Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

  I glance at Misha, and he shrugs.

  There’s a girl whose name I don’t know at J.D.’s side. I don’t want to take him away from her or the after parties, but…

  “Can you disappear with us for an hour?”

  He thinks about it and sets his plate down. “I’m in.”

  “Remember you said that,” I warn.

  He whispers something to the girl and jogs after us while Misha knocks on Ten and Manny’s table. “Let’s go.”

  We all pile into Misha’s truck, and I see my duffel sitting on the passenger side floor as I climb in.

  “So where are we going?” Ten asks as Misha starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot.

  “To the school.”

  I pull on my seat belt and put the bag in my lap, unzipping it.

  “Why?”

  I shoot a look to Misha, everything in his expression telling me to go ahead.

  I pull out a can of the washable spray paint. “Because…it’s nearly the end of the year, and I have a few more things to say.”

  I hold up the can and look behind me, seeing Ten’s eyes damn-near bug out of his head.

  “What?” he bursts out.

  “You?” J.D. looks at me, shocked.

  I meet Manny’s eyes, and I can see the wheels in his head turning. Maybe he realizes it was me who wrote the message on his locker that first time:

  You’re not alone. It gets better.

  You are important, and you can’t be replaced.

  Hang on.

  I fill them in on everything. How it started and how I justified it, but I also tell them what I still need to do tonight. One last time to make it count.

  And since they all will have something to say about the subject, I thought they might want a hand in it. Especially since Ten already indicated he’d like a piece of the action, and J.D. has already participated once.

  “So are you in?” I ask them.

  “Hell, yeah,” J.D. replies.

  I look at Manny, who remains silent. “You don’t have to.”

  I’m not asking any of them to get in trouble. They can wait in the truck, or we can take them back to prom right now.

  But he nods, indicating the can in my hand. “I want black.”

  Alright. I dig in the bag, doling out cans and reminding them to stick to surfaces that can be easily cleaned. Stay away from screens, posters, artwork, and uniforms or clothes in the locker rooms.

  We reach the school and park on the south side, slipping through the gate and running through the lot, up to the pool room.

  I hand Misha my can and pluck my key out of my handbag.

  “You have a key?” J.D. asks, surprised. “I can’t believe they never thought of questioning you before.”

  Yes, I have a key. Often I’m the last one out of the pool, and this is my job. I’m entrusted to lock up this door.

  “I’m Ryen Trevarrow,” I joke. “I’m a bubblehead with barely enough brain cells to breathe.”

  Quiet chuckles go off around the group, and I unlock the door, hurrying everyone inside.

  “How do you know no one will see it tomorrow and get rid of the paint before Monday?” Misha asks.

  It’s Saturday night, so it’s possible.

  But…

  “Roofers will be here tomorrow to fix the leaks,” I explain. “Teachers are being asked to stay out of the building for safety.” I look around at all of them. “You know what to do?”

  “Yep.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Ready.”

  Okay, then. “Let’s go.”

  Monday morning, Misha and I walk into school, staring ahead as the storm whirls around us.

  A big part of me knows we shouldn’t have done it. There are all kinds of ways to handle our problems, after all. Better ways to deal with the issues.

  But what Misha said was true. Everyone is ugly, aren’t we? Some wear it and some hide it.

  I guess I just got tired of Trey hiding it.

  And of everyone allowing him to keep it hidden.

  I did a bad, bad thing.

  “Oh, my God,” a guy mumbles off to my side, and I look over to see him reading something I’d written Saturday night.

  “Hey, did you see this?” a girl gasps, asking her friend as they gape at the opposite wall.

  I look down the corridor, seeing several messages written here and there and people fluttering about, taking it all in.

  You shouldn’t be caught alone with me. You’ve been asking for this.

  -Trey Burrowes

  Can you even find your dick anymore, faggot?

  -Trey Burrowes

  I’m going to fuck her and then fuck her mom. Watch me.

  Every corner you turn, every night when you go to sleep, I’ll be there, and I’m going to find out exactly what I’ve been missing.

  Doesn’t take long for you little bitches to turn slut once you get a taste for it.

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

  Head down, ass up, that’s the way we like to fuck.

  Trey, Trey, and more Trey.

  We keep walking, passing the quotes all four of us wrote on the walls, lockers, and floors Saturday night, turning down another hall and seeing even more.

  Not all of them are about Trey, though. Some of them are attributed to Lyla, Katelyn, a couple of Trey’s friends, and even me.

  Because of course, saying you’re sorry is easy. Facing the shame is where atonement begins.

  One of these nights, I’ll get you in the parking lot, and I’ll spread those pretty legs and fuck you right there on the ground. Would you like that, baby?

  -Trey Burrowes

  “That’s disgusting,” a junior girl says, wincing.

  Another girl takes out a pencil and writes underneath the They all want it message.

  No, we don’t, she writes.

  The hallways are a flurry of activity, and we tried to keep our posts to the two main corridors, mostly because everyone passes through these hallways when they come into school.

