Punk 57(103)

I look down the corridor, seeing several messages written here and there and people fluttering about, taking it all in.



You shouldn’t be caught alone with me. You’ve been asking for this.

-Trey Burrowes



Can you even find your dick anymore, faggot?

-Trey Burrowes



I’m going to f*ck her and then f*ck her mom. Watch me.



Every corner you turn, every night when you go to sleep, I’ll be there, and I’m going to find out exactly what I’ve been missing.



Doesn’t take long for you little bitches to turn slut once you get a taste for it.



You should’ve seen the train we pulled on this girl last week. She had guys lined up. It was so f*cking good.

Head down, ass up, that’s the way we like to f*ck.



Trey, Trey, and more Trey.

We keep walking, passing the quotes all four of us wrote on the walls, lockers, and floors Saturday night, turning down another hall and seeing even more.

Not all of them are about Trey, though. Some of them are attributed to Lyla, Katelyn, a couple of Trey’s friends, and even me.

Because of course, saying you’re sorry is easy. Facing the shame is where atonement begins.



One of these nights, I’ll get you in the parking lot, and I’ll spread those pretty legs and f*ck you right there on the ground. Would you like that, baby?

-Trey Burrowes



“That’s disgusting,” a junior girl says, wincing.

Another girl takes out a pencil and writes underneath the They all want it message.



No, we don’t, she writes.



The hallways are a flurry of activity, and we tried to keep our posts to the two main corridors, mostly because everyone passes through these hallways when they come into school.

People are captivated, though. Some girls look angry and disgusted. Some guys are surprised.

“All students please report to the auditorium,” the vice principal’s voice carries over the loudspeaker. “All students please report to the auditorium.”

Ten stops us in the hallway, looking nervous but amused. “Looks like we broke the bank on this one.”

“Yeah.” I offer him a tight smile and watch more students writing under the messages on the wall. “Look at them, though.”

Speak your mind, and you give others permission to do the same.

I turn to Misha, sighing. “You should leave. You don’t need to be here, and she’s going to pull you in if she finds you.”

Since he walked out on Burrowes over a week ago, he hasn’t been back to school, but I think he was worried about how all this would go down today and wanted to be here.

He shakes his head. “I don’t care.”

“Well, the police just got here,” Ten informs us.

“The police?” I whisper. “I didn’t think what we did was that bad.”

“No, it’s not for the vandalism. It’s for Trey. A bunch of kids—several girls—are in the office, ratting him out. I guess the posts got to them.”

“You should really go, then,” I tell Misha.

But just then Principal Burrowes approaches us and my heart skips a beat.

“Mr. Laurent? Come with me now.”

He stares at her for a moment.

But I jump in. “Why?”

“I think he knows why.”

He hesitates for a moment, and I think he’s going to fight like last time, but he doesn’t. He takes a step.

“No, no, no…” I burst out. “He didn’t do anything.”

“It’s okay,” he assures under his breath.

But Burrowes interjects, looking at me. “I show you on the log as the last person, other than the janitor, to sign out and leave the school Friday evening,” she tells me. “Now that’s not unusual, since you stay late to teach swim lessons, but then it occurred to me that you have a key. And then I remembered the company you’ve been suddenly keeping.” She glances at Misha. “Did you take her key?”

“No!” I answer for him.

“Yes,” he says.

Oh, Jesus.

“It’s okay,” he says again. “I’ll be fine.”

She leads him away, and I throw up my hands, feeling helpless. Why didn’t he just walk out like last time?

He doesn’t have to protect me, and he knows I won’t let him take the fall.

What is he doing?





“Sit down.”

I prefer to stand, but I’m guessing I may as well settle in. I take the seat in front of her desk.

“After the fights and your behavior the past few weeks, I’ve been calling the phone numbers on file,” she tells me, closing her office door. “None of them work or they’re wrong numbers. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

I stare at her as she takes her seat behind her tidy, little desk. Unbuttoning her suit jacket, she scoots in and opens a file, undoubtedly mine. It’s nearly empty.

But I keep quiet.

“If you had a concern about Trey, you should’ve come to me,” she demands. “Not break into the school and write horrible accusations on the wall.”