Punk 57 (46 page)

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” I say, my fingers tingling as my heartbeat picks up.

His fingers grip my waist. “It about fucking time.”

I breathe out a laugh, kissing him. He’s always gotta bust my chops.

“And I think it’s about time I met your mom,” he states.

“Ugh, do we have to?” I trail kisses over his cheek and down his neck, more interested in something else right now.

“You think she won’t like me?”

I sigh, looking back up at him. My mom is lovely, but she’s strict. Seeing me in love and giddy and everything, her first concern will be making sure I don’t blow off college to get married.

“Well, you are the grandson of a senator, I guess,” I tell him. “Can we lead with that?”

He snorts, shaking his head at me. I guess that’s a no.

“Okay, fine,” I snip. “But afterwards, I have a favor to ask.”

“Ask me now.”

“Eh,” I cage. “I’ll tell you in the truck. It’s kind of illegal.”

I pick up the small duffel and hear the clank of a few cans inside. Well, I guess it’s better than it was. I don’t want to alert my family when I take it downstairs, so I’ve wrapped the cans in some clothes, hoping to drown out the sound.

Tonight is my final little foray, and Misha is helping. Only this time, I have no guilt about it. We’re rebels with a reason.

Okay, a little reason, at least.

Checking myself in the mirror one last time, I grab the bag and hear the doorbell ring, smiling. He’s here.

Leaving my room, I lift the hem of my dress as I step down the stairs. My mom and sister are camped out in the living room, huddled around a bowl of popcorn and scary movies tonight, but really, they’re just waiting to see Misha again.

When I brought him home last week, my mom immediately liked him. A lot. Especially with our history. She knows how much Misha means to me, and to finally meet him was incredible.

My sister, I think, was just aggravated.
Oh, look. He didn’t ditch me. He likes me. He loves me. And he’s hot.

But she’s been on my case less the last week, and I’ve tried to make an effort with her. After all, my relationship with my sister is as much my fault as it is hers. She may have been a brat as a kid, hating that she always had to hold my hand, so I wasn’t alone, but as we grew up, I was the one who pulled away. I’m trying to watch my mouth now and not build a wall every time she enters my space. It’ll take some time, but I think we’ll get there.

She even did my hair for me tonight.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, seeing my mom already heading through the foyer. I set the bag down and stand back up just as she opens the door.

Misha stands there, tall and dressed in a black suit, white shirt, with a black tie. Everything fits him perfectly, and he even has his tie tightened. His hair is styled, and the only thing that looks the same is the silver lip ring. His collar even covers the bit of ink that trails up his neck.

I love how he normally looks and dresses, but there’s something about him in a suit. He looks so grown up. And really hot.

And I appreciate the effort he puts forth to impress my mom. When I brought him home the first time, he grabbed a hoodie out of the truck and put it on before we entered the house, pulling down the sleeves to cover up his ink. He was worried my mom would judge him before she knew him.

But that changed when she showed him the little Kanji tattoo she had on her shoulder from college. Back when Kanji was the rage. He relaxed a little.

His eyes lock with mine and then fall down my dress, a sleeveless, red, floor-length gown with a high neck and jeweled and pearled spaghetti straps across my bare back. My sister did my make-up, too, and my mom played music and made chocolate-covered strawberries while we all had fun getting me ready. Originally the plan was to go with Lyla and the girls to the salon, but today was perfect. I’m glad I spent it with my family.

I hold up my hands, posing and teasing, “So do I look cute?”

He steps in and walks up to me, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “That’s not the word I would use,” he whispers.

“You both look great,” my mom chimes in.

“You don’t match,” my sister retorts, and I look up to see her entering the foyer.

She’s dressed in her skimpy sleep shorts, probably for Misha’s benefit, and I fantasize about putting vinegar in her mouthwash.

Match? Like his tie and my dress?

But Misha looks at her and places his hand on his heart, feigning sincerity. “We match in here.”

I snort, breaking into quiet laughter.

My sister rolls her eyes, and my mom shakes her head, smiling.

“Alright, let’s go,” I say.

I lean down to take the bag, which my mom thinks contains a change of clothes for the parties we’re not going to later.

But she shouts, “Pictures!” And I stop.

Letting out a small sigh, I step down the last stair, and he turns me around, putting my back to his chest.

“Traditional cheesy prom pose,” he explains.

“Oh, well, then. If we must.”