  People are captivated, though. Some girls look angry and disgusted. Some guys are surprised.

  “All students please report to the auditorium,” the vice principal’s voice carries over the loudspeaker. “All students please report to the auditorium.”

  Ten stops us in the hallway, looking nervous but amused. “Looks like we broke the bank on this one.”

  “Yeah.” I offer him a tight smile and watch more students writing under the messages on the wall. “Look at them, though.”

  Speak your mind, and you give others permission to do the same.

  I turn to Misha, sighing. “You should leave. You don’t need to be here, and she’s going to pull you in if she finds you.”

  Since he walked out on Burrowes over a week ago, he hasn’t been back to school, but I think he was worried about how all this would go down today and wanted to be here.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t care.”

  “Well, the police just got here,” Ten informs us.

  “The police?” I whisper. “I didn’t think what we did was that bad.”

  “No, it’s not for the vandalism. It’s for Trey. A bunch of kids—several girls—are in the office, ratting him out. I guess the posts got to them.”

  “You should really go, then,” I tell Misha.

  But just then Principal Burrowes approaches us and my heart skips a beat.

  “Mr. Laurent? Come with me now.”

  He stares at her for a moment.

  But I jump in. “Why?”

  “I think he knows why.”

  He hesitates for a moment, and I think he’s going to fight like last time, but he doesn’t. He takes a step.

  “No, no, no…” I burst out. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “It’s okay,” he assures under his breath.

  But Burrowes interjects, looking at me. “I show you on the log a
s the last person, other than the janitor, to sign out and leave the school Friday evening,” she tells me. “Now that’s not unusual, since you stay late to teach swim lessons, but then it occurred to me that you have a key. And then I remembered the company you’ve been suddenly keeping.” She glances at Misha. “Did you take her key?”

  “No!” I answer for him.

  “Yes,” he says.

  Oh, Jesus.

  “It’s okay,” he says again. “I’ll be fine.”

  She leads him away, and I throw up my hands, feeling helpless. Why didn’t he just walk out like last time?

  He doesn’t have to protect me, and he knows I won’t let him take the fall.

  What is he doing?

  “Sit down.”

  I prefer to stand, but I’m guessing I may as well settle in. I take the seat in front of her desk.

  “After the fights and your behavior the past few weeks, I’ve been calling the phone numbers on file,” she tells me, closing her office door. “None of them work or they’re wrong numbers. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I stare at her as she takes her seat behind her tidy, little desk. Unbuttoning her suit jacket, she scoots in and opens a file, undoubtedly mine. It’s nearly empty.

  But I keep quiet.

  “If you had a concern about Trey, you should’ve come to me,” she demands. “Not break into the school and write horrible accusations on the wall.”

  Accusations? Were the pictures she found in her bedroom not clear enough?

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  She straightens. “I’ve sent my stepson home for the day, while we sort through this mess.”

  I feel like smiling, but I don’t. I simply stare at her. With the amount of upset students outside her door right now, I’m guessing the mess will take quite a while to sort through.

  “Where are your parents?” she asks.

  “My father lives in Thunder Bay.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Gone.”

  She exhales a sigh and folds her hands on her desk. She knows she’s not going to get anywhere like this.

  Reaching over, she picks up the phone receiver and holds it to her ear. “Give me your father’s phone number.”

  My fingers curl, but I don’t give myself away. This is it.

  “742-555-3644.”

  “What’s his name?” She punches in the number. “His real name.”

  I hear the line start ringing, and my heart pounds painfully, but I remain stoic.

  “Matthew,” I answer flatly. “Matthew Lare Grayson.”

  She suddenly goes still and darts her eyes up to me. Her breathing speeds up, and she looks like she’s seen a ghost.

  Well, she remembers his name. That’s something, at least.

  My father’s voice comes across on the other line. “Hello?”

  And she looks back down, and I see her swallow the lump in her throat, blinking nervously. “Matthew?”

  “Gillian?”

  She hangs up the phone like it’s burning hot and covers her mouth with her hand. I almost want to smile. Just to add to the taunt.

  She raises her eyes, locking on mine and looking like she’s scared of me. “Misha?”

  Yep.

  And awesome. She remembers my name. Two points for Mom.

  Now she knows. Me choosing to come to this school and sit in this office had nothing to do with Trey. It was about her.

  “What do you want?” she asks, and it sounds like an accusation.

  I laugh to myself. “What do I want?” And then I drop my eyes, whispering to myself, “What do I want?”

  I raise my chin and cock my head, sitting across from her and holding her fucking accountable. “I guess I wanted a mom. I wanted a family, and I wanted you to see me play the guitar,” I tell her. “I wanted to see you Christmas morning and to smile at me and miss me and hold my sister when she was sad or lonely or scared.” I watch as she just sits there silently, her eyes glistening. “I wanted you to like us. I wanted you to tell my father that he was a good guy who deserved better than you and that he should stop waiting for you. I wanted you to tell us to stop waiting.”

  I flex my jaw, getting stronger by the moment. This isn’t about me. I’m done being hurt and asking myself questions when I know the answers won’t be good enough.

