Punk 57

FYI, your mom wouldn’t date your dad if she could make that choice again.

-Punk

And everyone laughs.

But the next day, I heard, several parents called the school, because their sons and daughters had given them the third degree to see if it was true.

The messages are never signed, and they’re never directed to anyone in particular, but they’ve become anticipated. Who is he? What will he write next? How is he doing it without being seen?

And they all assume it’s a “he” and not a “she” even though there’s no proof it’s one or the other.

But the mystery buzzes around school, and I’m pretty sure attendance is up just so no one misses what happens next.

Strolling up to my locker, I drop my bag to the ground, pulling in a long breath. The sudden weight on my chest makes it a struggle to inhale as I twist the dial on the lock, keying in the combination.

My head falls forward, but I snap it back up.

Shit.

Opening the door, shielding myself for all the eyes around me, I reach under my skirt, under the tight elastic of my spandex shorts, and grab my inhaler.

“Hey, can I borrow your suede skirt today?”

I jump, releasing my inhaler, and pulling my hand out.

Lyla stands to my left while Katelyn and Mel hover at my right.

Picking up my backpack, I dig out my books from last night and load them into my locker. “You mean the expensive one that I sold half my closet to a consignment shop to pay for?” I ask, shoving my books onto the shelf. “Not a chance.”

“I’ll tell your mom about all the clothes you hide in your locker.”

“And I’ll tell your mom about all the times you weren’t actually sleeping at my house for the night,” I retort, smiling as I place my bag on the hook in my locker and look to Katelyn and Mel.

The other girls laugh, and I turn back to my locker, retrieving my Art notebook and English text for my first two classes.

“Please?” she begs. “My legs look so good in it.”

I pull in a breath with everything I have, the struggle to fill my lungs growing like there’s a thousand pounds sitting on my chest.

Fine. Whatever. Anything to get her out of here. I reach into my locker and pull out the skirt hanging on a plastic hook I’d stuck in the back.

I toss the smooth, tan fabric at her. “Don’t have sex in it.”

She smiles gleefully, fanning out the skirt to have another look at it. “Thank you.”

I grab my small bag, filled with drawing pencils, and my phone.

“What do you have right now?” Lyla asks, folding the skirt over her arm. “Art?”

I nod.

“I don’t understand how you can’t get out of that. I know you hate it.”

I close my locker, hearing the bell ring and seeing everyone around us start to hustle. “It’s almost the end of the year. I’ll live.”

“Mmm,” she replies absently, probably having not heard me. “Alright, let’s go.” She jerks her chin to Mel and Katelyn and then looks to me as she backs away. “See you at lunch, okay? And thank you.”

All three of them disappear down the hallway, lost in the throng of bodies as they head for Spanish, their first class of the day. Everyone flits about, rushing upstairs, slamming lockers, and diving into classrooms…and I feel the ache in my chest start to spread. My stomach burns from the strain of trying to breathe, and I make my way down the hallway, my shoulder brushing the lockers for support.