Punk 57(17)

“Hello?” I hear Trey prompt.

I tear my eyes away, clearing my throat. “Um, yeah, I’m sure I can manage it.”

He wants me to buy a dress. Prom is May seventh, and no one else has asked me, because rumor has it Trey was asking me. He took his time, and I was starting to get worried. I want to go to prom, even if it is with him.

I let my eyes drift to the new guy again, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. Dirt smudges his dark blue jeans, as well as his fingers and elbow, but his slate-gray T-shirt is clean, and his shoes look in decent shape. His eyes are nearly hidden beneath thick lashes, and his short, dark brown hair hangs just lightly over his forehead. There’s a silver ring on the side of his bottom lip, catching the light. I fold my lips between my teeth as I stare at it, imagining what it feels like to have a piercing there.

“And maybe your hair done?” Trey goes on at my right. “But leave it down, because I like it down.”

I turn back, pulling my eyes away from the boy’s mouth, and right myself as I refocus my attention.

Prom. We were talking about prom.

“No problem,” I answer.

“Good.” He smiles and leans back. “Because I know this great taco place—”

He bursts into laughter, the guy next to him joining in on the joke, and I warm with a moment’s embarrassment. Oh, you thought he was asking you to prom? Stupid girl.

But I don’t pout at his attempt to make me feel like an idiot. My armor deflects, and I advance. “Well, have fun. I’ll be at prom with Manny. Ain’t that right, Manny?” I call out, kicking the leg of the boy’s chair in front of me a few times, drawing the Emo kid’s attention.

Manny Cortez jerks but keeps facing forward, trying to ignore us.

Trey and his friend keep laughing, but it’s focused on the weak kid now, and I can’t help but feel a sliver of satisfaction.

The other feelings are there, too. The guilt, the disgust at myself, the pity for Manny and how I used him just now…

But I amused Trey, and now Manny and any shame I feel is far below where I sit. I look down at it. I know it’s there. But it’s like seeing ants from an airplane. I’m in the clouds, too high for what’s on the ground to be of much concern.

“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.