Punk 57 (44 page)

Anger mars her face. “If I have to ask again, I’m calling the police.”

“Mi—Masen,” I corrected myself. “Just go.”

Burrowes puts her hand on his back and gestures for him to move.

But he whips away from her touch, scowling. “Fuck you.” He glares at her and then turns to me. “I’m leaving. I’m done here. I’ll be at the Cove after school.”

“What?” I exclaim.

He kisses me on the forehead and shoots Burrowes one last look before walking down the hall and back out the front door. I look around and see that other students are watching the exchange.

Burrowes meets my eyes briefly, but she doesn’t go after him. Turning around, she walks back down the hallway and disappears into the throng of bodies rushing to class.

Misha’s gone, and I’m a little pissed he’d rather leave school and me than deal with her. If he moves back to Thunder Bay, I’ll barely see him. At least until summer break.

What the hell’s going on with him?

And now that I finally slow down enough to think about it, he still hasn’t answered all of my questions.

Why is here? Why did Trey have his watch? And why is he staying at the Cove?

Everyone heads to their next class or into lunch, and I stand next to the water fountain, filling up my water bottle. I don’t feel like braving the cafeteria today, even though I’m a little hungry.

I know I should go in. I should sit at a table without the armor of my phone, homework, or a book, and just be there. If I hear whispers, then so be it. Let them talk.

But I don’t have it in me today for some reason. Maybe I just don’t want to see them. Maybe I don’t feel like getting covered in juice when I have to be here half the evening.

Maybe I’m allowing myself to just wimp out today.

The hallway slowly empties, shoes squeak across the floor, and lockers slam shut. The clatter of trays and the chatter of conversations filter out into the hall, and I hear a door open to my left. Looking up, I see Trey coming out of the bathroom. He holds a black cord with a pennant attached to it, and he walks over to the garbage can, pulling it apart and breaking it, and then dumping it in the can.

That’s Manny’s, I think. It’s one of the gothy necklaces he wears with some band’s name on it or something.

Trey raises his eyes and sees me, and I twist the cap back on my water bottle and walk his way, staying far to the right to go upstairs to the library.

But he rushes over and stops me, caging me in against the wall.

I exhale a hard sigh, turning angry.

“Where’s your bodyguard?” he asks, leaning his hands on the wall at my sides and blocking my escape. “Oh, that’s right. I heard he bailed school. Is he coming back?”

I push at his arm, trying to slip away, but he pushes me back, and I drop my bottle.

“Get the hell away from me,” I growl.

“It’s your own fault,” he replies. “You shouldn’t be caught alone with me. You’ve been asking for this.”

I dart my eyes to the sides, looking for an adult. But the hallway is nearly empty.

“You know what I think I’ll do?” He gives me a sick smile. “One of these nights, I’ll get you in the parking lot after you teach swim lessons, and I’ll spread those pretty legs and fuck you right there on the ground. Would you like that, baby?”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“But can you outrun me?” An amused look crosses his eyes. “Your boyfriend’s gone now. 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.”

He pushes off the wall, and I fist my fingers, realizing they’re chilled to the bone.

“You’re just like every other bitch in this school. They all wanted it.”

I take in deep breaths as I watch him walk down the hall to the lunchroom, trying to slow down my pulse.

I don’t care what he thinks he can get away with. I’ll talk to my mom tonight and take this to the principal. If she doesn’t handle him, then we’ll go over her head. He’s not threatening me again.

I move to make my way up the steps, but I see the men’s room door Trey came out of and remember the black necklace.

He must’ve taken it from Manny. If Manny’s in there, why hasn’t he come out yet?

I look around, not seeing anyone in the hall, and hurry to the bathroom door, slowly pushing it open.

“Manny?” I call out.

Why the hell am I doing this? He won’t want to see me. I’m sure he’s fine.

“Manny, it’s Ryen,” I say.

I don’t hear anything, and for a moment I think the bathroom is empty, but then I hear a shuffle and step inside.

Inching past the empty stalls, I walk along the sinks to the hidden space where the hand dryers sit.

Manny is standing with his back to me, his backpack dangling from his right hand, and his head bowed.

He’s shaking.

“Manny?”

He raises his head but doesn’t turn around. “Get out,” he demands. “Get the fuck away from me.”

“Manny, what happened?”

I step to the side, trying to see his face, but then I see something, and I stop. Blood trails off his ear and down his neck.

The hole on his lobe where a black gauge used to fit is now empty, and he’s bleeding, although it looks like it’s stopped.

Trey. Oh, my God, did he rip it out?

I take a step toward Manny, but he flinches, moving away.

Of course. Why would
she
help? He sees me just as dangerous as he sees Trey.

He thinks I’ll victimize him. And why not? I’ve done it in the past.

Grief fills my heart. How many times have I made him feel alone?

I stay rooted, not wanting to make him scared, but I want to help. “It won’t always be like this.”

“It’s always been like this,” he retorts.

