Punk 57

Plain and simple: I didn’t fit in.

I had nothing in common with other kids around me and being limited to my small environment, I couldn’t find anyone I did have things in common with. I constantly felt like I didn’t belong. Like I was crashing a party and people were just waiting for me to get the hint and leave.

That was until I met you. We started hanging out and talked about everything. Every day at recess, we’d walk around the perimeter of the field and chat about stuff we had in common. You were kind and funny, you listened to me and didn’t make me feel pressured or awkward. I was glad to finally have a friend.

Until I started wondering why I didn’t have more.

We’d keep walking and talking, but sooner or later, my eyes would drift over to where everyone else was playing and laughing, and I’d start to feel left out again. What made them so special to be crowded with people? Why did they seem happier and a part of something better? What were they doing and how were they behaving that I wasn’t?

I came to the conclusion that I needed to see myself as better before I could be better. And by better, I mean popular. In putting myself on a pedestal with whatever nasty behavior I could, I believed I was elevating myself. And in a way, I guess I was. Being mean got those friends I thought I wanted.

Now, there’s nothing I can say that makes what I did to you alright. I know that. Even a kid knows how to be nice. But I wanted you to know that I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I regret what I did. It was the first act in a long line of acts that made me a very unhappy girl, and I see now how valuable one good friend truly is and how little those popular kids actually mean in the big, wide world.

I can’t change the past, but I will do better in the future.

I’m sorry if I bothered you. If you’re reading this and wondering why I dwelled on something that was perhaps so insignificant to you. Maybe you’re surrounded by a great life and tons of happiness, and I’m not even a memory.

But if I hurt you, I’m sorry. I want you to know that.

You were a good friend, and you deserved better. Thank you for being there for me when I needed you. I wish I’d done the same.

Love,

Ryen

If you’re reading this, then hopefully that means you finished the book. And if that’s the case, then I’m very glad.

Punk 57 was a different book to write, and a difficult one. We romance readers can be very hard on our heroines. We often see ourselves in those roles and compare their decisions to the decisions we would’ve made instead. We tend to judge them more harshly than we do the heroes, because we hold them to the same expectation we hold ourselves. This is why many heroines are often innocent, timid, and kind with good hearts. Seeing those women find their power is a fun journey. They’re easy to love.

Ryen, on the other hand, was not. Especially in the first few chapters.

Knowing this, of course I was very scared. I only hoped you’d stick with her long enough to see her come around and eventually be proud of her.

Ryen’s need for recognition, adoration, and inclusion echoes with us all. We see it all the time. No kid wants to be different. They want to belong, they desire the approval of others, and they, most often, aren’t yet mentally strong enough to be able to stand alone. As we get older, though, most of us develop that capability. We learn that nothing feels better than truly loving yourself, even if it means those around you do not. We joyously find that we just don’t give a damn anymore.

And it feels pretty great.

But most of us have done things—unfair things—in the name of self-preservation. That’s the story I wanted to tell. Ryen hating who she was, trying to be different and trying to find a way for people to finally see her, but then discovering that she hates herself even more. Lying to yourself never moves you forward.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for (hopefully) finishing the story. And to anyone out there who might’ve related to what some of the characters went through—just remember: it gets better, you are important, and you can’t be replaced.

Hang on. You’ll find your tribe.

Penelope Douglas

Anything goes when everyone knows

Where do you hide when their highs are your lows?

So much, so hard, so long, so tired,

Let them eat until you’re ground into nothing.

Don’t you worry your glossy little lips.

What they savor ‘ventually loses its flavor.

I wanna lick, while you still taste like you.