Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

I learned a long time ago that you don’t need to reveal everything inside of you to the people around you. They like to judge, and I’m happier when they don’t. Some things stay hidden.

Ryen. The beautiful, perfect girl who’s so different from all the others. I run my hand over my forehead and through my hair, my throat tightening into a knot and my eyes burning. Fuck. I put the pen to the paper and scrawl what my goddamn heart can only whisper. I miss you every day, I write. You’re my favorite place.

And then when I found out she was popular, not an outcast, and a cardboard cutout, not at all original, I became angry. She led me to believe those things, and my muse was a lie. Until yesterday in the parking lot when I bit and she bit back. That’s my Ryen. And I want to see more.

In fact, it’s almost like she’s lost interest, because she told me that foreplay is overrated in a letter once. I told her I might consider that a challenge. After all, seven years of writing letters is epic foreplay, and she’s addicted.

Making sure the girl who got out a few minutes ago is tucked back inside, down deep.

Eventually we all have to weigh what we want more: wanting back what we had or wanting what could be. To stay or to risk everything to move forward.

She can say the nastiest things, but if I see fear or sadness in her eyes, I’m done for.

Guilt, because she still doesn’t know who I am, and I’ve just dug myself in deeper. Longing, because I miss her. I miss talking to her as me. Lust greater than I’ve ever known, because when we’re like this, it’s the only time she softens and changes and gives me an inch, and it’s a need that’s in my head just as much as my body. It keeps me on my toes. And something else growing that I don’t want to be there. Something that might make it very hard to leave her. And impossible to forget her.

And I know right then and there I want to be the only girl he ever looks at like that.

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 won’t let anything happen to you. You’re my tribe, Ryen.”

“You’re beautiful and smart, and you have this fire in you that I’m addicted to.”

He’s taught me that who I am when I’m with him feels too good to sacrifice for the approval of everyone else. The way I dress, the guys I talk to, the games I play . . . it’s all plastic, and when I’m with him, I’m gold.

Those letters are everything. They’re her and me, kids just trying to figure themselves out and going through all our growing pains. They’re where I first started to fall for her and need her. They’re my fucking songs and a part of me.

We kept writing because we needed each other, because we made the other one’s life better. But even after knowing her for years, it took no time for me to break what we had. We were perfect for each other. Until we met.

But Will just smiles at me. “Getting arrested is a Thunder Bay boy’s rite of passage,” he jokes, beaming with pride. I roll my eyes. Will’s two friends, Michael Crist and Kai Mori, stand behind him, looking amused.

“I can’t believe I wrote you this much,” I say, a little horrified. “You must’ve been so bored with me.” “I adored you.”

“That was the day I became this. When I started to believe that a hundred people’s fickle adoration was worth more than one person’s love. And for a while it felt kind of good.” Tears stream down my face. “I was lost in the novelty of it. Being mean, slipping in a quick insult, making a joke of others and of my teachers . . . I felt respected. Adored. My new skin suited me.” And then more images creep in, still so vivid after all this time. “But months later, when I’d see Delilah playing alone, being laughed at, not having anywhere to belong . . . I started to hate that skin I was so comfortable in. The skin of a fake and shallow coward.”

“We’re all ugly, Ryen. The only difference is, some hide it and some wear it.”

No one does you better than you. You can’t be replaced. Not everyone will see that, but only you need to.”

“Everywhere?” he whispers. I nod. I’m his. All of me. I want him all over me.

“Life is fifty wrong turns down a bumpy road. All you can hope is that you end up somewhere nice.”

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.