Punk 57 (15 page)

I storm out of the gym without looking back. Hope the swim teacher knows how to swim.

I dig my keys out of my pocket and head for my truck.
Shit-for-Brains? Breathe too hard?

She’s got a nasty mouth on her and an answer for everything. Does she ever shut up?

I climb into the truck, slamming the door. “Dammit!” I growl. “What a fucking—!” But I stop myself, breathing hard. I’m so damn angry I almost wish we had a gig tonight. Or a practice. I want to take what I’m feeling out on something.

I hear a snort next to me, and I suddenly remember Dane is with me.

“I told you,” he says. “She looked kind of cold. I’ll bet she feels good when she warms up, though.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

I stick the key in the ignition, yank the shifter to
Drive
, and lay on the gas.

“Yeah, it looks like it,” Dane comments dryly.

Dear Ryen,

What do you think of this line to replace the ending of the chorus for Titan? You know, that song I sent you last time?

Don’t hold your breath, ‘cause you weren’t first! Someone had to build the stairs that you climb.

I was at the warehouse last night, and it just popped in my head. I think it fits the song a lot better, and with the beat, I think I’ll like the way it’s going to come out. Thoughts?

And yeah. Before you give me shit, I was at a party last night, sitting by myself, and writing music. So what? I think it helps my street cred, to be honest. You know…the quiet loner? The mysterious, hot rebel? Something like that? Maybe?

Whatever. Fuck it. You know I don’t like people.

Anyway, you asked me my favorite place in your last letter. The warehouse is one of them. During the day, when no one is there, you can hear the pigeons flapping through the rafters, and you can take in all the graffiti without everyone around. Some of it’s pretty incredible.

But I guess my absolute favorite place, other than you, of course, is my house. I know, I know. My dad is there, so why would I want to be? But actually… After my dad and sister have gone to sleep at night, when everything is dark, I crawl out my window and up to the roof. There’s a little hidden valley between the ridges where I sit back against the chimney, sometimes for hours, dicking around on my phone, taking in the view, or sometimes I write you. I love it up there. I can see the tops of the trees, blowing in the night wind, the glow of the street lamps and stars, the sound of leaves rustling… I guess it makes me feel like anything is possible.

The world isn’t always what’s right in front of you, you know? It’s below, it’s above, it’s out there somewhere. Every burn of every light inside every house I see when I look down from the rooftop has a story. Sometimes we just need to change our perspective.

And when I look down at everything, I remember that there’s more out there than just what’s going on in my house—the bullshit with my dad, school, my future. I look at all those full houses, and I remember, I’m just one of many. It’s not to say we’re not special or important, but it’s comforting, I guess. You don’t feel so alone.

Misha

I hold his letter in my hand, the last one he sent me in February before he stopped writing, and stare at the handwriting probably only I can read. The rough strokes and abrupt marks crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, and the way he never puts the appropriate amount of space between words, so his sentences end up looking like one big, long hashtag.

Amusement creeps up. I’ve never had a problem reading his writing, though. I grew up with it, after all.

So many times I’ve read this letter. Looking for clues—any clues—to figure out why he stopped writing after this. There’s no hint that this was a goodbye, no indication that he was going to be any busier than usual or that he’d gotten bored or tired of me…

The emptiness is getting bigger and wider and deeper, and I sit on my bed, “
Happy Song”
playing from my iPod, and study his words that always put the perfect light on anything.

I’m not ready to start my day.

Why don’t I want to get up or even muster the energy to worry about what I’m going to wear?

He’s the only thing I look forward to. The only reason I rush home from school, so I can see if there’s mail for me.

I look up and stare at the words I wrote on my chalk wall last night.

Alone

Empty

Fraud

Masen’s words are in my head now. Not Misha’s.

“Ryen!” my mom calls and knocks on my bedroom door. “Are you up?”

My shoulders fall a bit, and I force myself to answer. “Yeah.”

I’m not entirely lying. I am awake and sitting up in bed, cross-legged and reading.

But as I hear her steps retreat back down the hallway and the stairs, I glance at the clock and see that I’ve procrastinated long enough. Folding the letter back up, I slip it into the white envelope and stick it in my bedside drawer. The rest of Misha’s letters are under my bed, every single one close in case I need them.

Standing up, I make my bed and pack my school bag before walking to my closet and snatching out a pair of white shorts and a black top. I may have already worn that outfit this week. I’m not sure. I suddenly don’t care.