  “I wanted to see you,” I go on. “I wanted to figure you out. I wanted to understand why my sister died of a heart attack at seventeen years old, because she was taking drugs to keep her awake to study and be the perfect daughter, athlete, and student, so you would come back and be proud of her and want her!”

  I study her face, seeing Annie’s brown eyes staring back, pained and turning red. “I wanted to understand why you didn’t come to your own child’s funeral,” I charge. “Your baby who was lying on a dark, wet, cold road for hours alone while your new kids,”—I shove at a picture frame on her desk, making it tumble forward—“in your new house,”—another picture frame—“with your new husband,”—the last picture frame—“were all tucked safe and warm in their beds, but not Annie. She was dying alone, having never felt her mother’s arms around her.”

  She hunches forward, breaking down and covering her mouth with her hands again. This can’t be a surprise. She had to know this was going to happen someday.

  I mean, I know she hasn’t seen me since I was two, but I thought for sure she would know me. That first day, seeing her in the lunchroom, I felt like she was going to turn around. Like she’d be able to sense me or some shit.

  But she didn’t. Not then, not when she pulled me into her office for a “Hey, how are you?”… and not any time after that.

  She deserted us and moved away when Annie was just a baby. After a time, I heard she went to college and started teaching, but honestly, it barely hurt.

  I could understand being young—twenty-two with two kids—and not to mention the cut-throat family she married into. But I thought she’d eventually find her way back to us.

  And later, when Annie and I found out she was only one town away, married to a man who already had a son, and she’d started a family with him and still hadn’t made the slightest effort to seek Annie and me out, I got angry.

  Annie did everything in the hope our mother would hear about her or see her team in the paper and come for her.

  “Now…” I say, my tone calm and even, “I don’t want any of those things. I just want my sister back.” I lean forward, placing my elbows on the tops of my knees. “And I want you to tell me something before I leave. Something I need to hear. I want you to tell me that you were never going to look for us.”

  Her teary eyes shoot up to me.

  Yeah, I might’ve convinced myself that I came here to collect the photo album of my sister’s school pictures and newspaper clippings Annie said she mailed her here that I found in her file cabinet and my grandfather’s watch, but really, part of me had a shred of hope. Part of me thought she might still be a good person and have an explanation. A way to tell me why—even in death—Annie’s mom still didn’t come for her.

  “I want you to tell me you don’t regret leaving and you haven’t thought about us a single day since you left,” I demand. “You were happier without us, and you don’t want us.”

  “Misha—”

  “Say it,” I growl. “Let me leave here free of you. Give me that.”

  Maybe she missed us and didn’t want to disrupt our lives. Maybe she missed us and didn’t want to disrupt her life. Or maybe that part of her life is broken and over, and she doesn’t want to go back. Maybe she doesn’t care.

  But I do know that I can’t care about this anymore. I stare at her and wait for her to say what I need to hear.

  “I wasn’t going to look for either of you,” she whispers, staring at her desk with tears streaming down her face. “I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t be your mother.”

  I slam my hand down on her desk, and she jumps. “I don’t give a
shit about your excuses. I won’t feel sorry for you. Now say it. Say you were happier without us, and you didn’t want us.”

  She starts crying again, but I wait.

  “I’m happier since I left,” she sobs. “I never think about you and Annie, and I’m happier without you.” She breaks down as if the words are painful to say.

  The sadness creeps up my throat, and I feel tears threatening. But I stand up, straighten my spine, and look down at her.

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  Turning, I walk for the door but stop, speaking to her with my back turned. “When your other daughter, Emma, turns eighteen, I will be introducing myself to her,” I state. “Do yourself a favor and don’t be an asshole. Prepare her before that time comes.”

  And I open the door, leaving the office.

  I step into the empty hallway and make my way for the entrance, the distance between my mother and me growing. With every step, I feel stronger.

  I won’t regret leaving, I say to myself. I won’t think about you a single day from now on. I’m happier without you, and I don’t need you.

  I’ll never look for you again.

  “Did you ask her why she left?”

  “No.” I sit against the wall in Annie’s room with Ryen resting against me between my legs.

  “You’re not curious about her reasoning?” she presses. “How she would justify it?”

  “I used to wonder. But now I… I don’t know.” It’s not that that I don’t care, but…“If someone doesn’t want us, we need to stop wanting them. I used to tell myself that, and now I believe it,” I tell her. “It’s not so hard, facing her and walking away. If she wanted to explain, she would’ve. If she could’ve, she would’ve. She didn’t chase after me. She knows how to find me if she wants to.”

  Ryen smoothes her hands down Annie’s blue scarf. “So that’s why you were in Falcon’s Well.”

  “Yeah. She had the watch. An heirloom gifted by my father’s father for her and my dad at their wedding,” I say, burying my nose in her hair. “Family tradition dictates it goes to the first-born son. She took it when she left—maybe to spite my dad or pawn it for money if she needed—but somehow she ended up giving it to Trey.”