Punk 57 (17 page)

J.D. and Trey plop down in the seats at our table, and Trey puts his feet up.

Yeah, not happening. “You guys go to the computers and look up ‘Annotated Bibliographies,’” I tell them. “Print off some examples, and I’ll go find some from secondary sources.”

I’m not doing this worksheet on my own.

Trey heaves a sigh, and J.D. laughs to himself, both of them getting back up off their asses.

I twist around and head back to the non-fiction section.

The shelves loom high, and I skirt around a rolling ladder and turn left, diving farther into the back of the library, away from the tables of students and their hushed whispers.

I reach out and graze my hand along the spines of the books as I pass. My mom’s going to wonder why I haven’t even started
Fahrenheit 451
. Not that I’ll get into trouble, but she’ll wonder what’s been distracting me.

“You know, that kid,” I hear someone say, and I jerk my head to look behind me.

Masen approaches, and my heartbeat picks up pace.

“The one writing on the walls at night?” he continues. “We have something in common. I like to write on things, too.” He stops in front of me and takes my hand. “But you know that, right?”

My skin warms where he touches it, and I try to jerk my hand free, but he holds on tight.

He likes to write on things, too? What? And then I remember the wall at the Cove, my chalk wall in my room, my locker that first day…

I jerk my hand harder, yanking it free. “What? Did you find Trey a bit too big and scary, so you’re going to take your fight to me instead now?”

He gives me a casual grin and snatches my hand again, pulling out a Sharpie from his pocket with his other hand.

“Let go.”

He sticks the marker in his mouth, bites off the cap, and flips the pen around, shoving it back inside the cap. “But I thought you wanted my phone number. For the drive-in, remember?”

He looks down at me with an innocent expression on his face, and I don’t know what he’s doing, but I have to admit I’m kind of afraid to put up a fight this time. Throwing me into a pool when no one’s around isn’t that embarrassing, but I highly doubt he’s going to give a shit that we’re not alone right now if he deems it necessary to put me in my place again. I don’t want his fucking number.

He takes my left index finger and starts writing on the inside of it, while I grind my teeth and glare at him.

“You know, I remember so much of what was in that diary,” he muses as he writes. “I can say whatever I want. I don’t need proof. Not with them.” He jerks his chin, indicating all the students sitting over in the table area that we can’t see.

I pull away again, but he tightens his hold.

“Don’t worry.” He smiles down at my finger as he sketches. The velvety tip tickles my skin. “I have no interest in tormenting you. Not like that anyway. I just have one question.” And then he stops drawing and looks up, peering at me. “Who’s Delilah?”

I freeze and stare at him, forgetting that he’s holding my hand as the hair on my neck stands up.

“What?”

“You had her name doodled all over your notebook,” he tells me. “Who is she? Secret girlfriend? Secret shame?” He drops his eyes and continues writing. “A regret?”

“You read my notebook. You should already know.”

“I didn’t read anything,” he retorts.

I glare at him. He didn’t read it? But…

“I flipped the pages and saw her name on the inside cover,” he explains. “You think I give a shit about what goes on in your mind? I’ve got better things to do.”

Then why are you asking if you don’t care?

I yank my hand away, growling under my breath. “You’re an asshole.”

I keep my voice low, even though I don’t see anyone around.

But before I can walk away, he places his hands on the bookshelves, locking me in. “You know I could’ve taken him and his friend in one breath just now. What was I waiting for?”

He stares into my eyes, searching for something.

“Maybe the same thing that Cortez kid waits for when your boyfriend’s pushing him around,” he says in a low voice, his lips inches from mine. “Maybe for someone in their perky, little ponytail”—he flips my hair—“and come-fuck-me short shorts to grow a dick and stand up to the asshole.”

I knock his arm away, my stomach tight with anger. But he locks me in again, bearing down.

“Was that what Delilah was waiting for, too?” he presses. “Did she wait for you? And you never showed?”

He grabs my hand and turns my finger, showing me what he wrote.

I look down at the thick black letters written on the inside of my finger.

Shame.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t say anything. Your secrets are yours. You have to live with them.”

And then he lifts my finger to his lips, making the
shh
sign.

I pull my hand away and slam my hands into his chest, pushing him off.

“The next time he lays a hand on me, I’ll end him,” he warns, curling his lips in a smirk. “And then I’ll take his prom date.”

“I was getting a little lonely,” Lyla purrs, resting back in her seat with her arms folded over her chest and her legs crossed. “You were gone so long.”

Lonely? I doubt she even knows the meaning of the word. Not that I have any opinion of a chick who messes around on her boyfriend—unless the boyfriend is me or one of my friends—but I don’t like her for other reasons. She’s like Ryen on crack.

At least my Ryen is still in there somewhere. I see it in how she’s uncomfortable when that Cortez kid is bullied. I saw it this morning when she gave the janitor nail polish remover to help take off the graffiti.