Once dressed, I head for the bathroom to do my hair and make-up since I already showered after swim lessons last night.

I can’t believe that asshole threw me in the pool. It was my turn to stand up to him, and I was doing a damn good job, but just like a guy, when he can’t win with wit, he uses brawn.

Slow clap for Masen.

He may have had the last word, but he’d had to step up his game to do it. I feel an ounce of pride and smile as I enter the bathroom.

I straighten my hair, getting rid of my bedhead, and begin applying my make-up, getting rid of the dark circles I have from staying up too late doing homework last night. I also add some blush to make me look healthy and happy.

Someone walks in and tosses something in front of me. I look down and see my black envelope addressed to Misha. I pick it up.

It’s the letter I wrote him a few days ago. I can tell, because it has the stamps with the planets on them I just bought at the post office last week.

I look over at my sister, seeing her hair up in a messy bun and that she’s wearing a summer dress with my black flats she didn’t ask if she could borrow.

I frown. “Why do you have my letter?”

“I took it out of the mailbox when I left for class the other day.”

“Why?”

“Because he hasn’t written you in months,” she snips. “You need to let it go.”

Anger boils under my skin as I watch her twist toward the mirror and mess with her bun. “Tell me again how that’s any of your business,” I snap, and I don’t care if our mom hears.

“Ryen, it’s pathetic,” she says, looking at me like I’m a child. “You look like you’re chasing him. When he gets his shit together, he can find you.”

I throw down the letter and grab my lipstick, facing the mirror again. “He’s not my boyfriend who needs to check in, and I don’t have to explain myself to you. Don’t touch my mail again.”

“Fine.” She turns and walks for the door but stops and turns her head to look at me. “Oh, and mom’s waiting for you at the kitchen table. She saw your essay score online.”

She walks out, and I close my eyes, entertaining the idea of taking a cue from Masen for a wonderful split-second.

Cannonball or washing machine, Carson? Maybe a haircut?

I walk out of my house and past my Jeep, holding the strap of my school bag over my shoulder as I carry my letter to Misha back to the mailbox. I stick it inside and raise the flag so the mail carrier knows to pick it up.

But then my eyes fall to the trash cans next to the mailbox, and I pause.

You look like you’re chasing him. It’s pathetic.

Pathetic.

I swallow the bitter lump in my throat.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not a priority anymore. Maybe he got a girlfriend, and she made him stop writing me. Maybe he got bored. His letters have been slowing down over the past couple of years, after all. I didn’t mind, because I also got busier in school, but still…

Misha
never
wrote me as much as I wrote him. I’d never really thought about that until now.

I snatch the letter out of the mailbox, crumple it up in my fists, and toss it on top of the pile in the garbage can. Screw him.

I charge back toward my Jeep, my heart starting to race as the fresh dew on the grass wets my feet through my sandals.

But then I stop, feeling a wave of loss wash over me.
No.
It’s not pathetic. Misha wouldn’t want me to stop writing him. He made me promise.
I need you, you know that, right?
he’d said.
Tell me we’ll always have this. Tell me you won’t stop.
That was in one of his rare letters where I got a glimpse of everything he keeps hidden. He’d seemed afraid and vulnerable, and so I promised him. Why would I ever stop? I never want to lose him.

Misha.

I swing around and jog back to the garbage can, digging the crumpled envelope out and straightening it again. I flatten it as much as I can and stick it back in the mailbox, shutting the lid.

Without giving myself time to dwell on it, I hop in my car and drive to school. It’s almost May, and even though it’s a bit chilly, I brave it in my shorts and thin blouse, knowing the afternoon will be warmer. With ten minutes to spare, I park in the lot, seeing crowds of students milling about as I walk up the sidewalk to the front entrance.

Music plays from phones, people text, and I feel an arm snake around me, a familiar scent hitting my nose. Ten wears Jean Paul Gaultier cologne every day, and I love it. It makes my stomach somersault.

“What’s this,” he asks, lifting up my right hand.

I look down, seeing blue paint on my index finger and a little under my nail.

Shit.

I pull my hand away, my heart picking up pace. “It’s nothing. My mom is painting the bathroom, and I helped,” I tell him.

Curling my fingers into a fist, I hide my finger under the strap of my bag. I guess I need to wash in the shower a lot better at night.