Punk 57
“This was not the kind of fun I was thinking of when you guys suggested the Cove,” Lyla whines, side-stepping the small pools of water.
I turn back around, ignoring my fear as I rush up the steps. “Yeah, well, don’t worry,” I mumble just loud enough for them to hear. “The backseat of J.D.’s car isn’t far away.”
“Hell yeah.” J.D. chuckles.
And I resist the urge for one more glance back down the dark tunnel.
I climb the stairs, still feeling eyes on me.
“Let’s go, ladies!” Coach pounds her fist on the lockers twice as she passes by. The girls giggle and whisper around me, and I comb my fingers through my hair, sweeping it up into a messy ponytail.
“Yeah, I hear they’re installing cameras,” Katelyn Stephens says to a group as she sits on the bench. “They’re hoping to catch him red-handed.”
I roll on some deodorant and toss the container back into my gym bag before checking my lip gloss in the mirror on the locker door.
Cameras, huh? In the school?
Good to know.
I pull the top of my cheerleading uniform down over my head, covering my bra, and smooth my shirt and skirt down. We’re recruiting new team members, since so many of us are graduating soon, so Coach has been asking us to wear our uniforms to school some days to hopefully get more freshman interested.
“I was wondering what their next move was going to be,” another girl chimes in. “He keeps getting past them.”
“And I, for one, hopes he keeps it up.” Lyla adds. “Did you see what he wrote this morning?”
Everyone falls silent, and I know exactly what they’re looking at. I turn my head, glancing to the wall, right over the doorway to the gym teachers’ offices. Flapping ever so gently from the AC blowing out of the vent is a large piece of white butcher paper taped haphazardly to the wall.
I smile to myself, my heartbeat picking up pace, and turn back to finish getting ready.
“Don’t knock masturbation,” Mel Long says, reciting the message we all saw laying behind the butcher paper before morning practice a while ago, “it’s sex with someone I love.”
And everyone starts laughing. I bet they don’t even know it’s a Woody Allen quote.
They discovered the graffiti this morning, here in the girls’ locker room this time, and while the teachers covered it up with paper, everyone saw what was behind it.
The school has been vandalized twenty-two times in the last month, and today makes twenty-three.
At first, it was slow—one occurrence here and there—but now it’s more frequent, nearly every day, and sometimes several times a day. As if “the little punk,” as he or she has come to be known, has developed a taste for breaking into the school at night and leaving random messages on the walls.
“Well,” I say, hooking my bag over my shoulder and slamming my locker door shut. “With the cameras going in all the hallways and covering every entrance soon, I’m sure he or she will either wise up and quit, or get caught. Their days are numbered.”
“I hope he gets caught,” Katelyn says, excitement in her eyes. “I want to know who it is.”
“Boo.” Lyla pouts. “That’s no fun.”
I twist around and head out of the locker room. Yeah, of course it’s no fun if Punk gets caught. No one knows what to expect when they come to school in the morning, and it’s gotten to the point where the first thing on everyone’s agenda is to look for whatever m
essage the vandal has left. They think the intrigue is fun, and while they’re curious, Falcon’s Well would be just a little bit more tedious without the mystery.
Sometimes the messages are serious.
I polish up my sheen, but you can’t shine shit.
-Punk
And then everyone is quiet, visibly brushing off the cryptic message as if it’s nothing, but you know it’s in their heads all day, a thought without a leash.
And then sometimes it’s comical.