My sister folds her arms over her chest, looking discontented as she watches my mom snap shots of us. Of course, I want pictures. I’m not a party pooper. But I have that first picture of us at the scavenger hunt, and I feel like Misha’s just doing me a favor, coming along with the boys and me. I don’t want to put him on the spot.

But surprisingly, he seems to enjoy this. Turning me around, he wraps his arms around me and looks into my eyes, my mom taking a couple of quick pics.

My heart is already thumping hard, and I stare at his mouth, feeling my body warm up. I’d really just rather be alone with him tonight.

“Ugh, get a room,” Carson whines and turns around, heading back into the living room.

I continue to stare at Misha.

“Ryen, be home by two,” Mom says.

“It’s prom,” I point out. “It’s kind of an all-night thing.”

“Two,” she repeats, looking between us, her warning clear.

But I argue anyway. “Seven.”

“Three.”

“Three, and Misha can come back for breakfast in the morning,” I press.

She nods easily. “Fine. But beignets. Not jalapeno bagels.”

“I know.”

I take the bag gingerly, careful not to make the cans bang into each other, and whisper to Misha as I head past him, “Hopefully you’ll be here extra early, because I’m not going to let you leave.”

He laughs quietly and opens the door, leading me out. He probably doesn’t want to risk getting on my mother’s bad side now that they’ve met, but he knows he won’t be able to say no to me.

We walk down the steps, and he takes the bag from me as I spot the limo sitting at the curb. Walking over, I stop and let him open the door.

“Hey!” voices drift out.

I see J.D., Ten, and Manny all sitting inside, snacking and drinking sodas, but if I know Ten, there’s alcohol going on somewhere in here.

“Hey, why didn’t you guys come in?” I ask as I climb inside.

“A prom picture with four guys?” J.D. teases. “Think of what Lyla would Facebook about that.”

Yeah, right.

But then the car door closes, and I dart my eyes over to see Misha leaning down and peeking in the open window.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’ll see you at prom.”

What?

He starts to walk away, and I stick my head out of the window. “Misha!”

He turns around, walking backward, and I notice his truck behind him. He must’ve driven here and the guys pulled up after. “Don’t worry,” he calls, “and have fun. I’ll be there.”

I stare after him, completely confused. He’s taking the bag with him, too. He’s not going to do anything without me, is he?

Dammit.

I sit back in my seat, frowning. Now I don’t get to walk into prom with four men.

I feel the limo start moving, and I notice the inside is also silent. Looking up, I see Manny, Ten, and J.D. all staring at me.

And then J.D. speaks up. “Who’s Misha?”

The Baxter Hotel is decked out when we arrive. White lights glow in the trees and beautiful, turn-of-the-century lanterns flicker with small flames, leading us into the ballroom. The fast music vibrates out into the lobby, and I can already smell the food.

We sent the limo back, hoping Misha will have his transportation when he gets here, but as we enter the prom, I still don’t see him.

The room is exquisitely decorated in black and green—our school colors—with balloons, candles, and white linen table cloths. I look up to the stage, where the band is playing a cover.

“Do you see him?” I yell into Ten’s ear.

He winces, turning away from his conversation with Manny to answer me. “I haven’t looked for him.”

Okay.
Relax. We just got here.

But things have finally calmed down between Misha and me, and we’re having fun. I just don’t want something dumb to screw it up.

I came clean to the guys in the car, figuring there was no harm anymore in telling them Masen’s real name. Misha said he wasn’t coming back to school, and I have real friends again. I feel awkward about lying.

“Do you want something to drink?” Ten asks, indicating his breast pocket.

I wave him off.

“Wanna dance?” J.D. asks at my other side.

I gaze around again, looking for Misha.

“Yeah,” I finally answer. Why not? He told me to have fun.

J.D. leads me out onto the dance floor while Ten and Manny sit down at a table. I glance back at them, seeing Manny look around nervously like the other shoe is about to drop. But then…Ten reaches over and grabs him by the tie, pulling him in closer, so he can straighten it.

I almost laugh. Manny looks taken aback, but a look passes between them, and I’m kind of curious.

Nah. Ten would never date a goth.

J.D. and I join everyone else on the dance floor, moving to the music as others laugh and talk. The energy and atmosphere is incredible. It’s dark and crowded, and it feels like what Misha talked about in one of his letters. About realizing you’re one of many and not feeling so alone.