Punk 57 (5 page)

Straightening, I place my hands on my hips and blow out an uneasy breath.

Misha, where the hell are you?
I’m drowning here.

I guess I can Google him if I’m that worried. Or search him on Facebook or go to his house. He’s only thirty miles away, and I have his address, after all.

But we promised each other. Or rather I made him promise. Seeing each other, where we live, meeting the people the other one talks about in their letters, it’ll ruin the world we created.

Right now, Misha Lare, with all of his imperfections, is perfect in my head. He listens, pumps me up, takes the pressure off, and has no expectations of me. He tells the truth, and he’s the one place I never have to hide.

How many people have someone like that?

And as much as I want answers, I just can’t give that up yet. We’ve been writing for seven years. This is a part of me, and I’m not sure what I would do without it. If I search him out, everything will change.

No.
I’ll wait a little longer.

I look at the clock, seeing that it’s almost time. My friends will be here in a few minutes.

Picking up a piece of chalk out of the tray on my desk, I walk to the wall next to my bedroom door and continue drawing little frames around the pictures I’d taped up. There are four.

Me last fall in cheerleading, surrounded by girls who look exactly like me. Me last summer in my Jeep, with my friends piled in the back. Me in eighth grade celebrating 80’s Day, smiling and posing with my whole class.

In every picture, I’m up front. The leader. Looking happy.

And then there’s the picture in fourth grade. Years earlier. Sitting alone on a bench on the playground, forcing a half-smile for my mom who brought me to Movie Night at my school. All the other kids are running around, and every time I ran up and tried to join in, they acted like I wasn’t there. They always ran off without me and never waited. They wouldn’t include me in their conversations.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I reach out and touch the face in the picture. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. Like I was at a party I wasn’t invited to.

God, how I’ve changed.

“Ryen!” I hear someone call from the hallway.

I sniffle and quickly wipe away a tear as my sister opens my door and waltzes into my room without knocking. I clear my throat, pretending to work on the wall as she peeks around the door.

“Bedtime,” she says.

“I’m eighteen,” I point out like that should explain everything.

I don’t look at her as I color in the same section I finished yesterday. I mean, really? It’s ten o’clock, and she’s only a year older. I’m more responsible than she is.

I can smell her perfume, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that her blonde hair is down.
Great.
That probably means she has some guy coming over and will be well-distracted when I slip out of the house in a bit.

“Mom texted,” she tells me. “Did you finish Math?”

“Yes.”

“Government?”

“I finished my outline,” I say. “I’ll work on the paper this weekend.”

“English?”

“I posted my review for
Brave New World
on Goodreads and sent Mom the link.”

“What book did you pick next?” she asks.

I scowl at the wall as white shavings drift to the floor. “
Fahrenheit 451
.”

She scoffs. “
The Jungle
,
Brave New World
,
Fahrenheit 451
…” she goes on, listing my latest non-school books Mom gives me extra allowance to read. “God, you have boring taste in books.”

“Mom said to choose modern classics,” I argue back. “Sinclair, Huxley, Orwell…”

“I think she meant like
The Great Gatsby
or something.”

I close my eyes and drop my head back, releasing a snore before popping it back up again, mocking her.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a brat.”

“When in Rome…”

My sister graduated last year and goes to the local college while living at home. It’s a great arrangement for our mom, who’s an event coordinator and is frequently out of town for festivals, concerts, and expos. She doesn’t want to leave me alone.

But honestly, I have no idea why she puts Carson in charge. I make better grades and stay out of trouble—as far as they’re aware—a hell of a lot better than her.

Plus, my sister only wants me in bed and out of the way so she can get it on with whatever guy is on his way over here right now.

Like I’m going to tell our mom.

Like I care.

“I’m just saying,” she says, planting a hand on her hip, “those books are a lot to wrap your head around.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” I play along. “All those big concepts inside my itty bitty brain. It’s enough to make me feel as dumb as a bag of wet hair.” And then I assure her, “But don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I need help. Now can I get my nine hours? Coach is taking us through a circuit in the morning.”

She shoots me a little snarl and glances at my wall. “I can’t believe Mom let you do this to your room.”

And then she spins around and pulls the door closed.

I look at my wall. I decorated it using black chalkboard paint about a year ago and use it to doodle, draw, and write everywhere. Misha’s lyrics are scattered over the wide expanse, as well as my own thoughts, ideas, and little scribbles.

There are pictures and posters and lots of words, everything meaning something special to me. My whole room is like that, and I love it. It’s a place where I don’t invite anyone. Especially my friends. They’ll just make a joke out of my really bad artwork that I love and Misha’s and my words.

I learned a long time ago that you don’t need to reveal everything inside of you to the people around you. They like to judge, and I’m happier when they don’t. Some things stay hidden.

My phone buzzes on my bed, and I head over to pick it up.

Outside
, the text reads.

Tapping my middle finger over the touchscreen, I shoot back,
Be out in a minute
.

Finally. I have to get out of here.

Tossing the phone down, I peel off my tank top and push my sleep shorts down my legs, letting everything drop to the floor. I dash to my arm chair and snatch up my jean shorts.

Pulling them on, I slip a white T-shirt over my head, followed by a gray hoodie.

The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it.

I’m coming. I’m coming.

Stuffing some cash and my cell phone into my pocket, I grab my flip flops and lift up my window, tossing them out and sending them flying over the roof of the porch, down to the ground.

