Punk 57

I sit in the front seat, pulling my hair over my shoulder and smoothing it down. After we finished, he climbed in the front and drove us out of the drive-in, while I stayed hidden in the back, getting dressed.

I chew on the corner of my mouth, worry setting in. The truck was definitely moving.

Anyone could’ve seen me climbing in before that, and everyone knows it’s his truck. Not to mention, he’s being quiet now, driving and not even looking at me.

Typical guy. Say all the things you need to get into her pants, but all those strong feelings and hot whispers fade when you get what you want, doesn’t it?

Whatever.

I fasten my seatbelt. The drive-in is behind us and the road ahead dark and empty. “I left my purse in Lyla’s car,” I say more to myself. “I’ll have to make up something for why I left and how I got home.”

“Well, good thing lying’s not hard for you.”

I shoot him a nasty look. But then I see him give me a joking smile, and I immediately relax a little.

Maybe I don’t need to lie at all. Just tell her I let Masen Laurent take me home. What could happen?

I catch sight of the screen on the radio, seeing the name of the song playing from the iPod, and break out in a smile, turning it up.

Masen glances over at me, probably wondering why I look happy. “What?”

I gesture to the radio where Eminem’s “Without Me” is playing. “I have a friend. He hates my taste in music,” I tell him. “I sent him this song once. It led to a life-long argument that still hasn’t been settled.”

“He?”

I lean back in my seat. “In elementary school, our teachers set us up as pen pals,” I explain. “When the school year ended, though, we just kept writing, and we haven’t stopped. He lives in Thunder Bay, but we’ve never met.”

Masen stares at the road ahead, his chest rising and falling steadily. He’s not jealous, is he? Misha and I aren’t like that.

“Do you tell him everything?” he asks, still not looking at me.

I narrow my eyes on him. Maybe he suspects Misha is important to me.

Or maybe he wonders if my pen pal is more important than him.

The truth is, Misha is irreplaceable. But even with him, I don’t say everything.

I turn my head to look at the window. “I tell him more than I tell anyone else.”

“Do you lie to him?”

“Yes,” I reply honestly. “He gets the version of me I want to be.”

For some reason, I feel no shame in admitting that to Masen. With my mom, my sister, my teachers, and my friends, I feel like I’m judged. Like there’s something I need to live up to.

Even with Misha, I feel guilt for never putting my money where my mouth is and hoping he never finds out how awful I can be sometimes. I want him to think the best of me.

But with Masen, I almost feel like nothing I could do could make him want me less. Like my imperfections entertain him, my issues complement his issues, and two negatives make a positive, and all that.

“Are you going to write to him and tell him about tonight?”

I turn to him, a slight smile on my face. “Probably. Would you care?”

He shakes his head, watching the road.

“You wouldn’t be jealous?”

“You’ll need your friends,” he replies.

I arch a brow. What the hell does that mean?

He pulls into my driveway and follows the circle around to the front door and stops. I unfasten my seatbelt and glance at his right hand sitting on his lap. Not even a half hour ago that hand was on my ass.

No one knows how this feels.

I close my eyes, feeling lonely now. Why is he being so distant? I’m not dumb enough to think we’re a couple now—I never have unrealistic expectations when it comes to people—but this is awkward. His vibe sucks, like tonight was a mistake or something, and it hurts a little.

Not that I’d ever admit that to him.

“Well…” I sigh, opening the door. “I guess I’ll see you.”

I climb out and slam the door behind me, walking toward my house. I hear another door slam shut, and I turn around to see Masen jogging toward me.

I stop.

He touches my face, coming in close and looking down at me.

“What’s his name?”

“Who?”

He hovers close, his lips an inch from mine. “Your pen pal.”

His breath lingers on my lips, and I open my mouth just a little in anticipation for him. God, he smells good.

“Misha,” I whisper.

He kisses me, his lips sinking into mine as I close my eyes.

“What was that?” he teases, nibbling my lips. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Misha,” I gasp before diving into him and brushing his tongue with mine. I press my body into his, feeling the bulge in his jeans rubbing me.

He finally pulls away, breathless and turned on again, just like at the drive-in.

“Thank you.” He kisses me one last time on the lips and turns around, heading back to his truck.

What the hell?

I watch, confused again, as he starts the engine and drives away, his taillights glowing in the darkness as he pulls out onto the street.

I know him very little, but after every encounter, I feel like I know him less.

I didn’t see Masen all weekend. Saturday came and went. My friends and I spent all day on the football field, orientating the incoming freshman cheerleaders for the next school year, and Sunday I was locked in my room, playing music, doing homework, and writing Misha.

