Punk 57

  “Yeah, Manny. You going to prom with my girl?” Trey jokes, kicking his chair like I had done. “Huh, huh?” And then he turns to me. “Nah, I don’t even think he likes girls.”

  I force a half smile, shaking my head at him and hoping he’ll shut up now. Manny served a purpose. I don’t want to torture him.

  Manny is ninety pounds, at most, with hair so black it’s almost blue, and a face so pale and smooth that, with the right clothes, he could easily pass for a girl. Eyeliner, black nail polish, skinny jeans, cracked and dirty Converse sneakers... Check to all.

  He and I have gone to school together since Kindergarten, and I still have the heart-shaped eraser he gave me with a Valentine’s card in second grade. I was the only one who got one from him. No one knows about that, and not even Misha knows why I keep it.

  I raise my eyes, seeing him quietly sitting there. The bones under his black T-shirt are tense, and his head is bowed, probably hoping we won’t say anything else. Probably hoping if he stays still and quiet, he’ll become invisible again. I know that feeling.

  But something to my left pulls at me, and I glance at the new kid, who’s still focused ahead, but his brow is hard and tense now as if he’s angry.

  “No, seriously,” Trey continues, and I reluctantly turn back as he addresses me again. “Prom. I’ll pick you up at six. Limo, dinner, we’ll put in an appearance at the dance… You’re mine all night.”

  I nod, barely listening.

  “Okay, let’s go ahead and get started,” Ms. Till announces, coming out of the closet and setting a caddy of art supplies on her table.

  She pulls down her screen, turns off the lights, and I glance to my left again, seeing the new kid just sitting there, scowling ahead. Does he have an admittance slip? A class schedule? Is he even going to introduce himself to the teacher? I’m starting to wonder if he’s even real, and I’m half-tempted to reach out and poke him. Am I the only one who noticed him walk in the room?

  Ms. Till begins going through some examples of straight line drawing while I notice Trey tear a piece of paper from my notebook.

  “Manny?” he whispers, balling up a piece of the paper and tossing the pea-sized wad at Manny’s head. “Hey, Manny? The Emo look is over, man. Or does your boyfriend like it?”

  Trey and his friend chuckle quietly, but Manny is a statue.

  Trey balls up another paper, and now my guilt—heavier than before—creeps in.

  “Hey, man.” Trey flings the paper ball at Manny. It hits his hair before falling to the floor. “I like your eyeliner. How ‘bout letting my girl here borrow it?”

  A movement to my right catches my eye, and I see the new kid’s hand—resting on the table—curl into a fist.

  Trey tosses another paper, harder this time. “Can you even find your dick anymore, faggot?”

  I wince. Jesus.

  But then, in a flash of movement, the new kid reaches over the table, grabs the back of Manny’s chair, and I watch, stunned, as he pulls the chair with Manny in it back to his table and places himself between Emo kid and us. Then he quickly reaches over, grabs Manny’s sketchbook and box of pencils, and dumps them on his workspace, in front of his new table partner.

  My heart races, but I lock my jaw, trying to appear less shaken than I am. Oh, my God.

  Students turn their heads to check out the action as the new guy slams back down into his seat, doesn’t say a word or cast a look at anyone, and resumes frowning. Manny’s breathing is hard, his body tight and rigid at what just happened, and Trey and his friend are suddenly quiet, their eyes locked on the new guy.

  “Fags stick together, I guess,” Trey says under his breath.

  I shoot a glance at New Guy out of the corner of my eye, knowing he must’ve heard that. But he’s as still as ice. Only now the muscles in his arm bulge, and his jaw flexes.

  He’s mad, and he let us know it. No one ever does that. I never get called out.

  Trey doesn’t say anything more, and the rest of the class eventually turns back around while the teacher gets started. I try to concentrate on her instructions, but I can’t. I feel him next to me, and I want to look. Who the hell is he?

  And then it hits me. The warehouse. Holy shit.

  I blink, looking at him again. It’s the guy from the scavenger hunt all those months ago. I still have our pictures in my phone.

