Punk 57
: Chapter 4

“I’m going to Banana Republic.” Ten rushes up and hooks an arm around my neck. “Want to come?”

I shake my head, taking a left down the hall. “I need to get home. It’s my turn to make dinner tonight.”

The school is empty, and we just finished practice, but while everyone else is showering and getting ready for wherever they’re rushing off to, I’m still in my shorts, sports bra, and tank top. I just want to get out of here. This day threw me off track, and I need to regroup.

That new kid, Masen, is a real piece of work, and I’d had to turn off my phone to ignore the Facebook notifications after lunch. Thank goodness no one had time to snap a picture of him dumping me on my ass in the cafeteria, but that didn’t stop Lyla from posting a meme online, joking about it and tagging me.

Of course, she was “only teasing.”

Whatever. I need to get home anyway.

I was able to get Pre-Calc done at lunch, but I still have some questions from the Novel Study and Government to do tonight.

“Whoa. Is that your locker?” I hear Ten say.

I look down the hallway and spot a pile of belongings spilling out onto the floor. About right where my locker is located.

Ten releases me, and we both jog up to the mess, seeing my locker door hanging open and part of it bent, as if it’s been pried open with a crow bar or something.

What the hell?

I kneel down, my lungs emptying as I sift through my clothes, iPod, and a mountain of papers laying astray from the folders they were neatly organized in previously.

“What the hell happened?” Ten bursts out. “Is anything missing?”

I swing the locker door open wide and survey the remaining contents. The little pink shelves and overhead lamp I’d installed are still in there, as well as my umbrella and fleece jacket I keep in there just in case. I kneel down, surveying the items on the floor and see that all of my books are accounted for as well as the Louboutins and the shirts I hide from my mom.

“I don’t think so,” I say breathlessly, still confused.

Why break into my locker and not take anything?

I look around nervously, noticing no one else’s locker has been vandalized that I can tell.

“I wonder what that means,” Ten says.

“What?” I look up, following his gaze.

He holds my locker door closed, showing me the word written in black Sharpie on the front.

Empty.

I stare at it, confused. What?

My lungs feel heavy, and I search my brain, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Empty? And why just my locker?

I gather up all of my belongings and pack them in my duffel, completely creeped out that someone was doing this while I was at practice. The office is closed now, but I’m definitely reporting this in the morning.

Slipping on my black fleece jacket, I head out to the parking lot with Ten and climb into my car as he hops into his. I immediately lock my doors.

I’ll have to get a new locker tomorrow, too. I can’t carry all this shit with me every day. Even if there’s only a little over a month left of school.

Goddammit. Who would root around in my stuff? Not everyone likes me—in fact, Ten is the only person who probably doesn’t have a motive to piss me off—but no one in particular sticks out. And what if it happens again?

I quickly drive home and pull into my driveway, parking in the garage and seeing no other cars home yet. My sister is probably still in class, and my mother’s car is parked at the airport, waiting for her when she gets back tomorrow morning.

I stare down at my phone screen, sending a quick reply to her text that she sent earlier.

I’ll be home late tomorrow. Cheer…swim…, I type.

K. Dinner will be waiting, she replies. Don’t forget to pack extra food tomorrow.

Yeah, yeah. I stuff my phone in my duffel. A couple nights a week, I stay late at school for cheer practice and then to teach swim lessons for a couple of hours afterward. I have a small break in between to eat something, since I won’t be home for dinner, and to get some homework done.

Closing the garage door, I gather my bags and enter the kitchen through the door off the carport, grabbing a water bottle out of the fridge before dashing up the stairs.

I’ll feel better after a shower.

With what happened to my locker and the episode in the cafeteria today, it’s been a long time since I’ve had that feeling. People don’t laugh at me, and guys like him don’t put me in my place. I’m not going to let him in my head like I let them in all those years ago. I’m stronger now.

I swing my bedroom door open and walk in, my bags falling from my hands.

What the fuck?!

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout.

Masen, the new guy, sits in my desk chair, leaning back with his hands locked behind his head. I hear music and glance over at my iPod dock, seeing that he’s playing Garbage’s “Stupid Girl.”

He smirks and stares at me, relaxing as if he hasn’t broken into my house and planted his ass somewhere it doesn’t belong.

