Punk 57(41)

Stupid girl.

“You did that to his car?”

“It was a joke.” Ryen’s voice is calm and convincing. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take it for a car wash and pay for it. Right now.”

“Hell no,” Trey chimes in.

“Just shut up,” Ryen snaps at him and then lowers her voice. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t wait to be dismissed. I shoot Trey one last scowl and walk away, the crowd of students clearing as I head to my truck. I dig my keys out of my pocket and yank open the door, climbing in.

This isn’t over.

Ryen climbs in the passenger side, dropping her bag on the floor, and I can feel her eyes on me.

I bite my tongue, too f*cking angry to deal with her right now.

I start the engine and lay on the horn, barely waiting for the nosy little shits to move their f*cking asses before I step on the gas. Students squeal and rush out of the way as I speed out of the parking lot, putting as much distance as possible between me and everyone there.

Everyone except Ryen.

I pull out onto the road while light sprinkles of rain hit the windshield, and I stare at the paint and shit all over my hood, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I’m going to kill him.

“Here,” Ryen says. “I don’t want this.”

I’m glaring ahead, but I shoot a glance over, seeing her hold up Annie’s blue scarf. She must’ve seen it in her Jeep before the fight happened.

“Just take it,” I bite out. “It was a dick move, ruining yours. I owed you.”

“I don’t want it,” she insists and tosses it at me. “Another girl’s perfume is on it, so you should let your skank know she left it in your backseat.”

I shake my head.

Bitch.

I take the scarf and stuff it in the center console. “Fine,” I grit out.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her. To let her know that it was my sister’s and somehow I liked the idea of Ryen having a part of her and what a dumb idea that was, because why would I want a vile brat like her to put her hands on anything that belonged to Annie?

But I would never show her weakness. I never want her pity.

I take a left on Whitney and drive down the road, sparsely populated with a few gas stations and trees, and pull into a self-service car wash, parking in one of the empty bays.

Actually, they’re all empty, since it’s raining. The light sprinkle has turned heavier now, and the sky looms with dark clouds, rolling on top of each other and sending down a steady shower. The white noise actually feels good. My heart and breathing starts to slow, and I roll up my window and turn off the engine but keep Mudshovel playing on the radio.

We sit there silently, neither of us moving.

I look to Ryen. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

I lean back, locking my hands behind my head and relaxing. “You’re the one who f*cked up the car.”

She frowns. “You know I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply, amusement lacing my voice. “And it’s real touching and all, you taking the fall for your man, but you’re washing it.”

Her lips twist in a little snarl as I catch half an eye roll. She pushes open the door, plops down onto the ground, and slams the door shut, heading up to the display on the wall and digging in her pocket. I close my eyes, leaning my head back in my hands, and try to quiet my head.

I’m suddenly so tired.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had others’ voices in my head, trying to tell me what to do. I fought back, stood up for myself, and I’ve been proud of the decisions I’ve made, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had doubts. My dad and why he can’t love me as much as my sister. The guys at my school who thought it was cooler to play sports and bang five girls a weekend. My mother and how she left when I was two and Annie was one and maybe the reason she left was because she didn’t want us.

I’m glad I never listened to others’ voices in my head, but…I still hear them. They’re still noisy, and I’m still walking against the wind.



Don’t change, Ryen wrote in a letter once. There’s no one like you, and I can’t love you if you stop being you. I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I’m a little drunk right now—just came back from a party when I saw your letter—but what the hell? I don’t care. You knew I loved you, right? You’re my best friend.

So don’t ever change. This is a big ass world, and when we leave our small towns, we’re going to find our tribe. If we don’t stay true to ourselves, how will they recognize us? (Both of us, because you know we’re in the same tribe, right?)

And even if it’s just the two of us, it will be the best.



God, I loved her. Whenever my worries or anger got the best of me, she always said just the right thing to put everything in perspective. There were times growing up that I felt aggravated or tortured by her letters, especially when she’d talk about Twilight or how Matt Walst was just as good of a lead singer for Three Days Grace as Adam Gontier—I mean, what the f*ck?—but I never felt bad after reading a letter from her.

Never.

I hear spray hit the car, and I open my eyes, finding her in front of the truck, blurry through the water she’s shooting onto the windshield.