  Does he remember me?

  That’s so weird. I’d never actually posted our pictures to the page we were supposed to post on. After I left him and his friend, I was so pre-occupied the rest of the night, unable to stop myself from looking around for him again, that I never finished my hunt.

  But I never found him. After I walked away from him, he seemed to disappear.

  Ms. Till finishes her brief instructions, and I spend the rest of the hour stealing glances and messing around on pointless little drawings. I’d been working on a project for a week, but I ignore it today, because I don’t want Trey to see it.

  And even though this is the class I enjoy most, it’s also the one I feel the least secure. Art isn’t my calling, but I enjoy doing things with my hands and being creative, so it was either this or Auto Shop. And I wasn’t spending five months in a room with twenty guys trying to look up my cheerleading skirt.

  So instead I’m here, drawing a picture for Misha. Designing his first album cover as a surprise graduation gift. Not that he has to use it—I wouldn’t expect him to—but I think he’ll get a kick out of it. Something to motivate him.

  Of course, I don’t want Trey to see it and ask about it. He’ll just make a joke out of something I love.

  No one knows about Misha Lare. Not even Lyla. He’s mine and too hard to put into words. I don’t even want to try.

  Not to mention, if I don’t tell anyone, he won’t be as real. And it won’t hurt so much when I eventually have to lose him.

  Which I will, if I haven’t already. All good things come to an end.

  “It’s him,” Ten whispers in my ear before sitting down at the lunch table with Lyla, Mel, and me. “That’s the guy vandalizing the school.”

  He twists his head, jerking his chin behind us, and I look up from my Math homework, and turn around, following his eyes.

  The new kid sits at a round table by himself, legs spread out underneath and crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest. Black wires drape his chest, leading to the earbuds sitting in his ears, and the same hard expression from this morning is focused on the tabletop in front of him.

  I hold back a smile. So he is real. Ten sees him, too.

  And then my gaze drops to his right arm, seeing the tattoos scaling down the length. A flutter hits my stomach.

  I hadn’t seen those this morning.

  Probably because I wasn’t seated on that side of him. I couldn’t make out what the pictures were, but I could tell there was script mixed in. Glancing around the room, I notice others looking at him, as well. Curious sideways glances, closed whispers…

  Turning back around, I put my pencil to the paper again, finishing the assignment I’d gotten this morning so I won’t have to do it tonight. “You think he’s sneaking into the school? What makes you say that?”

  “Well, look at him. Jail’s in his future.”

  “Yeah, that’s proof,” I mumble sarcastically, still writing.

  Honestly, he doesn’t look that bad. A little dirty, a little angry, but that doesn’t imply he’s a criminal.

  I glance behind me again, taking in his face for a moment…the muscles of his jaw, the strong, dark eyes, the slant of his nose and eyebrows like he’s in a constant state of displeasure… He looks more like the type who would punch you for saying hello, not spray-painting song lyrics on school walls.

  His stare suddenly rises, and he looks up. I follow his gaze.

  Trey is walking this way, saying something to Principal Burrowes as he passes by, and New Guy watches them.

  “Is he new?” Lyla asks across from me, and I see her taking in the
new guy. “He’s not bad looking at all. What’s his name?”

  “Masen Laurent,” Ten answers.

  I can’t help it. I say the name in my head, letting it roll across my mind. So that’s the name he was trying to keep his friend from telling me at the warehouse?

  “He was in my Physics class this morning,” Ten explains.

  “He was in my first period, too,” I add, turning the textbook page and jotting down the next problem. “He didn’t speak.”

  “What do you know about him?” Lyla asks.

  I shrug, not looking up. “Nothing. Don’t care.”

  Trey and J.D. sit down, one on each side of Lyla, and begin digging into their sandwiches.

  “Hey, babe.” Trey presses a fry to my closed mouth. I grab it and fling it over my shoulder, hearing him and J.D. laugh, while I continue my homework.

  “I don’t think he’s said anything to anyone,” Ten says. “Mr. Kline asked him a question in Physics, and he just sat there.”