“Hello?” I bark. “What are you doing in my room, asshole?”

Exhaling a slow breath, he jerks his chin at me. “I went to, what I assume is, your sister’s room first. That seems more you. Hot pink princess bullshit with the zebra print bedding.”

I quickly close my door, not wanting my sister to get home and see him in here. “How did you get in?”

But he ignores me and keeps going. “However, I don’t think it was your name in purple neon lights above the bed.” He starts laughing, probably at my sister’s stupid narcissistic decorating, and stands up. “Ryen, right?” he asks, looking around my room. “I must say, this is not at all what I expected.”

I’m a lot of what you’re not expecting, dickhead. “Get out.”

“Make me.”

I fist my hands. “How did you get in?”

“Through the front door.” He steps toward me. “So where is it?”

I pinch my eyebrows together, confused. “Where’s what?”

“My shit.” His teeth are bared, his smile gone.

His shit? What’s he talking about?

“Get out!” I yell. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“You seem nervous.”

“You think?!” I retort. “I don’t like strange guys in my house, and I really don’t like anyone in my room.”

“Don’t care,” he replies, looking bored. “You took something of mine. Two things of mine, actually, and I want them back.”

“No, I didn’t. Now get out!”

He reaches behind himself and pulls something out of the back of his jeans, holding it up. My face falls, and a knot tightens in my stomach.

Shit. My notebook.

A large, white leather-bound diary of rants and pity parties I’ve thrown for myself over the past three years, and something I don’t want anyone to see. Ever. Every bad thought or feeling I’ve ever had about myself, my family, and my friends, that I couldn’t voice out loud, is in that book.

How did he replace it?

“Under the mattress isn’t exactly a novel idea, you know?” he says. “And yes, I read that part. And the other one. And the other one.”

My heart pounds in my ears, and a scream creeps its way up my throat.

I lunge for him.

I grab hold of the book, but he shoves me back, and I stumble onto the bed, his body coming down on mine.

I grunt and cry out, trying to get the book.

He reaches for something, and then my scissors from my desk is pointing at my face. I freeze, staring at the tip.

“Don’t worry,” he taunts in a dark voice. “I won’t make sure this falls into your mom’s hands. I’m going to rip out every fucking page and plaster them all over school, so listen loud and clear, you stupid cunt. I’m done talking to you, and I’m done looking at you. I want the locket, and I want the piece of paper you took at the Cove.”

“The Cove?” I gasp under the weight of his body. “Wha—“

What the hell is he talking about?

And then I pause as it hits me. The Cove. Last night. The piece of paper.

I want a lick while you still taste like you.

And then today… You taste like shit.

I stare at him, dumb-founded. “Oh, my God.”

That was his room?

I was right. There was someone there in the tunnel. He saw us.

And then I widen my eyes. He was the one who broke into my locker! That’s why nothing was missing. He didn’t replace what he was looking for.

He darts to my side and snaps the scissors, and I wince as he brings the scissors back up, a few of my light brown hairs floating in the air.

“Stop!” I yell. “I don’t…I…”

His dark green eyes narrow on me, threatening and cutting right through me.

I growl, grappling for my pillow and reaching inside, pulling out a folded, worn piece of paper.

I shove it at his chest.

He takes the paper. “Now the necklace.”

“I didn’t take a necklace!” I shout. “Just the paper.”

He snaps the scissors at my hair again, and I scream. “Dammit! I told you! I didn’t take it! It—”

Ten. Ten was with me. He took it.

Shit.

“What?” Masen growls, probably seeing the realization on my face.

I breathe hard, flexing my jaw. “My friend was with me. I’ll get it. Alright? I’ll get it. Now get off me!”

He pauses, staring down at me. But eventually he pushes off the bed and tosses the scissors onto the desk, sliding the poem into his back pocket.

I shoot up, grabbing at my ponytail and replaceing the small bit of hair that was snipped. Only about half an inch from a few strands.

I scowl at him. “Prick.”

“Tomorrow,” he orders, ignoring my insult. “The parking lot after school.” And then he holds up my notebook. “I’m keeping this as insurance.”

“No. I don’t trust you.”

