Punk 57
Page 44
Pushing open my door, I hop out of my Jeep and slam it shut. With weak legs and shallow breaths, I jog across the street, pushing my fear out of my head.
Don’t think. Just go. He’s driving me crazy, and I need it to end. I just need to know.
Walking up the driveway, I dart my eyes around, looking at the windows to see if anyone sees me approaching. I smooth my hair back, readjusting my ponytail as I step up to the door.
I should’ve dressed right. I should be wearing make-up. What if he’s home and sees me and starts laughing? I’m a mess.
No, Misha knows me. He’s the only one who knows the real me. He won’t care what I look like.
I pull the collar of my shirt away from my body and dip my nose in, sniffing. I shower twice a day—at night because I usually get sweaty at cheer and swim and in the morning after my workouts—but I didn’t have one yet today.
Smells fine, I guess. Although my sister did say once that you can’t smell yourself.
I bring up my hand and rap on the door several times. Then I see a doorbell to the right. Dammit, I should’ve rung that.
It doesn’t matter. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging myself, and shift on my feet as I bow my head and close my eyes.
Misha, Misha, Misha, where are you?
I hear the door open, and my heart skips a beat.
“Yes?” someone says.
I blink up and immediately relax a little, taking in a little more air. It’s a man, much older than Misha would be, with graying dark hair and green eyes. His dad?
He’s wearing a dark blue robe, tied over a full set of pajamas, and embarrassment warms my cheeks. It’s a Saturday morning. Maybe he just woke up.
“Uh, hi,” I finally say, unfolding and then folding my arms again. “Is, uh…Misha here? By any chance?”
I see his back straighten a little, as if on guard. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t,” he replies quietly.
He isn’t. So he lives here. This is his house. I don’t know why having that confirmed fills me with dread and excitement at the same time.
And this guy must be his father.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask as politely as I can. “I’m a friend of his.”
His chest rises with a heavy breath and his gaze falls. I notice his cheeks look sunken, and he has bags under his eyes, as if he’s sick or tired or something.
“If you’re a friend, I’m sure you can call him and find out,” he says.
I falter. Yeah, if I were his friend, why wouldn’t I have his cell number?
Maybe he knows who Ryen is. Maybe I should tell him who I am.
“Would you like to leave a message?” he prompts, starting to inch back and preparing to close the door.
“No,” I rush out. “Thank you, sir.”
He nods and swings the door closed.
But I shoot my hand out, stopping him. “Sir?” He looks up, stopping. “Is he okay?” I ask. “I just… I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
His father is silent for a moment, watching me, before answering with a resolute tone. “He’s fine.”
And then he closes the door, and I stand on the front step, frozen and confused.
What does that mean?
I guess I should be happy, right? He’s fine, isn’t he?
He lives here. His father says he’s not home right now, which means he’s home sometimes, so he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army.
But I don’t feel happy.
He’s fine. He lives here. He’s not home right now. Everything’s normal. Nothing’s changed.
So if he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army, then why the hell isn’t he writing me anymore?
I spin around and charge for my Jeep, knowing what Ryen, Misha’s friend, would do. She’d never give up. She’d keep writing with undying loyalty, trusting that he has a good reason.
But the Ryen that Misha doesn’t know, the survivor, is taking hold right now, and she doesn’t like being played with.
You know my address, asshole. Use it or don’t.
I’m not holding my breath anymore.
“Can you believe Masen Laurent?” Lyla sneers, standing next to my locker as Ten texts on his phone beside her. She stares over her shoulder at Masen and a group of guys on the other side of the hallway. “He probably got kicked out of his last school for fighting, and Trey’s getting tons of shit on Facebook for that fight.” She narrows her eyes on Masen. “Definitely hot, but what an asshole. He should be arrested.”
Trey’s getting shit for that fight? I keep my smirk to myself. You mean for getting his ass kicked.
I glance over at Masen who’s surrounded by four other guys, all of them laughing and joking around as if they’ve been best friends forever. Masen smiles at one of them and shakes his head, sucking a straw between his lips as he takes a drink from a 7-Eleven cup.
I feel my cheeks warm. Those lips. I couldn’t get enough of them Friday night, and he didn’t even kiss me.
What if Lyla and Ten found out right now that he had me in the backseat of his car, and I didn’t want to stop?
He seems to sense me watching him, because he turns his head toward me, both of us locking gazes across the crowded hall. His green eyes pin me to my spot, something hot flashing in them, and I suddenly can’t move a step. I spin back around, throwing my books in my locker.
