Punk 57(44)

I’ve never been in danger of losing my heart to guys like Trey, but with Masen, I find him consuming my attention. I’m always aware of him.

And the closer I get to him, the further away from Misha I feel. It almost feels like I’m betraying him. Not that we’re romantic, but he has my heart, and I don’t want to give it to anyone else. I feel like Masen threatens that.

I said I would give Misha a few days, but I need to know. Is he safe? Is he alive? Has he just moved on?

Pulling off the covers, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I look at the clock and see that it’s after nine.

It’s Saturday. I have the whole day free. I could just drive by.

Not like an obsessive stalker girl who just can’t take a hint. No, I can just drive by. Make sure the house hasn’t burned down or isn’t empty, because his father committed some gruesome murder and left town, on the run, with Misha and his sister in the middle of the night.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll see a young guy pulling into the driveway and entering the house, and I’ll be able to tell that it’s him, and then I’ll know that he’s alive and well. I don’t have to have any more answers than that, do I?

Standing up, I throw on a pair of workout shorts, a T-shirt, and a fleece jacket. Pulling my hair up into a messy ponytail, I’m not going to worry about how I look. If I go shower and fix my hair and make-up, I’ll be tempted to knock on his door. If I look like shit, then I won’t leave my car.

After I brush my teeth, I jog down the stairs and swing around the bannister, heading into the kitchen.

“Morning,” my mom says.

I look up to see her and Carson sitting at the table, looking through a magazine together. Probably some home renovation thing, because Mom wants to expand the garage. I open the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water. “Morning,” I reply.

“The principal called last night,” my sister’s voice rings out.

I falter, slowly closing the fridge door and not looking at her. Shit. That’s right.

Did she tell them about what I did to Masen’s truck? Or what I told her I did?

Dammit!

But no. My mom would’ve reamed me last night when I got home. She wouldn’t have waited until this morning.

Plus, I doubt the principal really believed me, but there was little she could do.

“She said you’re going to prom with Trey,” my mom says, walking over to me in her bathrobe and her hair up in a bun. She empties her coffee cup into the sink. “She wanted to know your favorite color for the corsage. Why didn’t you tell us he’d asked you?”

“I forgot.” I shrug, relaxing a little. “You were gone, and I’ve been busy.”

Actually, I didn’t feel it was worth mentioning. Popular girl is going to prom with popular guy. My place in the yearbook is secure.

But I care so little all of a sudden. I wonder how that happened.

She nods, her blue eyes smiling at me as she brushes a fly-away off my cheek. “You’re too busy. You leave for college soon. I want to see you.”

I kiss her on the cheek and grab an apple out of the bowl on the center island. “I’ll be home later.”

“Well, where are you going now?”

“To see a friend,” I tell her, turning and walking for the foyer. “I’ll be back.”

“Ryen?” my mom protests.

“Oh, just let her go,” my sister grumbles, standing up and carrying her plate to the sink. “Ryen is so busy and important now. We should be grateful when she graces us with her presence.”

I grab my wallet and keys off the entryway table, clenching my jaw. I don’t remember the last time my sister said anything nice to me. Or me to her, for that matter.

“Carson,” my mom warns.

“What?” my sister says. “I’m happy for her. At least it’s not grade school when she had no friends, and I had to take her everywhere with me so she wouldn’t be alone.”

I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth, not looking at her. She always knows what to say to make me feel small again. The smile I can usually force for my mother’s sake is pressed down deep in my stomach, contained under a pile of bricks, and the agreeable words I can always spit out don’t want to play this time. I’m tired.

I walk out the front door and hop in my Jeep before she says anything else. I don’t care if it’s just his town, just his house, or whatever. I need to see something that’s Misha.



I drive down the quiet, pristine lanes of Thunder Bay, the wind blowing through the open cab of my Jeep as loose strands of my hair fly wildly around me. The sun flickers through the leaves in the trees above, and the sea air wafts all around, filling my lungs with its fresh scent.

Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” plays on the radio, but I don’t sing along like I usually do. And I barely notice the slight wheezing coming up from my chest as I gape at the homes and lawns on both sides of me.

Holy shit. I’m way out of my league.

Two and three-story homes with gates and acres and circular driveways bigger than my house stand before me, and the cars that pass by probably cost just as much.

Jesus, Misha.

Not that my house is shabby, of course. It’s more than big enough, and my mother has done a beautiful job decorating it, but these houses are the high-life. For once, I’m really glad I’m driving a Jeep so I can blend in. It’s the only car on the market that doesn’t give away how much or how little you’re worth. There are rich and poor Jeep enthusiasts.