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.

I will not wait my turn. He can’t have her.

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.

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

I smile a little. “And sometimes,” I keep going, snatching his lips in another kiss. “Sometimes I want to vomit on Lyla when I see her.”

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.

Admitting I like him makes me vulnerable, and that’s not usually a card I ever give up. Not anymore. Because, to be honest, I don’t just like him. It’s more than that. I think about him. I miss him when he’s not around. It’ll hurt if he has to leave as suddenly as he appeared. He’s quiet, and the heat of embarrassment blankets my skin. Awesome. Good going, Ryen. Maybe all he liked about you was that you weren’t clingy, and now you’re acting like you’re in love with him.

“You’re an incredible pain in the ass, but God, I love y—” He stops, and my breath catches in my throat. “It,” he finishes. “I love it. I can’t get enough. I think about you all the time.”

Misha, my best friend who got me into bed and fucked me with a lie. You have a friend, he’d said earlier. “No,” I whisper to myself, rage building as I slam my laptop closed and leave the room to get my sister’s car keys. I have no friends.

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.

“Yeah, I know,” I bite out, not looking at him. “I’m a vile bitch, right?” “No,” he says quietly, staring ahead. “Just weak and stupid. And I’d tear you apart in front of this whole school if I wasn’t so sure you already feel like a pile of shit inside.”

Remembering back, I was pretty hard on him. I mean, using an Android phone doesn’t make him an introverted burner who probably won’t ever have a job or a valid driver’s license at the same time. I didn’t mean that. And I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said when he called me a Steve Jobs cultist who worships inferior technology because I’m too much of a bubblehead high on apps to know the difference.

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

“Okay . . .” he says. “So what you do is hide in the dark to share words anonymously, because you want to be heard but not mocked. Is that it?” I open my eyes, thinking. Is that what I do? “You want to be loved without risking consequence, so you reach out to get the attention you need while enjoying the luxury of taking no responsibility for those words.” I start to shrink into myself. I don’t like what he’s saying or the fact that he’s saying it, but I can’t deny that he’s right. I don’t want to hear feedback, because if they knew it was me, their reactions would be different.

“Alone, empty, fraud, shame, fear,” he murmurs, holding me tighter. “Don’t you get it yet? You don’t have to be afraid or embarrassed. No one does you better than you. You can’t be replaced. Not everyone will see that, but only you need to.”

He hurt me, and I hurt him, but shit happens and love doesn’t change.

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

My arm muscles are sore, my neck hurts, I have bruises on my hips, and my ass . . . It was fun while it was going on last night, but after waking up this morning in pain everywhere, I told him we can’t do that again. He just retorted that my body wasn’t used to it, and we should do it more. Man, our fifth-grade teachers would be proud.

“I love you,” I say, my fingers tingling as my heartbeat picks up. His fingers grip my waist. “It’s about fucking time.”

“Okay, fine,” I snip. “But afterward, I have a favor to ask.” “Ask me now.” “Eh,” I cage. “I’ll tell you in the truck. It’s kind of illegal.”

She’s dressed in her skimpy sleep shorts, probably for Misha’s benefit, and I fantasize about putting vinegar in her mouthwash.

I feel the limo start moving, and I notice the inside is also silent. Looking up, I see Manny, Ten, and J.D. all staring at me. And then J.D. speaks up. “Who’s Misha?”

“I love you very much, and when we got married it was my hope that we’d be together forever,” he states, “but that mirror thing”—he points behind me to the wall design I just installed—“is pissing me off. I lose my equilibrium whenever I walk in here.” I turn around and break into a smile, looking at the array of mirrors installed on the walls, which reflect the mirrors on the opposite wall. Turning back to him, I lift my chin, nodding. “You’ll get used to it.” “You say that all the time,” he whines. “I put up with the gothic fireplace in our converted barn home in Thunder Bay, the sewing machine end tables, the fact that I have to walk through a wardrobe to get into the master bathroom, but this mirror thing . . .” He trails off, and I kiss his cheek. “It’s a conversation piece.” He levels me with an unamused look. I shake with laughter. “If you divorce me, we won’t still have sex.” He twists up his lips. “Yeah, I figured.”