And I see it all over her room. The collages, the poetry, the lyrics I’ve sent her for review, the quotes and colors everywhere… That’s the Ryen I know.

But in ten years she could be Lyla. Self-serving, false, and screwing anything to forget how much she hates herself.

And everything I’ve always found incredible about her will be gone.

I pull out my chair and sit down, knowing damn well I have no intention of doing this assignment. Misha Lare is as good as done with high school, so I’m not here for that.

“Here.” She sits up, pushing some books toward me. “I dug up some primary resources, so we can start on this questionnaire.”

But before I can tell this chick she’s on her own, I’m shoved forward from behind, a body slamming down on my back and an arm pressing into my neck.

“What the hell?” I shoot out my arms to keep my head from hitting the table, and then I feel breaths in my ear.

“Ryen!” I hear someone exclaim. I think it’s Lyla.

“Don’t move,” Ryen whispers in my ear, and I feel a sharp point digging into the back of my neck. “I’d hate for this pen to slip.”

I shake with a shocked laugh. She didn’t like being served back in the stacks, and now she’s lost her mind. Excellent.

I do exactly what she asks, even though my heart is racing and my groin is throbbing with heat.

I feel the pen glide over my skin in long, slow strokes, and I’m actually amused. I know people are watching. Everyone is suddenly silent, even Lyla.

The pen digs deep, and I wince as I feel a sting. She finishes and stands up, taking her weight off me and throwing down the pen. I feel her leave, and I sit up straight. Everyone is looking at me, and I see Ryen brush past my table with her bag on her shoulder, storming out of the library.

“Are you okay?” Lyla asks.

“Yeah.” I nod and glance behind me, seeing J.D. smiling and shaking his head, while Trey leans forward on the table and glares at me.

She did that in front of him. Good girl.

I turn back to my partner. “What did she write?”

Lyla rises from her seat and takes a look. I hear a snort. “Um, are you sure you want to know?”

Great.

I nod.

“Um…” she starts, reading in slow syllables. “Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole.”

I break into laughter. Awesome. Stuck-up Ryen Trevarrow is learning how to play in the mud, and I feel a little excitement course through my veins.

“Do you want me to go get you some wet paper towels?” Lyla puts a hand on her hip, hovering.

But I just wave her off. “Fuck it. Just leave it.”

What do I care?

“Masen Laurent?” someone calls.

I sit there for a moment before I blink and look up, remembering that’s my name. The librarian is holding the receiver of the phone at the circulation desk and looking around.

“Yeah?”

She follows my voice and meets my eyes, hanging up the phone. “The principal would like to see you. Take your things just in case.”

But I don’t move. The principal? Heat floods my veins, and I feel weighted to my seat.

Why the hell does she want to see me? Does she know?

My breathing quickens, and I stand up, grabbing nothing because I brought nothing, and make my way toward the doors. I ignore the curious glances and snorts, probably because, as I pass them, they can see the shit Ryen wrote on my neck.

I should just leave. Walk out the front doors right now. But as I come up on her office, I find myself opening the doors, my resolve hardening. I haven’t gotten everything I came here for yet. I’m not running away, so let’s see what she has to say.

If she knows, she knows. Or if she found out my records are fake, supplied by one of my cousin’s shady connections, Masen Laurent is a name I made up, and I live in a dilapidated basement and sneak into the school to shower at night, then I’ll deal with it.

Either way, I’m not leaving. Not yet.

Stepping inside the front office, I nod at one of the receptionists. “Masen Laurent,” I tell her.

“You can go in.” She gestures to my left, but I already know where to go.

Walking up to the door, I knock twice, feeling my hands shake just slightly as I push it open.

“Hi, Masen,” the principal greets, looking up from her desk and smiling.

She stacks a large pile of folders, clearing a space on her desk, and stands up, holding out her hand for me to shake.

I lock my jaw tight and straighten my back. Her eyes are warm, and I suddenly don’t want to be here.

I force myself forward, slowly raising my hand and taking hers but letting go nearly immediately.

I shift my eyes to the side.

She’s silent for a moment, and I can tell she’s watching me. “Please sit down,” she says finally.

I take the seat in front of her desk and keep my gaze averted, making eye contact only briefly.

“Don’t worry,” she tells me, humor lacing her voice. “You’re not in trouble. I just like to try to meet everyone when they register, but you slipped in under my radar.”

Okay. That’s good news, I guess.

“So how are you liking Falcon’s Well so far?”

I unclench my jaw, replying flatly, “Fine.”

“And your classes?” she presses. “Are you finding the transition easy?”

Her eyes won’t leave me, and I shift in my seat, nodding as I stare at the picture frames she has on her desk. I remember seeing them the other night. Pictures of her family.