Punk 57 (47 page)

I almost feel unseen—not on display—and I kind of like it. The song ends, and I fall into J.D., breathing hard and laughing. The fog machine and heat of so many crowded around is weighing on me, and I reach into my wrist purse and pull out my inhaler. I look around, hesitant. I usually go in the bathroom.

Screw it. Taking a puff, I see J.D. do a double take, but he only looks surprised as I take another one and try to inhale.

“You okay?”

I nod, giving him a thumbs up. “I’m fine.”

I slip the inhaler back into my purse and let him come in close. He places his hands on my waist as we slow dance.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” someone says.

I turn around and lock eyes with Lyla and Katelyn, who are glaring as everyone dances around us.

Lyla’s arms are folded over her hot pink dress. “It’s almost too precious for words,” she muses.

Katelyn smirks behind her, and I drop my head forward, faking a snore. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I pop my head up, looking at J.D. “I fell asleep. What happened?”

He chuckles.

In all honesty, though, I deserve Lyla’s animosity. I wasn’t a good friend. But with her, I’m not sure anyone can be.

I notice Trey lumbering toward her from behind and watch as he falls on her, draping his arms over her. His eyes are hooded, and he can barely stand.

“Hey, how goes it?” he slurs, gesturing between J.D. and me. “You, too, huh? You skip around pretty fast, girl. I like it.”

Oh, please. I turn away from him but not before I see Lyla trying to shrug him off.

“Come on,” he calls behind me, “friends share, J.D. You take mine for a spin, and I’ll take yours.”

Trey grabs my arm, but J.D. knocks him off. “Stay away from her.”

Trey comes in again, but I steel every muscle inside me. “Enough!”

But just then, a voice rings out, and I stop.

“Thanks for letting us intrude, everyone,” Misha says, and I blink, realizing the music has stopped.

Tearing my eyes away from Trey, I look up on stage and see Misha standing at the microphone. He’s still wearing his suit, but he has a guitar draped in front of him, and we meet each other’s eyes as a small smile dances in his.

I take a step, drawn in.

“We’re Cipher Core, and this is dedicated to the cheerleader,” he says.

My heart leaps into my throat, and I notice his band mates on stage, the same guys with him in the YouTube video I saw.

“Hey, it’s Masen,” J.D. says, mumbling. “I mean, Misha.”

The drums count off, the beat starts, and the guitars lead in, creating a fast and hard but soulful tune. Misha’s voice drifts in slow and haunting but quickly picks up pace.

Anything goes when everyone knows

Where do you hide when their highs are your lows?

So much, so hard, so long, so tired,

Let them eat until you’re ground into nothing.

Don’t you worry your glossy little lips.

What they savor ‘ventually loses it’s flavor.

I wanna lick, while you still taste like you.

Bookmark it, says the cheerleader

I promise we’ll come back to this spot.

I have shit to do first. You won’t wait a lot.

I can’t make her stay,

and I can’t watch her go.

I’ll keep her hellfire heart,

And bookmark it ‘fore it goes cold.

Fifty-seven times I didn’t call

Fifty-seven letters I didn’t send,

Fifty-seven stitches to breathe again, and then I fucking pretend.

Fifty-seven days to not need you

Fifty-seven times to give up on you

Fifty-seven steps away from you,

Fifty-seven nights of nothing but you.

His eyes are closed, and his face is so beautiful. Everything inside me is crumbling, because it’s the most perfect song I’ve ever heard, and I want him to keep going.

When did he write that? When we were fighting? Before we met?

A chaperone walks on stage after the song ends and cocks her head disapprovingly at the band. They smile and take off their instruments, quickly getting out of there, because while they may have had permission to perform a song, they probably didn’t have permission to say a few of the words that were in those lyrics.

I laugh as Dane takes a dramatic bow and the crowd cheers. I don’t even know what just happened. Were people dancing? Where’s Trey and Lyla? I don’t know, and I don’t care.

Misha hands off his guitar to one of the guys, and I inch forward through the crowd, waiting for him to come to me. He hops down off the stage as the other band takes over again and starts playing.

He comes up and wraps his arms around me under my ass and lifts me up. I laugh even though tears wet my face.

I touch his cheek, looking down at him. “I didn’t want to cry.”

“A lot of your words are in those lyrics,” he tells me. “We do more than a few things really well together, you know?”

“Good and bad.”

He stretches his neck up, brushing my lips. “And I want it all.”

I kiss him, everyone else forgotten. So that was
57
. He’d sent me pieces of the song in the past year, but I’d never heard the whole thing.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I’m ready to leave as soon as you are, so keep me posted.”

“I’m ready.”

He smiles and sets me down. “Let’s go have some fun.”

He takes my hand, and we walk through the crowd of dancers, running into J.D. as we pass the food tables.

“Where are you guys going?” he asks.

