Punk 57 (19 page)

I see a shadow block out the hallway light streaming through the doorway and falling on the carpet.

“Misha?” my father asks hesitantly. “Are you here?”

He knows I’m here. He has to. I left Annie’s door open when I came in, and it’s always closed.

But I don’t move. I can’t talk to him.

I peer through the holes in the screen, trying to see him, but I can’t. He’s not in my eyesight.

He doesn’t say anything more, but I watch as his shadow falls farther into the room, my pulse pounding in my ears.

He enters my sight as he sits at the end of the bed, wearing his usual shirt, tie, and sweater vest. He used to dress me like that when I was a kid. Until I turned nine and started having an opinion. That was the beginning of our fighting.

“You were always so different,” he says, staring off.

I can barely breathe.

“T-shirts and jeans to family functions, guitar lessons instead of the violin or piano, always so difficult to get motivated for anything other than what you wanted to do…always so difficult. Period.”

My eyes water, but I don’t budge. He’s right. In his head, I fought about everything. I made arguments where there weren’t any.

In my head I just wanted him to accept me. That’s why I held onto Ryen so hard for so long.

“I stopped being able to talk to you,” he nearly whispers. And then he drops his eyes, correcting, “I stopped finding a way to talk to you.”

He picks up my sister’s blanket at the end of the bed and slowly brings it to his nose, and then his body immediately shakes as he lets out a sob.

I pull my lip ring in between my teeth and tug until I feel a sting. Everything hurts, and I hate this. I hate that Annie’s room is empty. I hate that our house is dark. I hate that I don’t know where I’m supposed to be—I don’t belong anywhere. And I hate that I hate he’s alone. He didn’t comfort me after Annie’s death. Why should I want to be here for him?

And why do I feel a sudden need to tell Ryen everything? For her to know what I haven’t said and to tell me just the right thing, just like she does in her letters. To forget Falcon’s Well and what I’m doing there.

To go back, simply because that’s where she is.

I make it back to the school just as the final bell is ringing. The rain had started in Thunder Bay just as I jumped on the ferry, but it still held off here, the clouds threatening but not giving in yet.

My father left Annie’s room as soon as he started crying, and once I heard the hum of
Brahms
coming from his office, I knew it was safe to get out of the house. He’d be in there the rest of the night, drinking scotch and working on his model WWII battlefield.

I can see the soccer team practicing on the field off to my right, and I hook the duffel bag over my head, hanging it across my chest. Digging the scarf out of my bag, I reach into Ryen’s Jeep and set it on the driver’s seat. I pull my Sharpie out of my pocket and look around, pulling out a small piece of paper I spot in a cup holder. I leave a note on the back of the receipt.

You’ll look better in blue. (And no, I didn’t steal it.)

I drop it on top of the scarf as students start flooding the parking lot and climbing into their cars. It’s Friday afternoon, so I doubt Ryen has any team practices, but I keep an eye on her Jeep anyway as I head to my truck, making sure no one tries to take it out of the open cab.

I toss my duffel in the bed of my truck but suddenly look up, noticing people crowding around my hood, at the front of my vehicle. They stare at something, and unease coils its way through my body. What now?

Gasps and whispers fill the air, and more people head over. I charge to the front of the truck and stop, finding a whole fucking mess.

Large circles of white paint are splattered on my hood, shooting out in all directions and spilling down the sides, as if someone took a paintball gun and used the car for target practice. Some of it is already dried, which means it was done a while ago, probably right after I left campus.

And right in the middle, on top of the hood, in big white letters, is the word
FAG
sitting bright and loud, glaring back at me.

Rage heats up every single muscle in my body.
Motherfucker.

I raise my eyes, anger and readiness boiling under my skin as I let my gaze slowly scan the parking lot. I spot Trey Burrowes near what I assume is his car—a blue Camaro that his doting little step-mommy probably bought him. I ignore the people gathering around and narrow my eyes, seeing him stroll around all cocky, chewing on a straw and shooting Lyla a lascivious glance that his best friend probably doesn’t see.

I take off. Stalking right for him, I dig in my heels, ready to slam his fucking face into the hood of
his
fucking car. I’m almost glad he’s picking a fight right now. I’ve wanted to hit something all day.

I hear someone call “Masen” but I don’t stop to find out who. I lunge straight for him and grab his collar, throwing him around and slamming him up against his car.

He growls, taking my jaw in his hand and trying to push me off, but I twist away from him and swing my fist back, landing a punch in his stomach.

I hear screams and shouts around me, feeling a crowd close in, and I quickly grab him again, slamming him against the car.

“Fuck you, faggot,” he bursts out, swinging his fist back and knocking me in the face. The metallic taste of blood seeps into my mouth from the inside of my cheek, but I still don’t release my hold on him.

“Can’t take a joke?” he yells.

I bring my knee up, hitting him in his stomach. He hunches over, and I raise my fist high, pounding down on the back of his head twice.

“Masen, stop!” I hear someone yell, and I think it’s Ryen.

I grab him by the collar again and throw him down on the ground, sweat covering my back and my lungs begging for air. But before I can get to him and land another hit, hands grab my upper arms and haul me back. I struggle against the hold, and the guy holding me stumbles forward, trying to keep a grip on me as I glare at Trey.

