Punk 57

Her weak body sinks into me as her breathing starts to slow down and she’s taking in deeper breaths.

Dammit. She tried to tell me as we raced through the school, and I didn’t listen to her.

What would I have done if she’d dropped her bag somewhere, and I couldn’t find her medicine?

I hug her close, feeling, for the first time, how small she is in my arms. Ryen is always so large around me. Never backing down, her confidence always appearing larger than life.

I hold her head to my chest with the other hand and bury my nose in her hair.

“You’re okay,” I say gently. “I got you.”

“My heart won’t stop pounding,” she says, her fragile voice starting to come around.

“I know.” I smile. “I can feel it.”

The beat of her heart is hitting my chest, and I can feel her body slowly get stable as her breathing calms.

What am I going to do with this girl? Just when I think I have her figured out, she pulls at me a little more.

Just when I think I can’t stand her, and I can leave, never looking back, I turn right around and want to make sure nothing hurts her.

Her arms, hugged close to her body as I hold her, start to drop as she pulls away from me.

She raises her eyes, looking a little embarrassed and not saying anything as she kneels down, grabbing her backpack.

Standing up, she purses her lips and looks around.

The alarm stops, and I have no idea what’s happening out there—if they think we left out the door or what—but she’s not leaving yet.

“You don’t tell anyone about tonight, and I won’t tell anyone you were here, either,” she says. “Got it?”

She turns to leave, but I grab her hand. “I think people would enjoy this version of you.”

“My friends would hate me.”

“They already hate you. Everyone does.”

For a split-second, I see a frown cross her face, but it quickly disappears. She faces me, a light brown eyebrow arched in defiance.

“Why fake it?” I charge. “Why compete with people and play the games?”

She takes a step, trying to leave, but I pull her back. “Don’t walk away from me.”

“This is none of your business!” she whisper-yells, yanking her hand free and scowling at me. “You don’t know me.”

“Does anyone?”

She looks away, her eyes suddenly glistening. After a moment, she speaks, her voice low. “I don’t want to be alone,” she admits. “They may hate me, but they respect me. I can’t be invisible or laughed at or….” She trails off and then continues. “I don’t know why. I just never had the courage to stand apart. I always wanted to fit in.”

“Everyone wants to be accepted, Ryen.” Does she think no one’s ever had those same feelings? “Why do you write on the walls?”

She stands there, staring off and looking like she’s struggling to find words.

“Misha…” she says, trailing off again.

I tense, my heart picking up pace.

But then she shakes her head, letting the thought go. “It doesn’t matter. I just had ways to vent before, a way to be heard, and now I don’t. I just started doing it a couple of months ago.”