“Yeah, well,” I reply, forcing my voice flat and bored. “He seems to be finding his crowd.”
Don’t think. Just go. He’s driving me crazy, and I need it to end. I just need to know.
Walking up the driveway, I dart my eyes around, looking at the windows to see if anyone sees me approaching. I smooth my hair back, readjusting my ponytail as I step up to the door.
I should’ve dressed right. I should be wearing make-up. What if he’s home and sees me and starts laughing? I’m a mess.
No, Misha knows me. He’s the only one who knows the real me. He won’t care what I look like.
I pull the collar of my shirt away from my body and dip my nose in, sniffing. I shower twice a day—at night because I usually get sweaty at cheer and swim and in the morning after my workouts—but I didn’t have one yet today.
Smells fine, I guess. Although my sister did say once that you can’t smell yourself.
I bring up my hand and rap on the door several times. Then I see a doorbell to the right. Dammit, I should’ve rung that.
It doesn’t matter. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging myself, and shift on my feet as I bow my head and close my eyes.
Misha, Misha, Misha, where are you?
I hear the door open, and my heart skips a beat.
“Yes?” someone says.
I blink up and immediately relax a little, taking in a little more air. It’s a man, much older than Misha would be, with graying dark hair and green eyes. His dad?
He’s wearing a dark blue robe, tied over a full set of pajamas, and embarrassment warms my cheeks. It’s a Saturday morning. Maybe he just woke up.
“Uh, hi,” I finally say, unfolding and then folding my arms again. “Is, uh…Misha here? By any chance?”
I see his back straighten a little, as if on guard. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t,” he replies quietly.
He isn’t. So he lives here. This is his house. I don’t know why having that confirmed fills me with dread and excitement at the same time.
And this guy must be his father.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask as politely as I can. “I’m a friend of his.”
His chest rises with a heavy breath and his gaze falls. I notice his cheeks look sunken, and he has bags under his eyes, as if he’s sick or tired or something.
“If you’re a friend, I’m sure you can call him and find out,” he says.
I falter. Yeah, if I were his friend, why wouldn’t I have his cell number?
Maybe he knows who Ryen is. Maybe I should tell him who I am.
“Would you like to leave a message?” he prompts, starting to inch back and preparing to close the door.
“No,” I rush out. “Thank you, sir.”
He nods and swings the door closed.
But I shoot my hand out, stopping him. “Sir?” He looks up, stopping. “Is he okay?” I ask. “I just… I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
His father is silent for a moment, watching me, before answering with a resolute tone. “He’s fine.”
And then he closes the door, and I stand on the front step, frozen and confused.
What does that mean?
I guess I should be happy, right? He’s fine, isn’t he?
He lives here. His father says he’s not home right now, which means he’s home sometimes, so he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army.
But I don’t feel happy.
He’s fine. He lives here. He’s not home right now. Everything’s normal. Nothing’s changed.
So if he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army, then why the hell isn’t he writing me anymore?
I spin around and charge for my Jeep, knowing what Ryen, Misha’s friend, would do. She’d never give up. She’d keep writing with undying loyalty, trusting that he has a good reason.
But the Ryen that Misha doesn’t know, the survivor, is taking hold right now, and she doesn’t like being played with.
You know my address, asshole. Use it or don’t.
I’m not holding my breath anymore.
“Can you believe Masen Laurent?” Lyla sneers, standing next to my locker as Ten texts on his phone beside her. She stares over her shoulder at Masen and a group of guys on the other side of the hallway. “He probably got kicked out of his last school for fighting, and Trey’s getting tons of shit on Facebook for that fight.” She narrows her eyes on Masen. “Definitely hot, but what an asshole. He should be arrested.”
Trey’s getting shit for that fight? I keep my smirk to myself. You mean for getting his ass kicked.
I glance over at Masen who’s surrounded by four other guys, all of them laughing and joking around as if they’ve been best friends forever. Masen smiles at one of them and shakes his head, sucking a straw between his lips as he takes a drink from a 7-Eleven cup.
I feel my cheeks warm. Those lips. I couldn’t get enough of them Friday night, and he didn’t even kiss me.
What if Lyla and Ten found out right now that he had me in the backseat of his car, and I didn’t want to stop?
He seems to sense me watching him, because he turns his head toward me, both of us locking gazes across the crowded hall. His green eyes pin me to my spot, something hot flashing in them, and I suddenly can’t move a step. I spin back around, throwing my books in my locker.
“Yeah, well,” I reply, forcing my voice flat and bored. “He seems to be finding his crowd.”
