Punk 57

I hold up the can and look behind me, seeing Ten’s eyes damn-near bug out of his head.

“What?” he bursts out.

“You?” J.D. looks at me, shocked.

I meet Manny’s eyes, and I can see the wheels in his head turning. Maybe he realizes it was me who wrote the message on his locker that first time:

You’re not alone. It gets better.

You are important, and you can’t be replaced.

Hang on.

I fill them in on everything. How it started and how I justified it, but I also tell them what I still need to do tonight. One last time to make it count.

And since they all will have something to say about the subject, I thought they might want a hand in it. Especially since Ten already indicated he’d like a piece of the action, and J.D. has already participated once.

“So are you in?” I ask them.

“Hell, yeah,” J.D. replies.

I look at Manny, who remains silent. “You don’t have to.”

I’m not asking any of them to get in trouble. They can wait in the truck, or we can take them back to prom right now.

But he nods, indicating the can in my hand. “I want black.”

Alright. I dig in the bag, doling out cans and reminding them to stick to surfaces that can be easily cleaned. Stay away from screens, posters, artwork, and uniforms or clothes in the locker rooms.

We reach the school and park on the south side, slipping through the gate and running through the lot, up to the pool room.

I hand Misha my can and pluck my key out of my handbag.

“You have a key?” J.D. asks, surprised. “I can’t believe they never thought of questioning you before.”

Yes, I have a key. Often I’m the last one out of the pool, and this is my job. I’m entrusted to lock up this door.

“I’m Ryen Trevarrow,” I joke. “I’m a bubblehead with barely enough brain cells to breathe.”

Quiet chuckles go off around the group, and I unlock the door, hurrying everyone inside.

“How do you know no one will see it tomorrow and get rid of the paint before Monday?” Misha asks.

It’s Saturday night, so it’s possible.

But…

“Roofers will be here tomorrow to fix the leaks,” I explain. “Teachers are being asked to stay out of the building for safety.” I look around at all of them. “You know what to do?”

“Yep.”

“Absolutely.”

“Ready.”

Okay, then. “Let’s go.”

Monday morning, Misha and I walk into school, staring ahead as the storm whirls around us.