Three letters.

Two of them were just full of boring, stupid crap, and the third—the one about Masen—I crumpled up and threw away. I’m not sure why. I don’t even know why I wrote it in the first place.

Walking down the hallway at school Monday morning, I stop at my locker and start to key in the combination, but I see black writing on the front, and I stop.

Anything to not need you,

Anything to not fall for you,

Anything to look at a girl who’s not you,

But baby, there’s nothing but you.

I smile. Masen.

At least I hope he’s the culprit. My cheeks warm, hating how happy that just made me. Why does it feel so good to know he was thinking about me this weekend when he snuck in to write it?

I try to force away the grin, but it pulls at me still as I open my locker and stuff in my bag, taking out what I need for the morning.

I walk to Art and enter the room, immediately shooting my eyes over to his seat and relieved to see him sitting there. I don’t know why, but I’m afraid any moment could be the last I see him.

He talks to Manny seated next to him, and as usual, he either doesn’t notice me or acts like he doesn’t.

I walk up to my table and turn to set my materials down, but someone bumps into me, and I lurch forward.

“Sorry,” a deep voice says, and something is shoved into my hand.

I straighten and turn my head, seeing Masen brush past me and head to the front of the room, smirking back at me as he tosses his gum into the trash can.

I curl my fingers around the small piece of paper and sit down, acting like nothing happened. He returns and takes his seat again, resuming his conversation with Manny.

I hold the paper in my lap and look down, unfolding it and reading it.

I can’t wait to kiss you.

Tingles spread underneath my skin, and I stuff the paper into my pocket, trying to appear like romantic crap like that doesn’t do it for me. Nope. Not at all.

And I totally didn’t replay the drive-in in my head a thousand times this weekend, remembering how awesome his kisses really are.

But then I look up and see Trey walking into the classroom.

My stomach sinks. I was looking forward to having Masen close, but Trey’s the rain on the parade again. I should just cut him loose.

“I think you really like art,” I say as he pulls out the chair next to me. “People will start talking.”

“They’ll forgive me when they find out I only sit here to look down your shirt.” He rests a hand on my chair behind me and lets his eyes fall to my loose T-shirt. He can’t see down the top, but a sliver of my belly is showing at the bottom, right above my tight jeans. “You’re a nice view.”

“Yeah, okay—”

But I stop, hearing a scratching sound. I turn my head, seeing Masen rotate a protractor in one hand, the sharp needle digging into the wooden table and slowly slicing a circle as he grinds it. I dart my eyes up to his face, seeing that he’s focused ahead, but when I look back down, I notice the black finish of the table is now marred, revealing the tan wood underneath.

I feel a smile pull at my lips. He’s not happy.

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, changing 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.

I suck.

“It’s an album cover,” I tell him. “That friend I told you about? Misha? He writes music. I was making him a surprise for graduation.”

His eyes narrow on it, and his breathing turns fast and shallow.

“What?”

He turns away, blinking rapidly. “Nothing.”

I let out a sigh and turn back to my work. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I might lie a lot, but at least I say something.

I reach into my bag and pull out a granola bar, tossing it in front of him before I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

It’s only eight o’clock in the morning, and I think I’ve already had enough boys for one day.

Squeezing out the packet into the cup, I replace the plastic lid and shake the salad inside. The Caesar dressing mixes and coats the contents, and I grab a plastic fork and a bottle of water, moving down the cafeteria line to the cashier.

“You’re eating?” Lyla steps up next me and reaches over, taking a cup of fruit.

“Yeah.” I hand my lunch card to the cashier, and she swipes it. “Spring fever. Might as well eat. I can’t concentrate on schoolwork today.”

Or at least not at school. My mind is on Masen all the time. Is he here? Is he close? Is he going to push me into a classroom, touch me, and kiss the daylights out of me?

Please. God. Yes?

“You know, I should tell you,” Lyla says, giving the cashier some money. “You leaving the drive-in with Masen Friday night was pretty shitty.”

I stop and turn my eyes on her, my heart catching in my throat. I don’t really care if she knows I left with him, but does she know what we were doing in his truck at the drive-in?

She smiles sarcastically. “Him pulling out of the drive-in right in the middle of a movie, and you nowhere to be found? It wasn’t hard to figure out, and I’m willing to bet Trey’s figured it out, too.”

I exhale, relaxing a little. Okay, she doesn’t know much else then.

“You know what?” I say. “You actually shouldn’t tell me anything. You didn’t see me leave with him, you have no clue what’s going on between us, if anything, and you’ve given more guys a ride than a bus. When you’re perfect, then we’ll talk. Got it?”

