Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

  Because in my nine-year-old head, the bath washed away more than the daily grime. It washed away the old me, and somehow, because I polished up my appearance, my personality would magically be different, too.

  This went on for about a year. More than fifty Sundays of high hopes, and more than fifty Mondays ending with not a damn thing different than it was the previous week. No amount of soap and water, perfect nails, or pretty hair could change what I hated about myself on the inside.

  That I was timid. That I was uptight and never broke rules. That I felt so uncomfortable in large groups and couldn’t talk easily with people. That my music and movie choices weren’t like the average kid.

  Plain and simple: I didn’t fit in.

  I had nothing in common with other kids around me and being limited to my small environment, I couldn’t find anyone I did have things in common with. I constantly felt like I didn’t belong. Like I was crashing a party and people were just waiting for me to get the hint and leave.

  That was until I met you. We started hanging out and talked about everything. Every day at recess, we’d walk around the perimeter of the field and chat about stuff we had in common. You were kind and funny, you listened to me and didn’t make me feel pressured or awkward. I was glad to finally have a friend.

  Until I started wondering why I didn’t have more.

  We’d keep walking and talking, but sooner or later, my eyes would drift over to where everyone else was playing and laughing, and I’d start to feel left out again. What made them so special to be crowded with people? Why did they seem happier and a part of something better? What were they doing and how were they behaving that I wasn’t?

  I came to the conclusion that I needed to see myself as better before I could be better. And by better, I mean popular. In putting myself on a pedestal with whatever nasty behavior I could, I believed I was elevating myself. And in a way, I guess I was. Being mean got those friends I thought I wanted.

  Now, there’s nothing I can say that makes what I did to you alright. I know that. Even a kid knows how to be nice. But I wanted you to know that I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I regret what I did. It was the first act in a long line of acts that made me a very unhappy girl, and I see now how valuable one good friend truly is and how little those popular kids actually mean in the big, wide world.

  I can’t change the past, but I will do better in the future.

  I’m sorry if I bothered you. If you’re reading this and wondering why I dwelled on something that was perhaps so insignificant to you. Maybe you’re surrounded by a great life and tons of happiness, and I’m not even a memory.

  But if I hurt you, I’m sorry. I want you to know that.

  You were a good friend, and you deserved better. Thank you for being there for me when I needed you. I wish I’d done the same.

  Love,

  Ryen

  If you’re reading this, then hopefully that means you finished the book. And if that’s the case, then I’m very glad.

  Punk 57 was a different book to write, and a difficult one. We romance readers can be very hard on our heroines. We often see ourselves in those roles and compare their decisions to the decisions we would’ve made instead. We tend to judge them more harshly than we do the heroes, because we hold them to the same expectation we hold ourselves. This is why many heroines are often innocent, timid, and kind with good hearts. Seeing those women find their power is a fun journey. They’re easy to love.

  Ryen, on the other hand, was not. Especially in the first few chapters.

  Knowing this, of course I was very scared. I only hoped you’d stick with her long enough to see her come around and eventually be proud of her.

  Ryen’s need for recognition, adoration, and inclusion echoes with us all. We see it all the time. No kid wants to be different. They want to belong, they desire the approval of others, and they, most often, aren’t yet mentally strong enough to be able to stand alone. As we get older, though, most of us develop that capability. We learn that nothing feels better than truly loving yourself, even if it means those around you do not. We joyously find that we just don’t give a damn anymore.

  And it feels pretty great.

  But most of us have done things—unfair things—in the name of self-preservation. That’s the story I wanted to tell. Ryen hating who she was, trying to be different and trying to find a way for people to finally see her, but then discovering that she hates herself even more. Lying to yourself never moves you forward.

  Thank you for reading, and thank you for (hopefully) finishing the story. And to anyone out there who might’ve related to what some of the characters went through—just remember: it gets better, you are important, and you can’t be replaced.

  Hang on. You’ll find your tribe.

  Penelope Douglas

  Anything goes when everyone knows

  Where do you hide when their highs are your lows?

  So much, so hard, so long, so tired,

  Let them eat until you’re ground into nothing.

  Don’t you worry your glossy little lips.

  What they savor ‘ventually loses its flavor.

  I wanna lick, while you still taste like you.

  Bookmark it, says the cheerleader

  I promise we’ll come back to this spot.

  I have shit to do first. You won’t wait a lot.

  I can’t make her stay,

  And I can’t watch her go.

  I’ll keep her hellfire heart,

  And bookmark it ‘fore it goes cold.

  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.

  Fifty-seven days to not need you

  Fifty-seven times to give up on you

  Fifty-seven steps away from you,

  Fifty-seven nights of nothing but you.

  I’m just the punk who passed the time,

  Your bouncing board, your secret little thrill.

  Something tells me you’re close to breaking,

  “Cause I need to be more to you than just time to fill.

  Bookmark it, says the cheerleader

  I promise we’ll come back to this spot.

  I have shit to do first. You won’t wait a lot.

  I can’t make her stay,

  And I can’t watch her go.

