Punk 57(36)

I freeze and stare at him, forgetting that he’s holding my hand as the hair on my neck stands up.

“What?”

“You had her name doodled all over your notebook,” he tells me. “Who is she? Secret girlfriend? Secret shame?” He drops his eyes and continues writing. “A regret?”

“You read my notebook. You should already know.”

“I didn’t read anything,” he retorts.

I glare at him. He didn’t read it? But…

“I flipped the pages and saw her name on the inside cover,” he explains. “You think I give a shit about what goes on in your mind? I’ve got better things to do.”

Then why are you asking if you don’t care?

I yank my hand away, growling under my breath. “You’re an *.”

I keep my voice low, even though I don’t see anyone around.

But before I can walk away, he places his hands on the bookshelves, locking me in. “You know I could’ve taken him and his friend in one breath just now. What was I waiting for?”

He stares into my eyes, searching for something.

“Maybe the same thing that Cortez kid waits for when your boyfriend’s pushing him around,” he says in a low voice, his lips inches from mine. “Maybe for someone in their perky, little ponytail”—he flips my hair—“and come-f*ck-me short shorts to grow a dick and stand up to the *.”

I knock his arm away, my stomach tight with anger. But he locks me in again, bearing down.

“Was that what Delilah was waiting for, too?” he presses. “Did she wait for you? And you never showed?”

He grabs my hand and turns my finger, showing me what he wrote.

I look down at the thick black letters written on the inside of my finger.

Shame.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t say anything. Your secrets are yours. You have to live with them.”

And then he lifts my finger to his lips, making the shh sign.

I pull my hand away and slam my hands into his chest, pushing him off.

“The next time he lays a hand on me, I’ll end him,” he warns, curling his lips in a smirk. “And then I’ll take his prom date.”





“I was getting a little lonely,” Lyla purrs, resting back in her seat with her arms folded over her chest and her legs crossed. “You were gone so long.”

Lonely? I doubt she even knows the meaning of the word. Not that I have any opinion of a chick who messes around on her boyfriend—unless the boyfriend is me or one of my friends—but I don’t like her for other reasons. She’s like Ryen on crack.

At least my Ryen is still in there somewhere. I see it in how she’s uncomfortable when that Cortez kid is bullied. I saw it this morning when she gave the janitor nail polish remover to help take off the graffiti.

And I see it all over her room. The collages, the poetry, the lyrics I’ve sent her for review, the quotes and colors everywhere… That’s the Ryen I know.

But in ten years she could be Lyla. Self-serving, false, and screwing anything to forget how much she hates herself.

And everything I’ve always found incredible about her will be gone.

I pull out my chair and sit down, knowing damn well I have no intention of doing this assignment. Misha Lare is as good as done with high school, so I’m not here for that.

“Here.” She sits up, pushing some books toward me. “I dug up some primary resources, so we can start on this questionnaire.”

But before I can tell this chick she’s on her own, I’m shoved forward from behind, a body slamming down on my back and an arm pressing into my neck.

“What the hell?” I shoot out my arms to keep my head from hitting the table, and then I feel breaths in my ear.

“Ryen!” I hear someone exclaim. I think it’s Lyla.

“Don’t move,” Ryen whispers in my ear, and I feel a sharp point digging into the back of my neck. “I’d hate for this pen to slip.”

I shake with a shocked laugh. She didn’t like being served back in the stacks, and now she’s lost her mind. Excellent.

I do exactly what she asks, even though my heart is racing and my groin is throbbing with heat.

I feel the pen glide over my skin in long, slow strokes, and I’m actually amused. I know people are watching. Everyone is suddenly silent, even Lyla.

The pen digs deep, and I wince as I feel a sting. She finishes and stands up, taking her weight off me and throwing down the pen. I feel her leave, and I sit up straight. Everyone is looking at me, and I see Ryen brush past my table with her bag on her shoulder, storming out of the library.

“Are you okay?” Lyla asks.

“Yeah.” I nod and glance behind me, seeing J.D. smiling and shaking his head, while Trey leans forward on the table and glares at me.

She did that in front of him. Good girl.

I turn back to my partner. “What did she write?”

Lyla rises from her seat and takes a look. I hear a snort. “Um, are you sure you want to know?”

Great.

I nod.

“Um…” she starts, reading in slow syllables. “Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole.”

I break into laughter. Awesome. Stuck-up Ryen Trevarrow is learning how to play in the mud, and I feel a little excitement course through my veins.