“What do ya know, Rocks?” He smiles. “Something we have in common. I don’t trust you, either.” He curls the notebook, squeezing it in his fist. “Now don’t waste any more of my time. Tomorrow.”

I grind my teeth, watching him walk toward the door. He stops in the doorway and turns around, taking a last look around my room.

“You know… I really do like your room,” he muses. “Maybe if you were more like this at school, people wouldn’t talk behind your back so much.”

He walks out, slamming the door behind him, and my face falls.

I stare at the word written on the back of my door, in large, chalk letters that I didn’t write.

Fraud.

The next morning, I make my way to Ten’s locker, but only after stopping by the school office and reporting my own vandalized and getting a new one assigned. Students crowd the halls, and I hold my books in my arm and turn inward, trying to avoid any attention.

“Do you have it?” I ask without saying hello first.

He glances up from his locker and sighs, looking a little embarrassed. I’d texted him last night, demanding he bring the locket today.

Reaching into the pocket of his knee-length shorts, he pulls out a long chain with a circular, silver locket hanging off it.

I take it, instantly feeling a little relief at having what that asshole wants. Now I can get my notebook back.

“Why would you take this?” I snap. Did he think it would go well with his J. Crew T-shirts?

But Ten just shrugs. “It looked like an antique. I thought maybe it might be worth something.”

I slip the necklace into my pocket. “Klepto.”

“How did you know I took it anyway?”

Because the hot new guy, who also happens to be squatting in an abandoned theme park, broke into my bedroom last night, cut my hair, and threatened to expose my hideous inner musings about all of my friends if I didn’t get it back.

Yeah, no.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” I say, ignoring his question and turning around to head to Art.

Digging the necklace back out of my pocket as I walk, I flip it over, studying the aged silver and intricate detail around the large moonstone set in the middle. Ten is right. It looks like an antique. There are several scratches, and the metal feels thicker, more solid than your typical Target jewelry.

What does the necklace mean to Masen Laurent, though? I open the locket, slowly climbing the stairwell, the people jogging and laughing around me a distant echo.

But as soon as I pop it open, I dig in my eyebrows, seeing, not pictures as I expected, but a tiny, folded-up piece of paper.

Taking it out, I unwrap it and turn it over, reading the words.

Close your eyes. There’s nothing to see out here.

I slow to a stop, staring at the note and saying the words to myself again.

It sounds familiar, like I’ve heard them before. Or said them or something…

The second bell rings, our one-minute warning, and I fold the paper back up, stuffing it into the locket and closing it.

Everyone around me hustles up and down the stairs, and I jog to my class, slipping the necklace back into my jean shorts.

Who does the locket belong to? A family member? A girlfriend? Maybe he stole it. He’s living at the Cove, after all, and judging by the state of his hands and jeans, it doesn’t look like a parent is watching over him. He probably doesn’t have any money, and if he can break into my house without leaving a scratch, then I’m sure he’s done it before.

I’m tempted to seek him out now and get my notebook back, but it’s probably in his locker or his car, and I don’t trust him to be able to do a quick exchange without others spotting me talking to the weirdo who dumped me on my ass yesterday. I don’t want to be seen with him again.

And luckily, I don’t see him in Art today. Perhaps he got out of the class.

Or—my heart sinks a little—maybe he’s not at school today. Agitation boils under my skin. If I have to go back to that junkyard again and search him out, I’ll be pissed. I’m getting that book back.

After Art, I head to English IV, carrying my text, notebook, and copy of Lolita. But as soon as I step into the room, I spot him sitting in the row to the left of mine, one desk back.

Relief and a touch of annoyance both hit me. He wasn’t in this class yesterday. Is he going to be in any more of my classes?

But he doesn’t seem to see me. Just like yesterday in Art, the guy simply sits there, staring ahead with a slight scowl on his face as if this is all such an inconvenience to him.

I take my seat, noticing his jeans and black T-shirt are actually clean today.

Mr. Foster fires up his projector, the screen of his laptop appearing on the big white board in front of the class, and he begins making the rounds, handing back our latest essays. The final bell rings, and the class lowers their voices, quietly chattering as the teacher walks up and down the aisles.

“So I’m going to go out on a limb,” Foster says, stopping at my desk and holding my paper as he peers down at me. “Did you actually read the book, or did you read reviews?”

