Punk 57

He can’t be here. I can’t do this. Tears spring to my eyes.

But then someone standing in the aisle suddenly turns toward me, and something wet and orange slams into me, covering my hands and T-shirt.

“Ugh!” I growl, inspecting my hands and clothes.

Manny Cortez scurries backward, taking his freshly-painted clay bowl with him. “I’m sorry!” he exclaims, looking scared.

“You’re gonna be,” I threaten, pointing behind him. “The kiln’s that way, moron. Do you need a map?”

He winces, his eyes dropping as others around him laugh. My stomach rolls, and I grind my teeth together to hold back the sob as I push past him and charge toward my seat in the back.

He walks away, diving into the supply room.

Dropping my bag, I sit in my seat and pull out my sketch pad and pencils. Misha’s presence is heavy next to me.

“Yeah, I know,” I bite out, not looking at him. “I’m a vile bitch, right?”

“No,” he says quietly, staring ahead. “Just weak and stupid. And I’d tear you apart in front of this whole school if I wasn’t so sure you already feel like a pile of shit inside.”

I crack, my chin trembling.

“Alright, let’s get started!” Ms. Till says.

But my stomach is shaking with sobs I can’t let out. He’s right. This is who I am.

And we both know it.

“Ryen, are you ready to talk about your project and where you are on it?” Till asks.

But I just pick at my thumbnail as my hands rest on the desk in front of me. Everything on the table is turning blurry.

I lashed out at Manny because he’s an easy target. Because he’s weaker than me. Because he’s the only thing weaker than me. Everyone else sees through me, and Misha is disgusted by me. He hates me.

“Ryen?”

Who I am and how no one likes me isn’t Misha’s fault. I did this. I’m stupid, weak, and a waste.

I feel tears welling, and I choke on a sob. Reaching down, I grab my bag and hook it over my shoulder as I walk through the class, avoiding stares and hushed whispers as I leave the room.

“Ryen?”

But as soon as I hit the hallway, I let the tears loose and run to the bathroom.

“Where have you been?” Lyla charges as she walks up to my side in the lunch line. “You weren’t at practice this morning, and Ten said he saw you before first period, but then no one’s seen you since then. And rumor has it you broke down crying in Art?”

Her tone sounds disgusted, and I don’t spare her a look as I grab a salad shaker and a packet of dressing. I’m not hungry, and my limbs are tired and heavy, but I can’t hide out in the library anymore. I feel like I’m losing everything, and I need to stand the fuck up and get over it.

“Trey got in major trouble this weekend,” she says as if it’s my fault.

Well I guess it is, although she can’t know that.

“All of us, including the whole team,” she continues, “went to his house after the game Friday night. His stepmom went upstairs, came back down, and kicked everyone out.”

Her voice grates on my ears.

But she keeps pushing. “Which you might’ve known if you were ever around anymore.”

“I don’t care,” I grit out, turning to her, unable to control myself. “You got that? And I’m sick of you thinking that I should. Now leave me alone.”