“What’s going on?” a woman barks.

“It took you long enough!” Trey snarls at the guy behind me, and I gather it must be J.D., his friend, holding me back.

The principal appears between us, looking at me as Trey pushes himself off the ground. “Calm down!” she orders me.

I breathe hard, dragging in air through my nose. Every muscle in my body is tight, and I keep my eyes on Trey as the arms behind me finally let go.

“What happened?” Burrowes demands, looking between us.

“I didn’t do anything!” Trey shouts. “This asshole shows up and jumps on me!”

She looks to me for an answer, but I don’t say anything. Everyone stands around us, their attention held captivated, a few people putting away phones now that the principal is here, and I can’t help but let out a small smile, seeing a drop of blood at the corner of Trey’s mouth.

“Whose car is that?” the principal questions, gesturing to my truck off to the right.

But Trey and I are locked in a stare, both of us refusing to say anything.

She seems to draw her own conclusions, though, because she looks at Trey, her voice turning stern. “You will get a bucket and the hose, and you will clean every inch of it. Both of you! That better not be permanent paint.”

“But—”

“Now!” she cuts him off. “And I warned you what would happen if you pulled anything else…”

“It wasn’t him, Mrs. Burrowes.”

I blink, hearing Ryen’s voice. The principal stops and turns toward her.

“Trey’s just covering for me,” Ryen says. I hear her voice off to the side somewhere, but I refuse to look at her.

What the hell is she doing? I might believe she’d vandalize my car, but to write
FAG
on the hood? Not a chance.

“Excuse me?” Burrowes asks her.

“Yeah,” Ryen goes on. “It was a stupid prank. I’m sorry.”

Voices sound off around us as everyone starts whispering, and I blink long and hard. Her prom date was about to get in trouble, and she couldn’t let that happen, could she? It would just be too humiliating to show up to prom alone.

Stupid girl.

“You did that to his car?”

“It was a joke.” Ryen’s voice is calm and convincing. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take it for a car wash and pay for it. Right now.”

“Hell no,” Trey chimes in.

“Just shut up,” Ryen snaps at him and then lowers her voice. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t wait to be dismissed. I shoot Trey one last scowl and walk away, the crowd of students clearing as I head to my truck. I dig my keys out of my pocket and yank open the door, climbing in.

This isn’t over.

Ryen climbs in the passenger side, dropping her bag on the floor, and I can feel her eyes on me.

I bite my tongue, too fucking angry to deal with her right now.

I start the engine and lay on the horn, barely waiting for the nosy little shits to move their fucking asses before I step on the gas. Students squeal and rush out of the way as I speed out of the parking lot, putting as much distance as possible between me and everyone there.

Everyone except Ryen.

I pull out onto the road while light sprinkles of rain hit the windshield, and I stare at the paint and shit all over my hood, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I’m going to kill him.

“Here,” Ryen says. “I don’t want this.”

I’m glaring ahead, but I shoot a glance over, seeing her hold up Annie’s blue scarf. She must’ve seen it in her Jeep before the fight happened.

“Just take it,” I bite out. “It was a dick move, ruining yours. I owed you.”

“I don’t want it,” she insists and tosses it at me. “Another girl’s perfume is on it, so you should let your skank know she left it in your backseat.”

I shake my head.

Bitch.

I take the scarf and stuff it in the center console. “Fine,” I grit out.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her. To let her know that it was my sister’s and somehow I liked the idea of Ryen having a part of her and what a dumb idea that was, because why would I want a vile brat like her to put her hands on anything that belonged to Annie?

But I would never show her weakness. I never want her pity.

I take a left on Whitney and drive down the road, sparsely populated with a few gas stations and trees, and pull into a self-service car wash, parking in one of the empty bays.

Actually, they’re all empty, since it’s raining. The light sprinkle has turned heavier now, and the sky looms with dark clouds, rolling on top of each other and sending down a steady shower. The white noise actually feels good. My heart and breathing starts to slow, and I roll up my window and turn off the engine but keep
Mudshovel
playing on the radio.

We sit there silently, neither of us moving.

I look to Ryen. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

I lean back, locking my hands behind my head and relaxing. “You’re the one who fucked up the car.”

She frowns. “You know I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply, amusement lacing my voice. “And it’s real touching and all, you taking the fall for your man, but you’re washing it.”

Her lips twist in a little snarl as I catch half an eye roll. She pushes open the door, plops down onto the ground, and slams the door shut, heading up to the display on the wall and digging in her pocket. I close my eyes, leaning my head back in my hands, and try to quiet my head.

I’m suddenly so tired.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had others’ voices in my head, trying to tell me what to do. I fought back, stood up for myself, and I’ve been proud of the decisions I’ve made, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had doubts. My dad and why he can’t love me as much as my sister. The guys at my school who thought it was cooler to play sports and bang five girls a weekend. My mother and how she left when I was two and Annie was one and maybe the reason she left was because she didn’t want us.

I’m glad I never listened to others’ voices in my head, but…I still hear them. They’re still noisy, and I’m still walking against the wind.