I hear a snort behind me—from J.D., no doubt—and I smile.

“You asked for an analysis of the story, so I watched the movie,” I explain, plucking my Anna Karenina paper out of his hand. “Spoiler alert, there was a lot of sex in it.”

Laughter breaks out, and I feel a rush hit my veins, pumping me up after my minor humiliation yesterday.

Mr. Foster and I constantly go head to head, and while Art may be the class I enjoy the most, Foster is my favorite teacher. He encourages us to use our voice and is one of the only adults to talk to his students like adults.

“I asked for an analysis of the novel, Ryen.”

“And I tried” I tell him. “I honestly did. But it was depressing and in a pointless way. What was I supposed to learn? Women, don’t cheat on your husbands in nineteenth century Russia, or you’ll be cast out of society and forced to throw yourself in front of a train?” I sit up in my seat. “Got it. And the next time I’m in nineteenth century Russia, I’m going to remember it.”

I hear J.D. chuckle again behind me and more giggles break out in the room.

But Foster lowers his voice, looking me deep in the eyes. “You’re better than this,” he whispers.

I stare at him for a moment, seeing the plea in his eyes. Seeing how highly he thinks of my intellect and how angry he is that I don’t make better use out of it.

He backs away, moving onto the next student but still speaking to me. “Read Jane Eyre, and redo it,” he demands.

I should quietly accept my punishment and be grateful he’s giving me another chance instead of accepting the C that’s written on my Anna Karenina paper right now. But I can’t resist smarting off some more.

“Can I at least read something written in the past hundred years?” I ask. “Something where a middle-aged man isn’t conning an eighteen-year-old girl into committing bigamy?”

He turns his head, a stern expression on his face. “I think you’ve dominated the class’s attention long enough, Ms. Trevarrow.”

“In fact,” I go on. “I’m seeing a trend this semester. Anna Karenina, Lolita, Girl With a Pearl Earring, Jane Eyre…all stories featuring older men and younger women. Something you want to tell us, Mr. Foster?” I wink twice, teasing the older man.

The class’s laughter is louder this time, and I can see Foster’s chest rise with a huge, exasperated breath.

“I’d like the report tomorrow,” he says. “Do you understand?”

“Absolutely,” I answer and then drop my voice to a mumble. “There are tons of Jane Eyre movies.”

The students around me snicker under their breaths, because of course I can’t read a whole novel and write a report on it with cheer and swim tonight. I end my taunting, satisfied that I won that argument. In their eyes, anyway.

The air is cool and fresh as it fills my lungs.

“What about Twilight?” someone calls out.

I pause at the deep voice behind me. Mr. Foster stands in front of his desk and looks up, focusing over my head.

“Twilight?” he asks.

“Yeah, Rocks?” Masen prompts me. “Did you like Twilight?”

My heart starts beating harder. What is he doing?

But I turn my head to the side, fixing him with a bored expression. “Sure. When I was twelve. You?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, and I’m once again drawn to the piercing on his lip. “I’ll bet you loved it,” he says, the entire class listening. “I’ll bet it was what got you interested in reading. And I’ll even bet you were at the movies opening night. Did you have an Edward T-shirt, too?”

A few chuckles go off around me, and the little high I felt a moment ago is sucked away at the sight of his gloating eyes. How could he have known that?

I picked up a Twilight paperback when I was younger, because Robert Pattinson was on the cover, and hey, I was twelve, so…

But immediately after reading it, I asked my mom to go buy me all the books, and I spent the next two weeks reading them with every free moment I got.

I arch an eyebrow, looking at the teacher. “While it’s fascinating that it’s finally speaking and all, I’m, again, wondering what the point is.”

“The point is…” Masen answers, “wasn’t Edward like a hundred years older than Bella?”

Eighty-six.

“See,” he keeps going, “you’re judging stories about older men and younger women as some sick, superficial perversion on the males’ part, when actually it was quite common during those times for men to wait until they had finished their education and established a career before being ready to support a wife.”

He pauses and then continues. “A wife, which was almost always younger, because she needed to bear many children. As society dictated. And yet, your precious Edward Cullen was over a hundred years old, still in high school, living with his parents, and trying to get in the pants of a minor in the twenty-first century.”

