Punk 57

No, Misha knows me. He’s the only one who knows the real me. He won’t care what I look like.

I pull the collar of my shirt away from my body and dip my nose in, sniffing. I shower twice a day—at night because I usually get sweaty at cheer and swim and in the morning after my workouts—but I didn’t have one yet today.

Smells fine, I guess. Although my sister did say once that you can’t smell yourself.

I bring up my hand and rap on the door several times. Then I see a doorbell to the right. Dammit, I should’ve rung that.

It doesn’t matter. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging myself, and shift on my feet as I bow my head and close my eyes.

Misha, Misha, Misha, where are you?

I hear the door open, and my heart skips a beat.

“Yes?” someone says.

I blink up and immediately relax a little, taking in a little more air. It’s a man, much older than Misha would be, with graying dark hair and green eyes. His dad?

He’s wearing a dark blue robe, tied over a full set of pajamas, and embarrassment warms my cheeks. It’s a Saturday morning. Maybe he just woke up.

“Uh, hi,” I finally say, unfolding and then folding my arms again. “Is, uh…Misha here? By any chance?”

I see his back straighten a little, as if on guard. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t,” he replies quietly.

He isn’t. So he lives he

re. This is his house. I don’t know why having that confirmed fills me with dread and excitement at the same time.

And this guy must be his father.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask as politely as I can. “I’m a friend of his.”

His chest rises with a heavy breath and his gaze falls. I notice his cheeks look sunken, and he has bags under his eyes, as if he’s sick or tired or something.

“If you’re a friend, I’m sure you can call him and find out,” he says.

I falter. Yeah, if I were his friend, why wouldn’t I have his cell number?

Maybe he knows who Ryen is. Maybe I should tell him who I am.

“Would you like to leave a message?” he prompts, starting to inch back and preparing to close the door.

“No,” I rush out. “Thank you, sir.”

He nods and swings the door closed.

But I shoot my hand out, stopping him. “Sir?” He looks up, stopping. “Is he okay?” I ask. “I just… I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

His father is silent for a moment, watching me, before answering with a resolute tone. “He’s fine.”

And then he closes the door, and I stand on the front step, frozen and confused.

What does that mean?

I guess I should be happy, right? He’s fine, isn’t he?

He lives here. His father says he’s not home right now, which means he’s home sometimes, so he hasn’t moved or died or joined the Army.

But I don’t feel happy.