Punk 57(33)

Shit.

I pull my hand away, my heart picking up pace. “It’s nothing. My mom is painting the bathroom, and I helped,” I tell him.

Curling my fingers into a fist, I hide my finger under the strap of my bag. I guess I need to wash in the shower a lot better at night.

“Look.” He gestures to my right.

I turn my head, seeing people circle around the lawn, and we both drift over to the edge of the sidewalk, reading the huge message, in big, silver letters, spray-painted on the grass.



Lyla got lost, got her salad tossed

In the men’s locker room last night.

Someone was in awe, f*cking her raw,

But who could it be? It wasn’t J.D.



“Oh, shit,” Ten whispers, surprise heavy in his voice.

I stare at the words on the lawn, my mouth going dry with a sudden urge to laugh.

Uh, okay. Who the hell…?

Students crowd around, gasping and laughing, some taking pictures, while Ten and I back away.

“That’s the first time he ever got personal by naming names,” Ten says.

“Who?”

“Punk,” he answers as if I should know. “Now we know it’s someone who goes to school here. Someone who knows us.”

I groan inwardly. Yeah, but “Punk” always signs their messages. This is getting out of hand.

I hear a noise and look up to see one of the janitors rolling a pressure washer outside and trying to maneuver it down the stairs.

“Let’s go,” I tell Ten.

We walk into school and pass groups of students surrounding more messages on the walls, these ones signed.



You kissed my hair while sticking me in the heart.

But your house will break before I fall apart.

-Punk



I see a couple of girls take out pens and add more under the lines, dissing old boyfriends and writing things like, Yeah, Jake.

I hold back my laugh.

“This is killing me,” Ten exclaims as we make our way to our lockers. “I want to know who Punk is, and I want in.”

I snort. Leave it to Ten. Of course Lyla is our friend, but Ten knows as well as I do that what’s written on the lawn isn’t a lie, and I’m sure he’s excited to see the showdown with J.D.

“I’ve got to hunt that bitch down and find out who she was in the locker room with,” Ten says as he stops in front of his locker.

I keep walking, calling over my shoulder, “See you at lunch.”

I’m sure no one will discover whom Lyla was messing around with last night. She probably won’t even admit it’s true.

Coming up in front of my new locker, I key in the combination and open it, glancing to my left and noticing another janitor scrubbing away another message on the wall. He’s erased the first few words already, but I know what it says.



You loved me, we were besties, I lent you my eye shadow.

But someday all you’ll be is someone I used to know.

-Punk



And underneath is a collage of ripped-out yearbook pictures from last year, showing sports teams and groups of students smiling at rallies and games, hugging and laughing with each other.

I hang up my bag in my locker and take out the travel size nail polish remover from the shelf. Glancing around to make sure no one is looking, I walk over and hold it in front of Mr. Thompson, the janitor.

“Nail polish remover will take off anything,” I suggest, seeing his face sweaty and red from the exertion of scrubbing so hard.

He pinches his eyebrows together, probably taken aback by my being nice for once. Not that I’ve ever talked to him, but I may have missed the trash can a few times when tossing away my Starbucks cups. But he accepts the bottle, nodding in thanks.

Luckily nothing used to write on the walls is permanent, but it’s still a hassle for the cleaning staff. Not that I care, but…

I turn to go back to my locker, but my eyes instantly lock with Masen’s, and I pause. He’s leaning against the lockers across the hall, watching me with his arms crossed over his chest and a curious expression in his eyes.

Has he been there the whole time?

I force myself to ignore him and start grabbing my books out of my locker for my first class.

“There you are.”

I turn and see Lyla, looking a little worse for wear. There’s sweat on her brow, and her cheeks are flushed. I hear her phone buzzing. “What happened to your other locker?” she asks.

I raise my eyebrows at her. Is she really going to act like there’s not a big, flaming slap to her face on the school’s front lawn right now?

Oooookay.

“Someone broke into it,” I answer, turning back to my locker. “Was it you? After my black Bebe top?”

She tosses me a dirty look. “Like it would fit. I’m softballs, and you’re baseballs, babe.”

I hold back my eye roll as I stuff what I need in my bag, making sure I have my water bottle. I cast a quick glance behind me and see that Masen is gone.

Lyla’s phone keeps buzzing, and I don’t know if it’s Facebook notifications or J.D. burning her up, but I really don’t care.

Some girls pass by, covering their mouths with their hands, and Lyla shoots them a scowl. “Bite me, bitches,” she growls. And they look away, carrying their smirks with them as they walk down the hall.