him… He doesn’t even have to touch me. Just being near him is soothing at the moment. Maybe I’m just vulnerable, but right now I don’t want to be anywhere else.

  A sprinkle of rain starts as we pull into a driveway leading up to a house that’s shielded behind a wall of trees.

  A flutter courses through my belly. “Your house?”

  We’re in Thunder Bay? I didn’t think I was dazed out that long.

  He pulls into the garage and turns off the engine. “Have you ever been here?”

  I nod. “A couple weeks ago. You hadn’t written in so long, I needed make sure you were okay—”

  “You don’t have to explain,” he cuts me off. “I should’ve written. You had every right to be worried.”

  “Why did you stop?”

  He smiles gently, opening his door and taking my shoes. “A story for a different day. But it didn’t have anything to do with you,” he assures.

  “Your dad said you were fine.” I climb out of the truck and walk around, following him into the house.

  “My dad doesn’t air dirty laundry. Did you tell him who you were?”

  “Would he know me?”

  “Of course,” he replies, entering what looks like a laundry room and tossing my shoes into the washer. “He’s seen your letters coming in for years.”

  Yes, of course. If I’d told him, maybe I would’ve been invited into the house and seen a picture of Misha. And then I would’ve found out even sooner who he really was.

  Misha comes over to me and pulls up the hem of my shirt, but I lock my arms down, looking at him.

  “No one’s home,” he reassures me. “Let’s get your clothes in the wash. You can take a shower, and I’ll find you something to w
ear.”

  It only takes me a moment to consider. I don’t feel like I need to leave anytime soon, and the stickiness is still all over me, despite Misha’s efforts to clean me up.

  I nod and pull off clothes, handing him everything, one by one. He puts my shorts, shirt, and underthings in the washer, adding soap and starting it, and then hands me a T-shirt from the dryer.

  Pulling it on, I let him take my hand and lead me into the rest of the house.

  We walk through a large living room, and I look around, gaping. “Oh, geez,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  It’s hilarious, really. He hangs out with the worst of the worst at school, looks like a delinquent, and everyone—including Lyla, Trey, and even me once—assumed he was a poor foster kid or nothing but a thug.

  If Lyla discovers he lives in a house bigger than hers and mine put together and has a Gauguin hanging on the wall, she’ll be the first one kissing his ass.

  The house is dark, but even still I can tell it’s stunning. There’s wood shining everywhere, fancy art and knickknacks decorating the place, and I smell the rich scent of polish. What did Misha say his dad did in his letters? He’s an antiques dealer?

  And if he’s the child of a senator, then he has to be well-set.

  “Do you like peanut butter and jelly?” he asks, taking me up the stairs. “It’s the only thing I make that I don’t burn.”

  “It’s fine.”

  He leads me into a spacious bathroom, very dark and very male, and opens the glass door, turning on the shower for me.

  “Take your time.” He plants a kiss on my forehead and takes a towel off the shelf, setting it on the counter for me. “I’ll go make us some sandwiches.”

  I stare at him as he leaves, and despite the height and muscle of a man, I’m finally seeing him as the kid I envisioned so many years ago who I became so attached to and loved. The one I pictured as kind and gentle and caring.

  After my shower, I dry off and pull the T-shirt back on, finding a brush on the counter and tugging it through my ratty hair. Thankfully, Lyla’s assault missed my head, so I didn’t have to wash my hair.

  Walking into the hallway, I hear the soft hum of music coming from down the hall, and I step quietly, following it—but carefully, in case it’s his dad.

  I find Misha in his room. He’s walking around, picking up a few clothes, and on the bed sits plates with PB&J sandwiches and sprigs of grapes, with juice boxes sitting next to them.

  I hold in my laugh. I don’t think I’ve had that lunch since fifth grade.

  P!nk plays at low volume, and I feel my chest warm at the gesture. He knows I like her, too.

  But then I gaze around his room and see four office boxes, complete with lids, stacked on top of each other up against the wall.

  I walk over. “What’s this?” I ask, lifting the lid.

  “Oh, uh…”

  But I widened my eyes, taken aback, and drop the lid on the floor.

  The box is filled with black envelopes. With silver writing.

  “Oh, my God.” I reach in and fan the envelopes, seeing my writing on every single one.

  He kept them.

  He kept them?

  I don’t know why, but I guess I never thought he actually saved them. Why would he? Thinking back, I can’t even remember what they said. Couldn’t have been too interesting if I can’t recall.

  The other three boxes are probably filled with letters, too.

  “I can’t believe I wrote you this much,” I say, a little horrified. “You must’ve been so bored with me.”

  “I adored you.”

  I look up, seeing him stare at the floor. An ache weaves its way through my chest.

  “I adore you,” he corrects himself. “I’ve read them all at least twice. My favorites, a lot more than that.”

  His favorites. And then I recall. The letters I’d found at the Cove. When he stayed there—away from home—he took those with him. The rest stayed here.

  I feel guilty now. “They’re in my desk,” I confess. “I lied. I didn’t burn them.”

  He gives me a little nod. “Yeah, I hoped so. I have mine, too, that you threw all over the place at the Cove. In case you want them back.”

