Punk 57 (41 page)

The next day, he’s not in our first class.

I know where he lives, and it brings me back to when I first noticed he’d stopped writing all those months ago.
I can check on him if I’m really worried. He knows where to find me if he wants to see me.

But wait… I’m the one who doesn’t want to see him. I told him to go, so what if he did?

I know he never intended for things to get so out of hand, and I believe he’s sorry, but I can’t wrap my head around it. Pretending you’re someone else is bad enough. Lurking right under my nose with me none the wiser is awful.

But sleeping with me? How could he do it? Was he Masen or Misha in that truck at the drive-in? Was he really ever planning on telling me?

I shouldn’t have relented last night. The emotions were high, I missed him, and when he took me in his arms, I just wanted to stop fighting for five minutes. I wanted to feel good with him again and forget.

But now, the light of day is so bright I want to crawl back under the covers. Everyone heard him scold me at the party last night. Acting like I’m his property.

They may not know what’s happened between us, but they know
something
happened to make him that angry with me. And they know I’ve been lying about it.

I force down the lump in my throat and walk up to my cubby in the locker room, next to Lyla and Katelyn as they dress for P.E.

“Hey,” I say, trying to force a chipper tone.

But Lyla doesn’t respond. Instead she lifts her nose, sniffing the air and complaining to Katelyn next to her. “God, did the janitors clean last night? I smell skank everywhere.”

Katelyn laughs, and I tense.

“Can you believe that bitch didn’t even bother to show up to practice again this morning?” Katelyn tells her, loud enough for me to hear. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. Her fat ass was getting too heavy to catch.”

Liquid heat races through my veins, and I hear my pulse in my ears. I turn to them as they get dressed. “You wanna say something, say it to my face.”

But they both ignore me as if I haven’t said anything.

“So did J.D. book a limo?” Katelyn asks Lyla.

“Oh, yeah. One big enough for all of us,” she replies, and they both slam their locker doors, walking past me and down the aisle. “This night is going to be epic. Especially without Ryen there to stink up the car.”

Their delighted laughter grates on my ears and tears spring to my eyes, but I slam my locker closed, refusing to give in.

All through P.E. I stay away from them, slowly feeling their bubble getting bigger and pressing me further away. They’re them, and I’m me. Over here, separated, alone, and excluded. I’m outside the bubble.

Again.

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 wear.”

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.