Punk 57(48)

Don’t call him Masen? “Why?” I ask.

“Just don’t.” He shrugs me off and stands up, forcing me to climb off his lap. “Now do me a favor and go in the lunchroom and sit in Trey’s lap, would you? I wanna look while your f*cking prom date has no clue that I just had that ass grinding my cock a minute ago.”

He gives me a cruel smile, and I inhale a deep breath, raising my chin and trying to look unfazed.

But my heart pounds like a jackhammer. What an *.

Before I can reply with a witty, sarcastic, or utterly childish remark, he walks past me and out the door while the sound of the students in the lunchroom floods in.

An ache digs into the back of my throat, but I refuse to cry. Turning, I look out the window and see my reflection in the glass. I blink away the tears and check my face to make sure my mascara and lips aren’t smeared. Checking that my hair is smooth and perfect again.

Making sure the girl who got out a few minutes ago is tucked back inside, down deep.

I take a deep breath and walk out the door, joining my friends in the cafeteria.





Sitting in an empty Ferris wheel car, I tip my head back and close my eyes, letting the night wind blow across my face.

The ocean waves in the distance curl and crash ashore, filling the darkness with a steady presence at my back as a car above me creaks in the wind, the rest having been rusted silent a long time ago.

The camping lamp I’ve been using in the room sits under my propped-up legs, and I hold a pen in my hand and a notepad on my lap.



Fifty-seven times I didn’t call Fifty-seven letters I didn’t send, Fifty-seven stitches to breathe again, and then I f*cking pretend.



I open my eyes and jot down the last two lines, barely able to see what I’m writing in the near darkness. Doesn’t matter, I guess. I can write it tonight and read it tomorrow.

I’ve been writing this song for two years, ever since Ryen started talking about “the cheerleader” in some of her letters. I got stuck half-way through, because I wasn’t sure where the story was going, just that I needed to tell it. I had Ryen’s impression through her words, but I couldn’t get further than that.

But leaving school two days ago, after finally having her in my arms in the lab, I needed to write. I was feeling things.

She knows how to work me. How to drive me insane, acting like I’m dirt under her shoe in public but like she can’t get enough of me in private. Her tongue and mouth, the little obsession she has with my lip ring, the way she grinded into me, and if it weren’t for a couple layers of clothes, I would’ve been inside her…

Yeah, that prissy little act drops like a bad habit, and she can get so hot, I want to take off everything except that lame-ass skirt and see how every inch of her feels.

If her whole stuck-up crew knew how their little princess melts for me…

But I look up, staring out at the theme park and realizing.

No. Not for me.

For Masen.

Damn, I can’t keep this up. I have to leave, or I have to tell her. She’ll never forgive me for betraying her like this. For being right under her nose and damn-near seducing her.

“I’m ashamed I didn’t guess you were here a long time ago!” a voice calls out, and I jerk, looking down at the ground.

Dane stands below with a flashlight in his hand.

I watch him start climbing the beams up to where I sit about five cars off the ground, and let out a sigh. I’m working. For the first time in months, I’m writing. Just my luck.

“You and your cousin loved this place as kids,” he yells up. “I should’ve known you’d be hiding here.”

He crawls up, past the empty cars, and heaves himself over the beam where my car sits. The wheel creaks with the extra weight, but it doesn’t budge. Years of rain and moist sea air have taken care of that.

He takes a seat, and I notice he’s wearing our band’s black T-shirt. Our name, Cipher Core, with some artwork Dane designed, is on the left side of the chest. I have a few at home. Even Annie has some, which she used to sleep in.

I see Dane’s eyes fall to my notepad, and then he raises them to me, the wheels in his head probably turning.

“You got something there for me?” he prods, meaning lyrics.

I laugh to myself, tossing him the book. What the hell? Let him tell me it sucks, so I can give up, and we can go to Sticks and get drunk instead.

He barely looks at the pad, though. He eyes me hesitantly, as if he’s searching for words.

“Your dad isn’t looking too good, man,” he says, keeping his tone even. “The stores are closed, and no one sees him anymore. He misses you.”

“He misses Annie.”

“He still went to work after Annie,” he points out. “It was when you left that he retreated.”

I prop my arm up on the back of the seat and rub my forehead. He’s not going to the shops? To open up or anything?

Dane’s right. My father was in pain after Annie’s death, but he didn’t abandon his responsibilities. Other than me, of course. No, he gave me all the space I told him I wanted.

But he still took care of the house, ran the shops, did the paperwork, and went on his morning runs.

He hasn’t called me, though.

If he’s hurting—if he needs me—would he tell me?