Punk 57

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 find 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 finding 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.