The whole class erupts in laughter, and my stomach sinks.

I catch sight of Masen out of the corner of my eye, leaning his desk forward, closer to mine, and whispering, “But he was hot, so I guess that’s all that’s important, right?”

I keep staring ahead, the knots in my stomach pulling tighter and tighter. Sure, Edward was decades older than Bella. But the fact that he was good looking had nothing to do with her loving him anyway.

Masen continues his attack. “Now if he looked like most hundred-year-old men looked,” he calls out, and I see him stand up, “it wouldn’t have been romantic, would it? There would be no Bella and Edward.” He walks up to the front of the class and rounds the teacher’s desk, gesturing to the laptop. “May I?”

The teacher nods, looking wary but allowing it.

Masen leans down, and I refuse to look as he types something into the search engine. But when more laughter breaks out, louder this time, I can’t help myself.

I glance up at the screen and instantly feel anger curl my fingers into a fist.

A huge image of an old man, withered with wrinkles, missing teeth, and bald but with wiry, silver hairs sprouting from the top of his nose smiles back at us, and I glare at Masen, who grins back.

“Old geezer Edward is a happy guy,” he gloats, “because he’s about to get naked with Bel-la.”

“Aw, yeah!” J.D. hollers, and everyone loses control. Students double over laughing, and their amusement surrounds me like a wall closing in. Everything is getting smaller, and I start to feel the space in my lungs shrink as I pull harder to take in air.

I clench my teeth together. Motherfucker.

Masen crosses his arms over his chest, looking at me like a meal he can’t wait to eat again. “Shake your pompoms, Rocks,” he says. “You just reminded all of us that love is truly only skin deep.”

I walk as quickly as I can, a cool sweat spreading down my neck and back as I dive into the girls’ locker room. The weight on my chest gets heavier, and I pass girls undressing for P.E. as I slip into one of the shower stalls, draw the curtain closed, and turn on the water.

I step to the left so I don’t get hit with the spray. The white noise of the water shields me from listening ears, and I grab my inhaler from my pocket, taking two quick pumps and leaning back against the shower wall, closing my eyes.

Four years. I haven’t had a fucking attack triggered by panic in four years. It’s always exercise-induced. My lungs start to open up, and I slowly breathe in and out, forcing myself to calm down.

What the hell is wrong with me? The guy’s not a threat. I can handle this. So he was challenging me. So what? Am I going to flip out every time that happens? Sooner or later I’ll leave safe Falcon’s Well, and I’ll no longer be Queen Bee. I’m acting like a baby.

But for a moment, everything went dark. Slowly the world in my vision got smaller and smaller like I was in a tunnel going backward. The light ahead of me—Masen, Mr. Foster, the other students—became tiny as the darkness ate up the room, and I felt completely alone.

Just like before.

“Alright, everyone!” Ms. Wilkens, my fourth grade teacher, calls as we line up at the door inside the classroom. “If you’re staying in for recess, there’s no talking. You’re working.” Then she looks up to us. “The rest of you…walk, please.”

The line leader pushes through the door and everyone bolts, running outside to the playground. Some students dash for the tetherballs, others for the bars, and some stroll around the blacktop, figuring out what they want to do.

Everyone passes me by, and I slow to a walk, fidgeting and watching them as they replace their groups and begin playing. The sun is hot, and I slowly step into the chaos, looking around and not sure where to go or who to talk to.

This happens every day.

Girls run up to other girls, smiling and talking. Boys play with other boys, tossing balls back and forth and climbing the equipment. Some of my classmates sit on the grass and play with little things they snuck into school, and everyone has found each other, pairing off.

But no one’s looking for me.

I shuffle my feet, feeling my stomach twist into knots. I hate recess. I should’ve just stayed in the classroom and colored or wrote in my journal or something.

I want them to know I’m here, though. I want them to see me.

I don’t like being forgotten.

I look over at Shannon Bell and a few other girls from class, their hair and clothes always so cool and pretty. Why can’t I ever look like that? I run my hands down my knee-length skirt and Polo shirt, looking like such a good girl. My mom always pulls my hair back in a ponytail, but I want to curl it like them.