  “Who?” J.D. asks.

  “Masen Laurent.” Ten gestures to the new kid behind us. “He just started today.”

  “I wonder how he’s getting in at night,” Lyla says in a low voice.

  I drop my pencil to the table and raise my eyes, looking at her pointedly. “Don’t say ‘he’ like you know it’s him doing the vandalism. We don’t know that. And besides, he just started today. The vandalism has been going on for over a month.”

  I don’t want him taking the fall for something I know he’s not doing.

  “Fine,” she snaps, rolling her eyes and picking at her shaker salad. “I wonder how ‘the guy’ is getting in at night then?”

  “Well, I have an idea,” Ten offers. “I don’t think he leaves the school, actually. The one doing the vandalism, I mean. I think he stays in the school overnight.”

  J.D. bites into his hamburger again. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because how else would you get around the alarms?” Ten argues. “Think about it. The school’s open late—swim lessons at the pool, the GED class, the teams using the weight room, tutoring… He can leave after school, eat and do whatever, and make it back before the doors are locked around nine. And then he’s got all night. Maybe he even lives here. The attacks are happening nearly every day now, after all.”

  I finish my final equation, my pencil digging slowly into the paper. It’s a good point. How else would someone get around the alarms, unless they hide out and wait for the doors to be locked?

  Or unless they have keys and the alarm code.

  “There are no homeless kids at this school,” I point out. “I think we would know.”

  It’s not a huge high school, after all.

  “Well, like you said,” Lyla shoots back. “He just arrived, so we don’t know anything about him yet.” I see her look over my head, and I know exactly whom she’s watching. “He could’ve been here for the last month before starting school and no one would’ve known it.”

  “So peg the dirty new kid with no friends?” I retort. “What possible reason would he have for vandalizing the school? Oh, wait. I forgot. I don’t care.”

  And I lean over my assignment, filling out the header, continuing, “Masen Laurent is not living in the school. He’s not vandalizing the walls, the lockers, or anything else. He’s new, you’re scheming, and I’m bored with this conversation.”

  “We can get it out of him,” Trey chimes in. “I can sneak into my stepmom’s office and check his file. See where he lives.”

  “Hell yeah,” J.D. agrees.

  The sinister tone to their voices unnerves me. Trey gets away with everything, especially since the principal is his stepmother.

  I close my book and notebook, piling them on top of each other. “And how would that be any fun for me?”

  Trey smiles. “What did you have in mind? Name it.”

  I rest my forearms on the table and turn my head over my shoulder, watching Masen Laurent. His stoic expression is confusing. As if everyone around him doesn’t exist.

  They bustle about, passing by him, their voices carrying across his table, laughter to his left and a dropped tray to his right, but a bubble surrounds him. Life carries on outside of it, but nothing breaches it.

  But I feel, even though he responds to nothing going on around him, he’s aware of it. He’s aware of everything, and a chill runs down my arms.

  Turning back to Trey, I take a deep breath, shaking it off. “Do you trust me?”

  “No, but I’ll give you a long leash.”

  J.D. laughs, and I rise from the table, pushing back my chair.

  “Where are you going?” Lyla asks.

  I spin around and walk for Masen, answering over my shoulder, “I want to hear him talk.”

  I head over to his table, a small round four-seater on the outside of the room, and rest my ass on the edge, gripping the table with my hands at my sides.

  The boy’s eyes catch my thighs and slowly rise up my body, resting on my face.

  I can hear the beat of drums and guitar pounding out of his earbuds, but he just sits there, the indents between his eyebrows growing deeper.

  Reaching over, I gently tug out his earbuds and cast a look over my shoulder at my friends, all of them watching us.

  “They think you’re homeless,” I tell him, turning back and seeing his eyes drift from them up to me. “But you’re not eating, and you don’t speak. I think you’re a ghost.”

  I give him a mischievous smile and drop the earbuds, placing my hand over his heart. His warmth immediately courses through my hand, making my stomach flip a little. “Nope, scratch that,” I add, pushing forward. “I feel a heartbeat. And it’s getting faster.”