  I’ll keep her hellfire heart,

  And bookmark it ‘fore it goes cold.

  A picture is worth a thousand words,

  But my thousand words slice deeper.

  What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,

  Fuck that. I’ve become a hide and seeker.

  Treat others how you want to be treated,

  But what if tonight I want to be burned?

  You told us it’s better to be safe than sorry,

  And little sister listened, but I was the one who learned.

  Reap, reap, reap, you don’t even know,

  All you did suffer is what you did sow!

  Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear,

  Close your eyes. There’s nothing to see out here.

  Do better, be more, too many, too much,

  I’m about to fucking choke, I can’t force it down.

  So string up the little wisdoms and wrap them ‘round my neck,

  I’ll strangle myself with your pearls of wisdom and die a wreck.

  You told us to prepare now and play later,

  But what’s in here is better than what’s out there.

  I took an umbrella to save me from the rain,

  But the lightning hit, and you didn’t care.

  Reap, reap, reap, you don’t even know,

  All you did suffer is what you did sow!

  Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear,

  Close your eyes. There’s nothing to see out here.

  Would you like to know more about Misha’s cousin, Will, and his friends, Michael and Kai? You can visit them in the romantic suspe
nse series, Devil’s Night. The first book, Corrupt, is available now at all major retailers.

  Please keep reading for an excerpt…

  HE WON’T BE HERE.

  There’d be no reason for him to show up at his brother’s farewell party, since they couldn’t stand each other, so…

  No, he won’t be here.

  Pushing up the sleeves of my lightweight sweater, I hurried through the front door of the Crist house and speed-walked across the foyer, heading straight for the stairs.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the butler rounding the corner, but I didn’t stop.

  “Miss Fane!” he shouted after me. “You’re very late.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Mrs. Crist has been looking for you,” he pointed out.

  I shot up my eyebrows and immediately stopped, turning around to peer at him over the railing.

  “Has she really?” I eyed him with mock astonishment.

  He thinned his lips, annoyed. “Well, she sent me to look for you.”

  I broke out in a smile and leaned over the bannister, planting a quick kiss on his forehead.

  “Well, I’m here,” I assured him. “You can get back to your important duties now.”

  I turned and continued up the stairs, hearing the soft music coming from the party out on the terrace.

  Yeah, I highly doubted Delia Crist, my mother’s best friend and the matriarch of Thunder Bay, our small East Coast community, was spending her precious time looking for me herself.

  “Your dress is on your bed!” he called after me as I walked around the corner.

  I exhaled an aggravated sigh and powered down the dimly lit hallway, grumbling under my breath, “Thank you, Edward.”

  I didn’t need a new dress. I already had several I’d only worn once, and at nineteen, I could definitely pick out my own clothes. Not that he would be here to see it anyway, and if he was, he wouldn’t look at me.

  No. I should be grateful. Mrs. Crist thought of me, and it was nice of her to make sure I’d have a dress to wear.

  A light spatter of sand covered my legs and feet, and I reached down to grip the ends of my loose jean shorts, inventorying exactly how wet I’d gotten down at the beach. Would I need a shower?

  No, I was already late. Screw it.

  Diving into my room—the one the Crists’ let me have for when I stayed the night—I spotted a sexy, white cocktail dress lying on the bed, and I immediately began stripping.

  The thin spaghetti straps did almost nothing to hold up my breasts, but it fit perfectly, molding to my body, and it made my skin look darker than it was. Mrs. Crist had awesome taste, and it was probably a good thing that she’d gotten me the dress, after all. I’d been too busy preparing to leave for school tomorrow to bother with what to wear tonight.

  Dashing into the bathroom, I rinsed my calves and feet of the sand I’d picked up on my walk, and I quickly brushed out my long, blonde hair and applied a little lip gloss. I scurried back into the bedroom, grabbed the tan strappy heels she’d left by the dress, and ran back into the hallway and down the stairs.

  Twelve hours to go.

  My heart pumped harder and harder as I jogged through the foyer and toward the back of the house. This time tomorrow I’d be completely on my own—no mother, no Crists, no memories...

  And most of all, I wouldn’t have to wonder, hope, or dread that I’d see him. Or teeter on the edges of elation and agony when I did. Nope. I’d be able to hold out my arms and spin in a circle and not touch a single person I knew. Heat flowed through my chest, and I didn’t know if it was fear or excitement, but I was ready.

  Ready to leave it all behind. At least for a little while.

  Veering to the right, I bypassed the kitchens—one for everyday use and another adjacent to it for caterers—as I headed for the solarium at the side of the large house. Opening the double doors, I stepped into the massive, ceramic-tiled garden room, the walls and ceiling made entirely of glass, and instantly felt the rise in temperature. The thick, wet heat soaked through the fabric of my dress, making it melt to my body.

  Trees rose above and all around me in the quiet, dark room, lit only by the moonlight pouring in through the windows overhead. I inhaled the sweet smell of the palms, orchids, lilies, violets, and hibiscus, reminding me of my mother’s closet and all the perfumes from her coats and scarves blending together in one space.