I lick my lips, swallow the big lump in my throat, and walk over to them.

“Hi,” I say, feeling like I can’t breathe.

They stop talking and look at me, not smiling. I gesture to Shannon’s hand. “I like your nail polish.”

Actually, I don’t. Yellow grosses me out, but my mom said complimenting people is a good way to make friends, so…

Shannon lets out a little scoff, looking embarrassed that her friends see me talking to her. She shoots a look to them.

I feel an invisible hand pushing me away from them. They want me gone, don’t they?

But I force a smile and try harder. “Hey,” I tell another girl, seeing her Mary Janes. “We have the same shoes.” And I look down at mine, showing her.

She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Ew.”

“You guys,” another girl chides her friends, but they don’t stop laughing.

“What’s that?” Shannon points to the bulge in the pocket of my skirt.

My heart sinks a little. No one else in my class has an inhaler, and now it makes me even more different. “It’s just my inhaler,” I reply, speaking low. “I have allergies and asthma and stuff. It’s no big deal.”

I keep my eyes down, because I don’t want to see the looks they give each other. I twist my lips to the side, feeling tears creep up. Why can’t I be cool?

“So do you think Cory Schultz is cute?” Shannon speaks up.

I blink, my guard going up. “No,” I answer quickly.

Cory Shultz is in our class, and he’s really cute, but I don’t want anyone to know I think that.

“Well, I think he’s cute,” she says. “We all do. You got a problem with him?”

I look up, shaking my head. “No. I just…yeah, I guess he’s kind of cute.”

A girl behind Shannon breaks into laughter, and Shannon suddenly walks away, toward the basketball court.

My heart starts racing. She walks up to Cory and whispers something in his ear, and he turns to look at me, scrunching up his face in disgust.

No.

Everyone starts laughing, and I turn and run away, hearing behind me, “Ryen likes Cory. Ryen likes Cory.”

I start crying, tears streaming down my face and shaking with sobs. I run behind the wall of the building and hide myself as I break down.

“What’s wrong with you now?” my sister, who’s in fifth grade, asks as she charges over to my side. She must’ve seen me running away.

“Nothing,” I cry. “Just go.”

She growls under her breath, sounding mad at me. “Just replace some friends, so I can play with mine, and Mom stops making me play with you. Can’t you do that?”

I cry harder as she storms away. She’s embarrassed by me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I dry my tears and walk to my classroom. I’m sure my face is all red, but I can just hide behind my folders and put my head down on my desk.

I quietly step into the classroom, seeing a few students sitting at their desks who wanted to get work on their projects done, while Ms. Wilkens sits at her computer with her back to me. I slide into my desk and take out two folders, standing them up to make a fence around me. I put my head down and hide.

“Wanna help me?” a voice says.

I look to my right and see Delilah working on a piece of butcher paper on the floor. She holds out a marker, her fingernails dirty and her blonde bangs hanging in her eyes. She always stays in for recess. Unlike me, she stopped trying to fit in a long time ago.

I take the marker, coming down to the floor with her.

“Thanks,” I say, looking at her hand-drawn Eiffel Tower that’s almost as tall as me.

She smiles, and we begin working, coloring it in as the weight starts to lift from my chest.

She’s always nice. Why do I care so much what the other girls think? Why do I want to be friends with them?

I try to be nice, but it’s never good enough.

But they’re mean and everyone loves them.

Why is that?

I bend over in the shower stall, resting my hands on my knees and pushing the memory away. That’s not me anymore. I’m fine. I’ve got this. He pushed, they laughed, and I choked. I got complacent. I just have to push back next time. I’m good at that.

Or just ignore him. This was no big deal anyway. None of these people will be a big deal in a couple months.

Damn Twilight. How could he possibly have guessed that? I breathe in and out, my muscles finally relaxing. Masen Laurent is consistently a step ahead.

I slip the inhaler back into my pocket, shut off the water, and exit the stall, leaving the locker room. I’m late for Math, but I push forward and act like the episode in English never happened.

No one’s talking about it. No one’s texting about it. Masen Laurent is still far off anyone’s radar, and no one believes I’m the superficial brat he’s making me out to be.

Absolutely no one.