  Masen just watches me, as if waiting for something. Maybe he wants me to disappear, but he hasn’t pushed me away yet.

  I take my hand off his chest and lean back again. “I remember you, you know? You were at the scavenger hunt in February. At the warehouse in Thunder Bay.”

  He still doesn’t answer, and I’m starting to wonder if I have it wrong. The guy that night was of few words, but he, at least, ended up being friendly. How do you toy with someone who won’t engage?

  “Do you like to go to the drive-in, Masen?” I ask. “That’s your name, right?” I look down and fiddle with his pen, trying to act coy. “The weather’s getting nice enough for it. Maybe you’d like to come with my girlfriends and me some time. Wanna give me your number?”

  His chest caves with every exhale, and I feel my skin start to hum as he just holds my eyes. His deep green pools glow with a fire I can’t place. Anger? Fear? Desire? What the hell is he thinking, and why won’t he speak? I force the lump down my throat, feeling like I’m waiting for the Jack to pop out of the box.

  “You don’t like people?” I press, leaning in and whispering, “Or you don’t like girls?”

  “Miss Trevarrow?” a stern female voice I recognize as Principal Burrowes calls. “Off the table.”

  I turn my head to acknowledge her, but then, all of a sudden, hands grab my waist and pull me forward.

  I gasp, shocked, as I land in Masen’s lap, straddling him.

  “I like girls,” he whispers in my ear, and my heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

  Then the tip of his tongue glides up my neck, and I’m frozen, breathing a mile a minute as heat races through my blood.

  Fuck.

  “But you?” His deep voice and hot breath fall over the skin of my neck. “You kind of taste like shit.”

  What?

  And then he stands up, and I tumble off his lap, landing on the floor. I shoot my hands out, catching myself.

  What the hell?

  Laughter echoes around me, and I dart my head around, seeing a few people at nearby tables chuckling as they stare at me.

  Walls close in around me, and I burn with embarrassment.

  I don’t have to turn around to know Lyla is probably smiling, as well.

  Son of a bitch.

  An
d then I watch as Masen Laurent grabs his notebook and pen, drapes his earbuds around his neck, and walks around me, leaving the cafeteria without another word.

  Asshole. What the hell is his problem?

  I stand up, brushing off my skirt, and head back to my table.

  That wasn’t the first time anyone’s laughed at my expense, but it will be the last.

  “I’m going to Banana Republic.” Ten rushes up and hooks an arm around my neck. “Want to come?”

  I shake my head, taking a left down the hall. “I need to get home. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight.”

  The school is empty, and we just finished practice, but while everyone else is showering and getting ready for wherever they’re rushing off to, I’m still in my shorts, sports bra, and tank top. I just want to get out of here. This day threw me off track, and I need to regroup.

  That new kid, Masen, is a real piece of work, and I’d had to turn off my phone to ignore the Facebook notifications after lunch. Thank goodness no one had time to snap a picture of him dumping me on my ass in the cafeteria, but that didn’t stop Lyla from posting a meme online, joking about it and tagging me.

  Of course, she was “only teasing.”

  Whatever. I need to get home anyway.

  I was able to get Pre-Calc done at lunch, but I still have some questions from the Novel Study and Government to do tonight.

  “Whoa. Is that your locker?” I hear Ten say.

  I look down the hallway and spot a pile of belongings spilling out onto the floor. About right where my locker is located.

  Ten releases me, and we both jog up to the mess, seeing my locker door hanging open and part of it bent, as if it’s been pried open with a crow bar or something.

  What the hell?

  I kneel down, my lungs emptying as I sift through my clothes, iPod, and a mountain of papers laying astray from the folders they were neatly organized in previously.

  “What the hell happened?” Ten bursts out. “Is anything missing?”

  I swing the locker door open wide and survey the remaining contents. The little pink shelves and overhead lamp I’d installed are still in there, as well as my umbrella and fleece jacket I keep in there just in case. I kneel down, surveying the items on the floor and see that all of my books are accounted for as well as the Louboutins and the shirts I hide from my mom.