I glance at Misha, and he shrugs.

There’s a girl whose name I don’t know at J.D.’s side. I don’t want to take him away from her or the after parties, but…

“Can you disappear with us for an hour?”

He thinks about it and sets his plate down. “I’m in.”

“Remember you said that,” I warn.

He whispers something to the girl and jogs after us while Misha knocks on Ten and Manny’s table. “Let’s go.”

We all pile into Misha’s truck, and I see my duffel sitting on the passenger side floor as I climb in.

“So where are we going?” Ten asks as Misha starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot.

“To the school.”

I pull on my seat belt and put the bag in my lap, unzipping it.

“Why?”

I shoot a look to Misha, everything in his expression telling me to go ahead.

I pull out a can of the washable spray paint. “Because…it’s nearly the end of the year, and I have a few more things to say.”

I hold up the can and look behind me, seeing Ten’s eyes damn-near bug out of his head.

“What?” he bursts out.

“You?” J.D. looks at me, shocked.

I meet Manny’s eyes, and I can see the wheels in his head turning. Maybe he realizes it was me who wrote the message on his locker that first time:

You’re not alone. It gets better.

You are important, and you can’t be replaced.

Hang on.

I fill them in on everything. How it started and how I justified it, but I also tell them what I still need to do tonight. One last time to make it count.

And since they all will have something to say about the subject, I thought they might want a hand in it. Especially since Ten already indicated he’d like a piece of the action, and J.D. has already participated once.

“So are you in?” I ask them.

“Hell, yeah,” J.D. replies.

I look at Manny, who remains silent. “You don’t have to.”

I’m not asking any of them to get in trouble. They can wait in the truck, or we can take them back to prom right now.

But he nods, indicating the can in my hand. “I want black.”

Alright. I dig in the bag, doling out cans and reminding them to stick to surfaces that can be easily cleaned. Stay away from screens, posters, artwork, and uniforms or clothes in the locker rooms.

We reach the school and park on the south side, slipping through the gate and running through the lot, up to the pool room.

I hand Misha my can and pluck my key out of my handbag.

“You have a key?” J.D. asks, surprised. “I can’t believe they never thought of questioning you before.”

Yes, I have a key. Often I’m the last one out of the pool, and this is my job. I’m entrusted to lock up this door.

“I’m Ryen Trevarrow,” I joke. “I’m a bubblehead with barely enough brain cells to breathe.”

Quiet chuckles go off around the group, and I unlock the door, hurrying everyone inside.

“How do you know no one will see it tomorrow and get rid of the paint before Monday?” Misha asks.

It’s Saturday night, so it’s possible.

But…

“Roofers will be here tomorrow to fix the leaks,” I explain. “Teachers are being asked to stay out of the building for safety.” I look around at all of them. “You know what to do?”

“Yep.”

“Absolutely.”

“Ready.”

Okay, then. “Let’s go.”

Monday morning, Misha and I walk into school, staring ahead as the storm whirls around us.

A big part of me knows we shouldn’t have done it. There are all kinds of ways to handle our problems, after all. Better ways to deal with the issues.

But what Misha said was true. Everyone is ugly, aren’t we? Some wear it and some hide it.

I guess I just got tired of Trey hiding it.

And of everyone allowing him to keep it hidden.

I did a bad, bad thing.

“Oh, my God,” a guy mumbles off to my side, and I look over to see him reading something I’d written Saturday night.

“Hey, did you see this?” a girl gasps, asking her friend as they gape at the opposite wall.

I look down the corridor, seeing several messages written here and there and people fluttering about, taking it all in.

You shouldn’t be caught alone with me. You’ve been asking for this.

-Trey Burrowes

Can you even find your dick anymore, faggot?

-Trey Burrowes

I’m going to fuck her and then fuck her mom. Watch me.

Every corner you turn, every night when you go to sleep, I’ll be there, and I’m going to find out exactly what I’ve been missing.

Doesn’t take long for you little bitches to turn slut once you get a taste for it.

You should’ve seen the train we pulled on this girl last week. She had guys lined up. It was so fucking good.

Head down, ass up, that’s the way we like to fuck.

Trey, Trey, and more Trey.

We keep walking, passing the quotes all four of us wrote on the walls, lockers, and floors Saturday night, turning down another hall and seeing even more.

Not all of them are about Trey, though. Some of them are attributed to Lyla, Katelyn, a couple of Trey’s friends, and even me.

Because of course, saying you’re sorry is easy. Facing the shame is where atonement begins.

One of these nights, I’ll get you in the parking lot, and I’ll spread those pretty legs and fuck you right there on the ground. Would you like that, baby?

-Trey Burrowes

“That’s disgusting,” a junior girl says, wincing.

Another girl takes out a pencil and writes underneath the
They all want it
message.

No, we don’t
, she writes.