I stand there, thinking back to grade school. Manny and I got along okay until fourth grade when I…changed. But even before that he was on the periphery of whatever was happening. He was small and lanky, never picked for sports and often got in trouble for not turning in assignments. I knew then that he had it a little stressful at home, but other kids don’t understand things like that. They just judge.

“When I was little,” he goes on. “I used to be able to go home and get away from it. But now we’re older. We have Facebook, and everything they say about me during the day, I get to see online every night.”

I can hear the tears in his voice, and I want to get him some napkins to clean up the blood, but I don’t want him to stop talking, either.

“One of you assholes pushes my tray into my clothes and dumps food all over me, and the first thing everyone does is take out their phones. And then I have to relive it through pictures on my newsfeed every hour—even days and weeks later. Over and over again. I can’t get away from it anymore. Not even when I leave school.”

I never thought about it like that. When we were younger, the dynamics of friendships and fitting in were only difficult at school. When we went home, we were free, and most of us, hopefully, felt safe there. Now, the only thing we leave at school is school. The pressure, the gossiping, the bad feelings, it follows us home online. There’s no break from it.

“It’s constant. The humiliation…”

“It won’t always be like this,” I say again, moving closer.

“My family sees it, my sisters and their friends. I embarrass them.” He shakes, sobbing again. “That’s why I get high.”

He pulls a rag and spray can out of his backpack, and I move forward, a lump stretching my throat.

“As high as I can get as often as I can get,” he says, “so I can bear the fucking pain of breathing and eating and looking at people like you.”

“Manny...”

“When everything is painful…” He drops the backpack and sprays the inhalant on the rag. “You start to ask yourself ‘what’s the point?’ No one cares, and you start to care even less. You just want the pain to stop.”

He brings it to his nose, and I lunge out, knocking the cloth out of his hand and grabbing the can.

I wrap my arm around him and pull him into me, both of us starting to cry. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I whisper.

I drop the stuff on the floor and hold his frail, shaking body as tears stream down my face. What the fuck? How did we get here? He wasn’t like this as a kid. Neither of us were like this.

He breathes hard, and I think about all the times I didn’t think of him and all the things I wasn’t seeing. All the times I ignored what was happening because of the fear of being alone, empty, and ashamed of who I was.

We were kids once, and we liked ourselves. We were happy. How did that change?

I pull away and toss the stuff into the garbage, wetting some paper towels for him to clean off his neck.

Handing them to him, I lean down on the counter and try to calm the sobs in my chest.

This is crazy. How can he hurt himself like that? He has to know it gets better. The world will open up, and we won’t feel so trapped. You just need to hang on.

But I look over at him, seeing tears coat his face, bags under his eyes, and him staring off. He absently wipes the blood off his neck, looking completely fucking empty and like he’s done hanging on.

I wipe my tears away and try to steel my tone. “It won’t always be like this.” I want him to know that.

But he just looks over at me, looking like he’s hanging on by a thread. “When does it get better?”

My heart aches. Yeah, when? How long does he have to wait?

There should always be hope—we change, our environment changes, and our communities change. It will get better.

But that doesn’t mean we’re powerless in the meantime, either. I can’t change his life, but I can do this.

I pick up his backpack and stand up, handing it to him. Taking his hand, I lead him out into the hallway, seeing him toss his wet cloth in the trash on the way out.

We walk across the hall to the lunchroom, and I relax my grip on his hand just in case he wants to let go of me.

But he doesn’t. We walk hand in hand to the lunch line, already hearing the deafening noise fade a little and murmurs drift around the room.

I give him a tray and take one myself.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks in a low voice. “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve always liked you.” I turn my eyes on him. “And I need a friend.”

My being an asshole was personal to him, but it wasn’t personal to me. I never stopped liking Manny.

We move down the line, and my back is hot. Hopefully it’s my paranoia, feeling all those stares. If not, I guess I’ve laid down the gauntlet. And without Misha here this time to protect me. Here we go.

“I always eat in the library.” He looks around nervously.

I take a Jell-O cup. “The lunchroom is where we eat.”

“Everyone’s looking at us.”

“It’s because you have a better ass than me, that’s why.”

A laugh escapes him, but he quickly diffuses it, probably because he’s not sure if he can trust me. I don’t blame him.

We load up our trays with chips, mac and cheese, and brownies. I also get a soda, because fuck it, I’m hungry, and I want to drink some calories today.

After we pay, I walk over to a round table and glance back, making sure he’s following me.

His eyes dart left and right, carrying his tray and backpack, and he’s probably nervous as hell. After all, I can’t remember the last time I spotted him in here, and everyone is looking at us.

I keep my eyes forward and set my tray down, having a seat. He quickly slides into a chair on the other side of the table, and even though the hairs on my skin are standing on end and I’m aware of every damn person in here, I inhale a deep breath and give him a reassuring smile.

“See?” I brag, opening my Coke. “It’s getting better already.”

But then something smashes down in front of me, my food splatters, and I gasp, instantly stilling as mac and cheese hits my arm and hair.

What the…?

“Whoa!” Howls sound off across the room, followed by laughter, and I know it’s coming from my old table. People around us take notice and start laughing, a few taking out their phones to take a pic.