Punk 57(102)

He comes up and wraps his arms around me under my ass and lifts me up. I laugh even though tears wet my face.

I touch his cheek, looking down at him. “I didn’t want to cry.”

“A lot of your words are in those lyrics,” he tells me. “We do more than a few things really well together, you know?”

“Good and bad.”

He stretches his neck up, brushing my lips. “And I want it all.”

I kiss him, everyone else forgotten. So that was 57. He’d sent me pieces of the song in the past year, but I’d never heard the whole thing.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I’m ready to leave as soon as you are, so keep me posted.”

“I’m ready.”

He smiles and sets me down. “Let’s go have some fun.”

He takes my hand, and we walk through the crowd of dancers, running into J.D. as we pass the food tables.

“Where are you guys going?” he asks.

I glance at Misha, and he shrugs.

There’s a girl whose name I don’t know at J.D.’s side. I don’t want to take him away from her or the after parties, but…

“Can you disappear with us for an hour?”

He thinks about it and sets his plate down. “I’m in.”

“Remember you said that,” I warn.

He whispers something to the girl and jogs after us while Misha knocks on Ten and Manny’s table. “Let’s go.”

We all pile into Misha’s truck, and I see my duffel sitting on the passenger side floor as I climb in.

“So where are we going?” Ten asks as Misha starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot.

“To the school.”

I pull on my seat belt and put the bag in my lap, unzipping it.

“Why?”

I shoot a look to Misha, everything in his expression telling me to go ahead.

I pull out a can of the washable spray paint. “Because…it’s nearly the end of the year, and I have a few more things to say.”

I hold up the can and look behind me, seeing Ten’s eyes damn-near bug out of his head.

“What?” he bursts out.

“You?” J.D. looks at me, shocked.

I meet Manny’s eyes, and I can see the wheels in his head turning. Maybe he realizes it was me who wrote the message on his locker that first time:

You’re not alone. It gets better.

You are important, and you can’t be replaced.

Hang on.



I fill them in on everything. How it started and how I justified it, but I also tell them what I still need to do tonight. One last time to make it count.

And since they all will have something to say about the subject, I thought they might want a hand in it. Especially since Ten already indicated he’d like a piece of the action, and J.D. has already participated once.

“So are you in?” I ask them.

“Hell, yeah,” J.D. replies.

I look at Manny, who remains silent. “You don’t have to.”

I’m not asking any of them to get in trouble. They can wait in the truck, or we can take them back to prom right now.

But he nods, indicating the can in my hand. “I want black.”

Alright. I dig in the bag, doling out cans and reminding them to stick to surfaces that can be easily cleaned. Stay away from screens, posters, artwork, and uniforms or clothes in the locker rooms.

We reach the school and park on the south side, slipping through the gate and running through the lot, up to the pool room.

I hand Misha my can and pluck my key out of my handbag.

“You have a key?” J.D. asks, surprised. “I can’t believe they never thought of questioning you before.”

Yes, I have a key. Often I’m the last one out of the pool, and this is my job. I’m entrusted to lock up this door.

“I’m Ryen Trevarrow,” I joke. “I’m a bubblehead with barely enough brain cells to breathe.”

Quiet chuckles go off around the group, and I unlock the door, hurrying everyone inside.

“How do you know no one will see it tomorrow and get rid of the paint before Monday?” Misha asks.

It’s Saturday night, so it’s possible.

But…

“Roofers will be here tomorrow to fix the leaks,” I explain. “Teachers are being asked to stay out of the building for safety.” I look around at all of them. “You know what to do?”

“Yep.”

“Absolutely.”

“Ready.”

Okay, then. “Let’s go.”



Monday morning, Misha and I walk into school, staring ahead as the storm whirls around us.

A big part of me knows we shouldn’t have done it. There are all kinds of ways to handle our problems, after all. Better ways to deal with the issues.

But what Misha said was true. Everyone is ugly, aren’t we? Some wear it and some hide it.

I guess I just got tired of Trey hiding it.

And of everyone allowing him to keep it hidden.

I did a bad, bad thing.

“Oh, my God,” a guy mumbles off to my side, and I look over to see him reading something I’d written Saturday night.

“Hey, did you see this?” a girl gasps, asking her friend as they gape at the opposite wall.