Punk 57

Good. If he wants me to find a new prom date, then he can man up and ask me.

“Well, then,” I continue, pushing the envelope and looking to Trey but talking loud enough for Masen to hear. “You should see my prom dress. You’re going to love it.”

“Can’t wait.” He grins back.

I open my sketch book and continue working on my project while Ms. Till starts drifting around the room to check on students and how they’re coming along.

“Hey, Manny.” I hear Trey call in a whisper. “You won’t have your guard dog in P.E. today.”

I hood my eyes, agitated. Manny remains still, shrinking almost entirely from view on Masen’s other side.

“You see, Laurent?” Trey calls over my head to Masen. “You can’t watch him all the time.”

I continue hearing the scratching of the protractor and look up, scanning the room. Till needs to get Trey out of here. Masen attacking him won’t go unpunished if it happens again.

“When you sucker punch someone, that shit doesn’t go un-checked,” Trey threatens, “so don’t turn your back, either. I won’t be alone next time.”

“Jesus, I’m bored,” I mumble at Trey. “Go to Chemistry, would you?”

He arches a brow.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” I say, pushing him to take the hint. “I have to work now.”

He snorts like he’s wondering what possible “work” I could have to do in Art. He finally rolls his eyes and gives me a peck on the cheek, getting up and walking out of the classroom.

I reach down, pretending to get something out of my bag as I whisper to Masen. “Tell me you’re jealous.”

I say the same words to him as he said to me at the drive-in. I don’t want to go to prom with Trey. I don’t want to even talk to Trey.

But Masen has given me nothing, and I’m not putting my life on hold in the meantime.

“Tell me I’m yours,” I say.

He lets the protractor fall to the table and looks down, keeping silent.

My jaw aches, and I feel tears sting the backs of my eyes. “I feel like you’re going to disappear any minute. Like you’re not really real.”

“I’ll tell you everything,” he whispers back. “I promise. Just not yet.”

I wipe away the wet at the corner of my eye and clear my throat. I like Masen. A lot. But he has no roots here, and once the year ends, nothing is keeping him here. I’m nervous.

A low growl catches my attention, and I turn my head, realizing it’s coming from Masen’s stomach. He shifts in his seat, looking a little embarrassed.

“Have you eaten today?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “I just didn’t feel like gas station food again.”

I watch him, the realization of his situation hitting me. Does he just go to the Cove after he leaves here? Is he alone all the time? How much money could he possibly have to eat and get gas and do laundry?

Sadness creeps in. No one’s taking care of him.

He must sense me watching him, because he jerks his chin at my drawing, cha

nging the subject.

“What is that?”

I swallow, gazing down at my third try at the coal sketch which looks more like a Rorschach ink blot.