Punk 57

Anger boils under my skin as I watch her twist toward the mirror and mess with her bun. “Tell me again how that’s any of your business,” I snap, and I don’t care if our mom hears.

“Ryen, it’s pathetic,” she says, looking at me like I’m a child. “You look like you’re chasing him. When he gets his shit together, he can find you.”

I throw down the letter and g

rab my lipstick, facing the mirror again. “He’s not my boyfriend who needs to check in, and I don’t have to explain myself to you. Don’t touch my mail again.”

“Fine.” She turns and walks for the door but stops and turns her head to look at me. “Oh, and mom’s waiting for you at the kitchen table. She saw your essay score online.”

She walks out, and I close my eyes, entertaining the idea of taking a cue from Masen for a wonderful split-second.

Cannonball or washing machine, Carson? Maybe a haircut?

I walk out of my house and past my Jeep, holding the strap of my school bag over my shoulder as I carry my letter to Misha back to the mailbox. I stick it inside and raise the flag so the mail carrier knows to pick it up.

But then my eyes fall to the trash cans next to the mailbox, and I pause.

You look like you’re chasing him. It’s pathetic.

Pathetic.

I swallow the bitter lump in my throat.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not a priority anymore. Maybe he got a girlfriend, and she made him stop writing me. Maybe he got bored. His letters have been slowing down over the past couple of years, after all. I didn’t mind, because I also got busier in school, but still…

Misha never wrote me as much as I wrote him. I’d never really thought about that until now.

I snatch the letter out of the mailbox, crumple it up in my fists, and toss it on top of the pile in the garbage can. Screw him.

I charge back toward my Jeep, my heart starting to race as the fresh dew on the grass wets my feet through my sandals.

But then I stop, feeling a wave of loss wash over me. No. It’s not pathetic. Misha wouldn’t want me to stop writing him. He made me promise. I need you, you know that, right? he’d said. Tell me we’ll always have this. Tell me you won’t stop. That was in one of his rare letters where I got a glimpse of everything he keeps hidden. He’d seemed afraid and vulnerable, and so I promised him. Why would I ever stop? I never want to lose him.

Misha.

I swing around and jog back to the garbage can, digging the crumpled envelope out and straightening it again. I flatten it as much as I can and stick it back in the mailbox, shutting the lid.

Without giving myself time to dwell on it, I hop in my car and drive to school. It’s almost May, and even though it’s a bit chilly, I brave it in my shorts and thin blouse, knowing the afternoon will be warmer. With ten minutes to spare, I park in the lot, seeing crowds of students milling about as I walk up the sidewalk to the front entrance.

Music plays from phones, people text, and I feel an arm snake around me, a familiar scent hitting my nose. Ten wears Jean Paul Gaultier cologne every day, and I love it. It makes my stomach somersault.

“What’s this,” he asks, lifting up my right hand.

I look down, seeing blue paint on my index finger and a little under my nail.

Shit.

I pull my hand away, my heart picking up pace. “It’s nothing. My mom is painting the bathroom, and I helped,” I tell him.

Curling my fingers into a fist, I hide my finger under the strap of my bag. I guess I need to wash in the shower a lot better at night.

“Look.” He gestures to my right.

I turn my head, seeing people circle around the lawn, and we both drift over to the edge of the sidewalk, reading the huge message, in big, silver letters, spray-painted on the grass.

Lyla got lost, got her salad tossed

In the men’s locker room last night.