But then my eyes fall to the trash cans next to the mailbox, and I pause.
You look like you’re chasing him. It’s pathetic.
Pathetic.
I swallow the bitter lump in my throat.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not a priority anymore. Maybe he got a girlfriend, and she made him stop writing me. Maybe he got bored. His letters have been slowing down over the past couple of years, after all. I didn’t mind, because I also got busier in school, but still…
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.