The rest of the school day passes mercilessly slow as I brave lunch and every single class, feeling like another shoe is going to drop at any second. But as soon as the final bell rings, I drop off my books at my locker and grab my duffel for cheer and swim, hurrying out of the school and to the side parking lot.

“Ryen?” I hear Lyla yell behind me.

But I just keep going. “I’ll be back!” I call over my shoulder.

She knows we have practice and is probably wondering why I’m leaving the school.

Making my way through the parking lot, seeing students piling into cars and hearing engines fire up, I scan the crowd for the new guy. I finally see him, stepping up to a black truck and not carrying a single thing. No books, no folders, nothing.

As I walk toward him, I notice a couple of guys greeting him while my friend Katelyn approaches him, coyly grazing her hand along the side of his truck and acting all shy and shit.

My hopes are dashed. He’s definitely on peoples’ radar.

I hesitate, watching her hug her books and talk, giggling at something she said, while he stares down at her, calm and cool, looking no friendlier than he did with me.

Why does that please me?

I guess it’s a relief to know that maybe I’m not special. He’s rude to everyone, except the guys who came up to him just a moment ago.

Or maybe I wouldn’t have liked seeing him smile at her and not at me or…

I take in a deep breath, growing impatient. I don’t want her to see me talking to him, but I need that notebook.

I walk over to them, tipping my chin up and nodding once at Katelyn. “I’ll see you at practice.”

She pauses, looking taken aback. I hold the strap of my duffel hanging on my shoulder and stare at her, waiting for her to leave.

She eventually gives a little eye roll and walks off, leaving us alone.

No doubt to tattle to Lyla.

I dig in the pocket of my bag, pulling out the locket and handing it to him.

He takes the necklace, almost gently, and stares at it for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket. He raises his eyes to me, and something gives. For a split-second I see something different. Like he’s…disappointed or something.

“Now give me the book,” I demand.

“Sorry,” he says, holding my eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t have it.”

“Don’t piss me off,” I growl in a hushed tone. “I got what you wanted.”

“What I want…” He laughs quietly to himself as if there’s something I don’t understand.

He opens the driver’s side door and climbs into his truck. But before he can close the door, I reach out and grab it.

“We had a deal.”

He nods. “We did. But right now I’d love nothing better than to piss you off.” And he yanks the door out of my hand, slamming it shut.

Starting it up, he steps on the gas, and I run my hand through my hair, despair curling its way through me. But I hesitate only a moment before I drop my bag and race up to him, jumping up on the cab step.

“You asshole,” I bite out, and he slams on the brakes and glares at me.

I’m probably attracting attention, but I’m not taking any more of his shit.

“Get off the truck.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know who you are or where you come from,” I snarl, “but I don’t get pushed around. In case you haven’t heard.”

He jerks his chin, indicating something behind me as he smiles. “I guess we’ll see.”

I turn and see Lyla and Katelyn sitting on the ledge at the top of the steps, watching us. Great. How am I going to explain this?

“Watch out. You’re being judged,” Masen taunts. “Don’t choke.”

I step down from the cab, and he puts the truck in gear again. But before he can take off, I call out, “You’re living in an abandoned theme park.”

He stops the car again and lifts his chin. I stroll up to his window, feeling a bit of my power return as I give him a small smile.

“I’d only be doing the compassionate thing,” I tell him, “letting a responsible adult know about your homeless situation.”

He stills at my threat, and I offer a sympathetic sigh. “Social services would come in, replace out where you come from and if anyone’s looking for you…” I go on, putting my finger on my chin in mock contemplation. “I wonder if Masen Laurent has a criminal record. Maybe that’s why you’re hiding out? You definitely want to stay invisible. I’d bet money on that.”

His scowl is hot, and I can see his jaw flex. Yeah, he might be eighteen and perfectly able to squat wherever he likes, but that doesn’t mean he’s up for any attention, either. Maybe his parents are looking for him. Maybe a foster family.

Maybe the police.

Not many kids transfer schools six weeks before the end of their senior year, after all. He’s running from something.

He shifts the gears again and finally speaks. “I’ll bring it tonight.”

“You’ll bring it now.”

He turns to look at me. “If you have me picked up, you’ll never get it back,” he points out. “I got shit to do. I’ll see you tonight.”