Misha never wrote me as much as I wrote him. I’d never really thought about that until now.
I snatch the letter out of the mailbox, crumple it up in my fists, and toss it on top of the pile in the garbage can. Screw him.
I charge back toward my Jeep, my heart starting to race as the fresh dew on the grass wets my feet through my sandals.
But then I stop, feeling a wave of loss wash over me. No. It’s not pathetic. Misha wouldn’t want me to stop writing him. He made me promise. I need you, you know that, right? he’d said. Tell me we’ll always have this. Tell me you won’t stop. That was in one of his rare letters where I got a glimpse of everything he keeps hidden. He’d seemed afraid and vulnerable, and so I promised him. Why would I ever stop? I never want to lose him.
Misha.
I swing around and jog back to the garbage can, digging the crumpled envelope out and straightening it again. I flatten it as much as I can and stick it back in the mailbox, shutting the lid.
Without giving myself time to dwell on it, I hop in my car and drive to school. It’s almost May, and even though it’s a bit chilly, I brave it in my shorts and thin blouse, knowing the afternoon will be warmer. With ten minutes to spare, I park in the lot, seeing crowds of students milling about as I walk up the sidewalk to the front entrance.
Music plays from phones, people text, and I feel an arm snake around me, a familiar scent hitting my nose. Ten wears Jean Paul Gaultier cologne every day, and I love it. It makes my stomach somersault.
“What’s this,” he asks, lifting up my right hand.
I look down, seeing blue paint on my index finger and a little under my nail.
Shit.
I pull my hand away, my heart picking up pace. “It’s nothing. My mom is painting the bathroom, and I helped,” I tell him.
Curling my fingers into a fist, I hide my finger under the strap of my bag. I guess I need to wash in the shower a lot better at night.
“Look.” He gestures to my right.
I turn my head, seeing people circle around the lawn, and we both drift over to the edge of the sidewalk, reading the huge message, in big, silver letters, spray-painted on the grass.
Lyla got lost, got her salad tossed
In the men’s locker room last night.
Someone was in awe, fucking her raw,
But who could it be? It wasn’t J.D.
“Oh, shit,” Ten whispers, surprise heavy in his voice.
I stare at the words on the lawn, my mouth going dry with a sudden urge to laugh.
Uh, okay. Who the hell…?
Students crowd around, gasping and laughing, some taking pictures, while Ten and I back away.
“That’s the first time he ever got personal by naming names,” Ten says.
“Who?”
“Punk,” he answers as if I should know. “Now we know it’s someone who goes to school here. Someone who knows us.”
I groan inwardly. Yeah, but “Punk” always signs their messages. This is getting out of hand.
I hear a noise and look up to see one of the janitors rolling a pressure washer outside and trying to maneuver it down the stairs.
“Let’s go,” I tell Ten.
We walk into school and pass groups of students surrounding more messages on the walls, these ones signed.
You kissed my hair while sticking me in the heart.
But your house will break before I fall apart.
-Punk
I see a couple of girls take out pens and add more under the lines, dissing old boyfriends and writing things like, Yeah, Jake.
I hold back my laugh.
“This is killing me,” Ten exclaims as we make our way to our lockers. “I want to know who Punk is, and I want in.”
I snort. Leave it to Ten. Of course Lyla is our friend, but Ten knows as well as I do that what’s written on the lawn isn’t a lie, and I’m sure he’s excited to see the showdown with J.D.
“I’ve got to hunt that bitch down and find out who she was in the locker room with,” Ten says as he stops in front of his locker.
I keep walking, calling over my shoulder, “See you at lunch.”
I’m sure no one will discover whom Lyla was messing around with last night. She probably won’t even admit it’s true.
Coming up in front of my new locker, I key in the combination and open it, glancing to my left and noticing another janitor scrubbing away another message on the wall. He’s erased the first few words already, but I know what it says.
You loved me, we were besties, I lent you my eye shadow.
But someday all you’ll be is someone I used to know.
-Punk
And underneath is a collage of ripped-out yearbook pictures from last year, showing sports teams and groups of students smiling at rallies and games, hugging and laughing with each other.
I hang up my bag in my locker and take out the travel size nail polish remover from the shelf. Glancing around to make sure no one is looking, I walk over and hold it in front of Mr. Thompson, the janitor.
“Nail polish remover will take off anything,” I suggest, seeing his face sweaty and red from the exertion of scrubbing so hard.
He pinches his eyebrows together, probably taken aback by my being nice for once. Not that I’ve ever talked to him, but I may have missed the trash can a few times when tossing away my Starbucks cups. But he accepts the bottle, nodding in thanks.
Luckily nothing used to write on the walls is permanent, but it’s still a hassle for the cleaning staff. Not that I care, but…
I turn to go back to my locker, but my eyes instantly lock with Masen’s, and I pause. He’s leaning against the lockers across the hall, watching me with his arms crossed over his chest and a curious expression in his eyes.