Punk 57

A few giggles go off around me, and Misha breaks away from J.D., glaring at Trey and looking like he’s dying to make sure he never talks shit again. But instead, he twists around and takes my hand, leading us out of the cafeteria.

“Mr. Laurent!” the principal calls.

But Misha ignores her and pulls me into the men’s bathroom, wetting some paper towels and ringing them out.

He pushes me back against the sink and kneels down, lifting my foot and setting it on his thigh, slowly wiping the drying orange juice off my leg.

Pain springs to the back of my eyes, and I watch him, carefully and quietly taking care of me.

Wetting more paper towels, he moves to the other leg and then starts untying my socked shoes.

“Are we still friends?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Because I need Misha, not Masen.”

I was wrong last night. Everything is Misha. They’re not separate.

And I need my friend.

Holding my soiled Chucks, he stands up and takes my hand, still silent as he leads me out of the bathroom.

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

We don’t bother to look back, and I’ll probably be in trouble tomorrow, but no one and nothing could drag me away from him right now. I tighten my hold on his hand, ready to follow him anywhere. At least for today.

We drive for a long time, and we don’t speak. The music plays, the afternoon is overcast, and my eyelids are heavy, probably because Thursday night was the last time I slept well.

I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive him, but I want him. The smell of him, the sight of him, the feel of him… He doesn’t even have to touch me. Just being near him is soothing at the moment. Maybe I’m just vulnerable, but right now I don’t want to be anywhere else.

A sprinkle of rain starts as we pull into a driveway leading up to a house that’s shielded behind a wall of trees.

A flutter courses through my belly. “Your house?”

We’re in Thunder Bay? I didn’t think I was dazed out that long.

He pulls into the garage and turns off the engine. “Have you ever been here?”

I nod. “A couple weeks ago. You hadn’t written in so long, I needed make sure you were okay—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he cuts me off. “I should’ve written. You had every right to be worried.”

“Why did you stop?”

He smiles gently, opening his door and taking my shoes. “A story for a different day. But it didn’t have anything to do with you,” he assures.

“Your dad said you were fine.” I climb out of the truck and walk around, following him into the house.

“My dad doesn’t air dirty laundry. Did you tell him who you were?”

“Would he know me?”

“Of course,” he replies, entering what looks like a laundry room and tossing my shoes into the washer. “He’s seen your letters coming in for years.”

Yes, of course. If I’d told him, maybe I would’ve been invited into the house and seen a picture of Misha. And then I would’ve found out even sooner who he really was.

Misha comes over to me and pulls up the hem of my shirt, but I lock my arms down, looking at him.

“No one’s home,” he reassures me. “Let’s get your clothes in the wash. You can take a shower, and I’ll find you something to w