  I turned left, stopping at the glass doors leading to the terrace and slipped into my heels as I gazed out at the crowd.

  Twelve hours.

  And then I straightened, reaching up, grabbing a handful of hair, and bringing it over my shoulder to cover the left side of my neck. Unlike his brother, Trevor would definitely be here tonight, and he didn’t like to see my scar.

  “Miss?” a waiter said as he stepped up with a tray.

  I smiled, taking one of the highball glasses that I knew was a Tom Collins. “Thank you.”

  The lemon-colored drink was Mr. and Mrs. Crist’s favorite, so they insisted that the servers circulate it.

  The waiter disappeared, moving on to the many other guests, but I stayed rooted, letting my eyes drift around the party.

  Leaves fluttered on their branches, the calm breeze still holding remnants of the day’s heat, and I surveyed the crowd, all dressed in their casual cocktail dresses and suit jackets.

  So perfect. So clean.

  The lights in the trees and the servers in their white waistcoats. The crystal-blue pool adorned with floating candles. The glittering jewels of the ladies’ rings and necklaces that caught the light.

  Everything was so polished, and when I looked around at all the adults and families I grew up with, their money and designer clothes, I often saw a coat of paint that you apply when you’re trying to cover up rotting wood. There were dark deeds and bad seeds, but who cared if the house was falling apart as long as it was pretty, right?

  The scent of the food lingered in the air accompanied by the soft music of the string quartet, and I wondered if I should find Mrs. Crist and let her know I’d arrived or find Trevor, since the party was in his honor, after all.

  But instead I tightened my fingers around my glass, my pulse quickening as I tried to resist the urge to do what I really wanted to do. What I always wanted to do.

  To look for him.

  But no, he wouldn’t be here. He probably wouldn’t be here.

  He might be here.

  My heart started thumping, and my neck heated. And, against my own will, my eyes started to drift. Around the party and over the faces, searching…

  Michael.

  I hadn’t seen him in months, but the pull was everywhere, especially in Thunder Bay. In the pictures his mother kept around this house, in his scent that drifted into the hallway from his old bedroom…

  He might be here.

  “Rika.”

  I blinked, jerking my head to the left, hearing Trevor call my name.

  He walked out of the crowd, his blond hair freshly cut close to the scalp, his dark blue eyes looking impatient, and his stride determined. “Hey, baby. I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

  I hesitated, feeling my stomach tighten. But then I forced a smile as he stepped up to me in the doorway of the solarium.

  Twelve hours.

  He slipped a hand around the right side of my neck—never the left side—and rubbed his thumb across my cheek, his body flush with mine.

  I turned my head, shifting uncomfortably. “Trevor—”

  “I didn’t know what I was going to do if you didn’t show up tonight,” he cut in. “Throw rocks at your window, serenade you, maybe bring you flowers, candy, a new car…”

  “I have a new car.”

  “I mean a real car.” He finally grinned.

  I rolled my eyes and pulled out of his hold. At least he was joking with me again, even if it was just to dis my brand new Tesla. Apparently electric cars weren’t real cars, but hey, I could take the dig if it meant h
e was finally over making me feel like shit about everything else.

  Trevor Crist and I had been friends since birth, gone to school with each other our entire lives, and were always thrown together by our parents as if a relationship were inevitable. And last year, I finally gave in to it.

  We dated almost our entire first year in college, attending Brown together—or actually, I applied to Brown, and he followed—but it ended in May.

  Or I ended it in May.

  It was my fault I didn’t love him. It was my fault I didn’t want to give it more time. It was my fault I decided to transfer schools to a city where he wouldn’t follow.

  It was also my fault he gave in to his father’s demand to transfer, as well, and finally attend Annapolis, and it was my fault I was disrupting our families.

  It was my fault I needed space.

  I let out a breath, forcing my muscles to relax. Twelve hours.

  Trevor smiled at me, his eyes heating as he took my hand and led me back into the solarium. He pulled me behind the glass, holding me close by the hips and whispering in my ear, “You look gorgeous.”

  But I pulled away again, giving us a few inches of space. “You look good, too.”

  He looked like his father, with his sandy-blond hair, narrow jaw, and that smile that could make almost anyone putty in his hands. He also dressed like Mr. Crist, looking polished in his midnight-blue suit, white shirt, and silver tie. So clean. So perfect. Trevor did everything within the lines.

  “I don’t want you going to Meridian City,” he said, narrowing his eyes on me. “You won’t have anyone there, Rika. At least I was at Brown with you, and Noah was less than an hour away in Boston. You had friends close by.”

  Yeah. Close.

  Which is exactly why I needed something different. I’d never had to leave the security of the people around me. There was always someone—parents, Trevor, my friend, Noah—to pick me up when I fell. Even when I went off to college and gave up the comfort of having my mother and the Crists close by, Trevor had still followed me. And then I had friends from high school going to universities close by. It was like nothing had changed.