Scooping up my hair, I fasten it into a ponytail and climb out the window. I carefully push it down again, leaving my bedroom silent and dark as if I were asleep. Taking careful steps over the roof, I make my way over to the ladder on the side of the house, climb down to the ground, and pick up my sandals, dashing across the lawn to the road ahead where my ride waits.

I pull open the car door.

“Hey,” Lyla greets from the driver’s seat as I climb in. I glance back, spotting Ten in the backseat and toss him a nod.

Slamming the door closed, I bend over and slip into my sandals, shivering. “Shit. I can’t believe how chilly it still is. Tomorrow morning’s practice is going to suck.”

It’s April, so it’s warming up during the day, but the early morning and evening temperatures still drop below fifty. I should’ve worn pants.

“Flip flops?” Lyla asks, sounding confused.

“Yeah, we’re going to the beach.”

“Nope,” Ten chimes in from the back. “We’re going to the Cove. Didn’t Trey text you?”

I look over my shoulder at him.
The Cove?
“I thought they posted a caretaker on site to keep people out.”

He shrugs, a mischievous look in his eyes.

Oooookay.
“Well, if we get caught, you two are the first ones I’m throwing under the bus.”

“Not if we throw you first,” Lyla sing-songs, staring out at the road.

Ten laughs behind me, and I shake my head, not really amused. The thing about being a leader is that someone’s always trying to take your job. I was joking with my comment. I don’t think she was.

Lyla and Ten—a.k.a. Theodore Edward Neilson—are, for all intents and purposes, my friends. We’ve known each other throughout middle school and high school, Lyla and I cheer together, and they’re like my suit of armor.

Yeah, they can be uncomfortable, they make too much noise, and they don’t always feel good, but I need them. You don’t want to be alone in high school, and if you have friends—good ones or not—you have a little power.

High school is like prison in that way. You can’t make it on your own.

“I’ve got Chucks on the floor back there,” Lyla tells Ten. “Get them for her, would you?”

He dips down, rustling through what is probably a mountain of crap on the floor of the 90’s BMW Lyla’s mom passed down to her.

Ten drops one shoe over the seat and then hands me the other one as soon as he finds it.

“Thanks.” I take the shoes, slip off my sandals, and begin putting them on.

I’m grateful for the shoes. The Cove will be filthy and wet.

“I wish I’d known sooner,” I say, thinking out loud. “I would’ve brought my camera.”

“Who wants to take pictures?” Lyla shoots back. “Go find some dark little Tilt-a-Whirl car when we get there and show Trey what it means to be a man.”

I lean back in my seat, casting a knowing smile. “I think plenty of girls have already done that.”

Trey Burrowes isn’t my boyfriend, but he definitely wants the perks. I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length for months.

About to graduate like us, Trey has it all. Friends, popularity, the world bowing at his precious feet... But unlike me, he loves it. It defines him.

He’s an arrogant mouth-breather with a marshmallow for a brain and an ego as big as his man-boobs. Oh, excuse me. They’re called
pecs
.

I close my eyes for a second and breathe out.
Misha, where the hell are you?
He’s the only one I can vent to.

“Well,” Lyla speaks slowly, staring out the window. “He hasn’t had you, and that’s what he wants. But he’s only going to chase for so long, Ryen. It won’t take him long to move onto someone else.”

Is that a warning? I peer at her out of the corner of my eye, feeling my heart start to race.

What are you going to do, Lyla?
Sweep in and take him from under me if I don’t put out? Delight in my loss when he gets tired of waiting and screws someone else? Is he doing someone else right now? Maybe you?

I fold my arms over my chest. “Don’t be concerned about me,” I say, toying right back. “When I’m ready, he’ll come running. No matter whom he’s killing time with.”

Ten laughs quietly from the backseat, always in my corner and having no idea I’m talking about Lyla.

Not that I care if Trey comes running or not. But she’s trying to bait me, and she knows better.

Lyla and I are both brats, but we’re very different. She craves attention from men, and she’ll almost always give them what they want, confusing shallow affection for real feelings. Sure, she’s dating Trey’s friend, J.D., but it wouldn’t surprise me to see her go after Trey, too.

Winning a guy makes her feel above us all. They have girlfriends, but they
want
her. It makes her feel powerful.

Until she realizes they want anyone, and then she’s right back where she started.

Me, on the other hand? I’m weak. I just want to get through the day as easily as possible. No matter who I step on to do it. Something I learned not long after that picture of me sitting alone on that bench on Movie Night was taken.

Now I’m not alone anymore, but am I happier? The jury’s still out on that.

Reap, reap, reap, you don’t even know, all you did suffer is what you did sow.

I smile small at Misha’s lyrics. He sent them to me in a letter once to see what I thought, and they make a lot of sense. I asked for this, didn’t I?

“I hate this road,” Ten pipes up. His voice is filled with discomfort, and I blink, leaving my thoughts.

I turn my head out the window to see what he’s talking about.

The headlights of Lyla’s car burn a hole in the night as the light breeze makes the leaves on the trees flutter, showing the only sign of life out on this tunnel-like highway. Dark, empty, and silent.

We’re on Old Pointe Road between Thunder Bay and Falcon’s Well.

I turn my head over my shoulder, speaking to Ten. “People die everywhere.”

“But not so young,” he says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Poor kid.”