  I give him a small smile, grateful. Yes, I do want them back.

  I replace the lid, kind of curious to open a few letters and relive all the embarrassing things I shared with him over the years. Kissing with tongue the first time, the music I suggested that I thought was so epic but realize now it was kind of lame, and all the arguments we got into.

  Remembering back, I was pretty hard on him. I mean, using an Android phone doesn’t make him an introverted burner who probably won’t ever have a job or a valid driver’s license at the same time. I didn’t mean that.

  And I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said when he called me a Steve Jobs cultist who worships inferior technology because I’m too much of a bubblehead high on apps to know the difference.

  On second thought, no. I like the truce we have going on today. The letters can wait.

  I walk over and sit down on his bed, bringing up my legs to sit cross-legged. He kicks off his shoes and lies down sideways on the bed, supporting his head on his hand.

  I take the sandwich and peel off the top crust while he pops a grape in his mouth.

  I stare down at the food. I’m hungry, but I’m also tired and suddenly feel like I don’t give a shit. One of us has to start talking.

  He wants something true? Something he doesn’t know?

  “I didn’t have many friends in grade school,” I tell him, still keeping my eyes down. “I had one. Delilah.”

  He’s quiet, and I know he’s staring at me.

  “She had this shaggy blonde hair that kind of looked like a mullet, and she wore these frumpy corduroy skirts,” I went on. “They looked thirty years old. She wasn’t cool and she didn’t dress right. She was alone a lot like me, so we played together at recess, but…”

  I narrow my eyes, trying to harden them as the image of her comes to the forefront in my mind.

  “But I got tired of not hanging out with the popular kids,” I admit. “I’d see them hanging on each other, laughing and surrounded by everyone, and I felt…envious. Left out of something better. I felt like I was being laughed at.” I lick my dry lips, still avoiding his eyes. “Like I could feel their eyes crawling over my skin. Were they disgusted by me? Why didn’t they like me? I shouldn’t have cared. I shouldn’t have thought that kids who shunned me would be worth it, but I did.”

  I finally raise my eyes and find his green ones watching me, unblinking.

  “And in my head,” I continue, “Delilah was holding me back. I needed better friends. So one day I ran off. When recess time came, I hid around a corner so she wouldn’t find me, and I watched her. Waiting for her to go off and play with someone else so I could do the same and she wouldn’t look for me.

  I swallow, my throat stretching painfully.

  “But she didn’t,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “She just stood against a wall, alone and looking awkward and uncomfortable. Waiting for me.” My body shakes, and I start to cry. “That was the day I became this. When I started to believe that a hundred people’s fickle adoration was worth more than one person’s love. And for a while it felt kind of good.” Tears stream down my face. “I was lost in the novelty of it. Being mean, slipping in a quick insult, making a joke of others and of my teachers…I felt respected. Adored. My new skin suited me.”

  And then more images creep in, still so vivid after all this time.

  “But months later, when I’d see Delilah playing alone, being laughed at, not having anywhere to belong…I started to hate that skin I was so comfortable in. The skin of a fake and shallow coward.”

  I wipe the tears, trying to take in a deep breath. He’s looking at me, but the heat of shame covers my face, and I’m worried. What does he think of me?

&n
bsp; “And when I started writing you a year later,” I go on, “I needed you so much by that point. I needed someone I could be the person I wanted to be with. I could go back. I could be the girl who was Delilah’s friend again. The girl who stood up to the mean kids and didn’t need a spirit animal, because she was her own.”

  I close my eyes, just wanting to hide. I feel the bed shift under me and then his hands cupping my face.

  I shake my head, inching away. “Don’t. I’m awful.”

  “You were in fourth grade,” he says, trying to soothe me. “Kids are mean, and at that age, everyone wants to belong. You think you’re the only one who feels like shit? Who’s made mistakes?” He nudges my face, making me open my eyes and look into his. “We’re all ugly, Ryen. The only difference is, some hide it and some wear it.”

  I slide the food out of the way and crawl into his lap, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his neck, hugging him close. He gently falls back onto the bed, lying down and taking me with him.

  Why didn’t we do this ages ago? Why was I so scared to meet him and change things? We’ve been there for each other during his grandmother’s funeral, lengthy summer camps with hardly any communication to each other, and even a couple of girlfriends of his who I never told him I was really jealous of.

  Why did I think that all the words and letters and the friendship would fade so easily?

  His arms hold me tight as I lay my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat and the light tapping of rain against the window. This is new for me. I’ve been comfortable in places, but I think this is the first time I’ve been anywhere I never want to leave. My eyelids fall closed, sleep pulling at me.

  “I have a question,” he speaks up, causing me to stir.

  “Hmm?”

  “When you write on the walls at school, you sign the messages as Punk. Why?”

  I keep my eyes closed, but I breathe out a weak, little laugh. “Do you remember the letter you wrote about your first tattoo and your dad saying you looked like a punk?”

  “Yeah?”

  “So it was a tribute to you,” I tell him. “A shout out to the ruffians and rule breakers.”

  “But why not use your own name?”

  I pinch my eyebrows together. “Because I don’t want to get caught.” Duh.