Her eyes flare, shooting me a nasty look as she opens her mouth to speak again.

But I cut her off. “You’re done,” I tell her. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

I turn around, but I see Trey and J.D. approach and stop.

Son of a…

“You wanna have some fun?” Trey comes in, placing his hands on my hips.

What? I breathe out a laugh, a little exasperated. I can’t keep up with the intrigues right now.

But I blink, trying to focus myself again and find my quick wit. “Sure.” I give in. “I was wondering when you’d start getting interesting.”

J.D. laughs, and Trey cocks an eyebrow, half-amused and half looking like he wants to teach me how to keep my mouth shut.

“Laurent can’t seem to take his eyes off you,” he says.

He turns his head over his shoulder, and I follow his gaze, finding Masen sitting at a table full of the worst delinquents in school. He leans back, his long legs stretched out, and his hands locked behind his head, laughing with the guy he’s talking to.

“So?” I look back at Trey.

“So I think he wants you,” he answers. “I want you to use that for me.”

And then he leans in, holding the other side of my face and whispering into my ear. “Get him to come to my house next week for the party.”

I pinch my eyebrows together, vaguely remembering him mentioning his parents being out of town soon. And he wants me to bring Masen. So you can do what? Beat him up after I’ve lured him into the trap like in that 80’s movie?

Yeah, no.

Trey pulls away, and I force my tone even. “That doesn’t sound like any fun to me.”

Trey hoods his eyes, clearly getting aggravated with my lack of cooperation. He turns to Lyla, giving her a sexy smile. “Lyla, baby,” he says, and I see J.D. tense. “You got some balls, don’t you?”

Lyla grins back coyly, and I shake my head.

If I don’t do what he wants, Lyla will. I catch J.D.’s sneer shoot between Trey and Lyla, and then to me before he looks away.

I heave a sigh. “Masen’s not stupid, Trey. He’ll see right through her.”

I shove my salad at Lyla and brush past the boys, walking toward Masen’s table.

Stepping up, I stop next to him. All of his buddies cease their conversation and look at me, but Masen doesn’t spare me a glance.

“Hey.” I put my hand on my hip, knowing he’s aware of me.

A smile curls Masen’s lips, and his friends’ eager glances dart between him and me.

“Princess,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

Oh, please. I slide in between him and the table, hopping up and planting my hands behind me, leaning back a little, well-aware my shirt is riding up as his eyes flash to my stomach.

A few snorts sound off from his friends, and I taunt him with my eyes.

“Your prom date’s watching,” he says.

“He sent me,” I reply. “He seems to think you’ll let me bring you to one of his parties.”

I hear a few mumbles around the table, while Masen simply looks amused. We both know what Trey has in store, and I can feel my own friends watching us.

“You don’t want your friends thinking you’re a chicken, do you?” I play.

Masen’s smile widens, and he glances to his side, probably seeing if Trey is paying attention.

Not that either of us probably care. I kind of like this game. No one would believe we’re actually into each other. I can play them as long as we’re not playing each other.

He looks up at me and slides his hands under my knees, pulling me off the table and slowly lowering me into his lap, straddling him. Quiet laughter sounds off around the table and a need is suddenly building between my legs.

Leaning into him, chest to chest, I whisper in his ear. “I don’t want you to go,” I admit. “He won’t be alone.”

“Why do you care?” he speaks low, keeping his tone flat. “You’re still taking Machismo-Dick to prom, aren’t you?”

“Has anyone else asked me?”

“Would you say yes?”

I brush his ear with my nose, feeling his soft skin there. “Ask and find out.”

“Trevarrow!”

I jerk, hearing my name called. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s the principal. Great. I move to get off his lap, but he presses his hands down on my thighs, keeping me there.

“Masen,” I urge. He’s going to get me in trouble. In public.

“Get off his lap,” Principal Burrowes orders me. “Now.”

I put my hands on Masen’s shoulders, moving to get up, but he grips my hips again, keeping me down.

“She gets off my dick when I tell her to get off,” he tells the principal.

My mouth falls open, and I widen my eyes. What the fuck?

Burrowes’ expression turns furious, and I hear various laughs and snorts around the table behind me.

“I beg your pardon?” she exclaims.

But Masen just leans into my ear. “I’ll see you later.”

And then he stands, carefully letting me slide off his lap and onto my feet.

He doesn’t spare anyone a second glance and walks out of the lunchroom with Burrowes’ heels clacking after him.

Somehow, though, I doubt she’s going to be able to stop him.