“Let’s go, ladies!” Coach pounds her fist on the lockers twice as she passes by. The girls giggle and whisper around me, and I comb my fingers through my hair, sweeping it up into a messy ponytail.
“Yeah, I hear they’re installing cameras,” Katelyn Stephens says to a group as she sits on the bench. “They’re hoping to catch him red-handed.”
I roll on some deodorant and toss the container back into my gym bag before checking my lip gloss in the mirror on the locker door.
Cameras, huh? In the school?
Good to know.
I pull the top of my cheerleading uniform down over my head, covering my bra, and smooth my shirt and skirt down. We’re recruiting new team members, since so many of us are graduating soon, so Coach has been asking us to wear our uniforms to school some days to hopefully get more freshman interested.
“I was wondering what their next move was going to be,” another girl chimes in. “He keeps getting past them.”
“And I, for one, hopes he keeps it up.” Lyla adds. “Did you see what he wrote this morning?”
Everyone falls silent, and I know exactly what they’re looking at. I turn my head, glancing to the wall, right over the doorway to the gym teachers’ offices. Flapping ever so gently from the AC blowing out of the vent is a large piece of white butcher paper taped haphazardly to the wall.
I smile to myself, my heartbeat picking up pace, and turn back to finish getting ready.
“Don’t knock masturbation,” Mel Long says, reciting the message we all saw laying behind the butcher paper before morning practice a while ago, “it’s sex with someone I love.”
And everyone starts laughing. I bet they don’t even know it’s a Woody Allen quote.
They discovered the graffiti this morning, here in the girls’ locker room this time, and while the teachers covered it up with paper, everyone saw what was behind it.
The school has been vandalized twenty-two times in the last month, and today makes twenty-three.
At first, it was slow—one occurrence here and there—but now it’s more frequent, nearly every day, and sometimes several times a day. As if “the little punk,” as he or she has come to be known, has developed a taste for breaking into the school at night and leaving random messages on the walls.
“Well,” I say, hooking my bag over my shoulder and slamming my locker door shut. “With the cameras going in all the hallways and covering every entrance soon, I’m sure he or she will either wise up and quit, or get caught. Their days are numbered.”
“I hope he gets caught,” Katelyn says, excitement in her eyes. “I want to know who it is.”
“Boo.” Lyla pouts. “That’s no fun.”
I twist around and head out of the locker room. Yeah, of course it’s no fun if Punk gets caught. No one knows what to expect when they come to school in the morning, and it’s gotten to the point where the first thing on everyone’s agenda is to look for whatever message the vandal has left. They think the intrigue is fun, and while they’re curious, Falcon’s Well would be just a little bit more tedious without the mystery.
Sometimes the messages are serious.
I polish up my sheen, but you can’t shine shit.
-Punk
And then everyone is quiet, visibly brushing off the cryptic message as if it’s nothing, but you know it’s in their heads all day, a thought without a leash.
And then sometimes it’s comical.
FYI, your mom wouldn’t date your dad if she could make that choice again.
-Punk
And everyone laughs.
But the next day, I heard, several parents called the school, because their sons and daughters had given them the third degree to see if it was true.
The messages are never signed, and they’re never directed to anyone in particular, but they’ve become anticipated. Who is he? What will he write next? How is he doing it without being seen?
And they all assume it’s a “he” and not a “she” even though there’s no proof it’s one or the other.
But the mystery buzzes around school, and I’m pretty sure attendance is up just so no one misses what happens next.
Strolling up to my locker, I drop my bag to the ground, pulling in a long breath. The sudden weight on my chest makes it a struggle to inhale as I twist the dial on the lock, keying in the combination.
My head falls forward, but I snap it back up.
Shit.
Opening the door, shielding myself for all the eyes around me, I reach under my skirt, under the tight elastic of my spandex shorts, and grab my inhaler.
“Hey, can I borrow your suede skirt today?”
I jump, releasing my inhaler, and pulling my hand out.
Lyla stands to my left while Katelyn and Mel hover at my right.
Picking up my backpack, I dig out my books from last night and load them into my locker. “You mean the expensive one that I sold half my closet to a consignment shop to pay for?” I ask, shoving my books onto the shelf. “Not a chance.”
“I’ll tell your mom about all the clothes you hide in your locker.”
“And I’ll tell your mom about all the times you weren’t actually sleeping at my house for the night,” I retort, smiling as I place my bag on the hook in my locker and look to Katelyn and Mel.
The other girls laugh, and I turn back to my locker, retrieving my Art notebook and English text for my first two classes.
“Please?” she begs. “My legs look so good in it.”
I pull in a breath with everything I have, the struggle to fill my lungs growing like there’s a thousand pounds sitting on my chest.
Fine. Whatever. Anything to get her out of here. I reach into my locker and pull out the skirt hanging on a plastic hook I’d stuck in the back.
I toss the smooth, tan fabric at her. “Don’t have sex in it.”
She smiles gleefully, fanning out the skirt to have another look at it. “Thank you.”
I grab my small bag, filled with drawing pencils, and my phone.
“What do you have right now?” Lyla asks, folding the skirt over her arm. “Art?”
I nod.
“I don’t understand how you can’t get out of that. I know you hate it.”
I close my locker, hearing the bell ring and seeing everyone around us start to hustle. “It’s almost the end of the year. I’ll live.”
“Mmm,” she replies absently, probably having not heard me. “Alright, let’s go.” She jerks her chin to Mel and Katelyn and then looks to me as she backs away. “See you at lunch, okay? And thank you.”
All three of them disappear down the hallway, lost in the throng of bodies as they head for Spanish, their first class of the day. Everyone flits about, rushing upstairs, slamming lockers, and diving into classrooms…and I feel the ache in my chest start to spread. My stomach burns from the strain of trying to breathe, and I make my way down the hallway, my shoulder brushing the lockers for support.
I shoot a quick smile to Brandon Hewitt, one of Trey’s friends, as I pass, and soon, all the doors start to close and the footsteps and chatter fade away. A tiny whistle drifts up from my lungs as my breath shakes from the inside as if little strings are flapping in my throat.
I blink hard, the world starting to spin behind my lids.
I draw in as much air as I can, knowing they don’t see my white knuckles, me clenching my books, or the needles swishing around in my throat like a swizzle stick as I struggle not to cough.
I’m good at pretending.
The last door closes, and I quickly reach under my skirt and pull out the inhaler I usually keep hidden there. Holding it to my mouth, I press down and draw in a hard breath as the spray releases, giving me my medicine. The bitter chemical, which always reminds me of the Lysol I caught in my mouth when I was a kid when my mom sprayed it around the house, hits the back of my throat and drifts down my esophagus. Leaning against the wall, I press down once more, drawing in more spray, and I close my eyes, already feeling the weight lifting from my chest.
Breathing in and out, I hear my pulse throb in my ears and feel my lungs expand wider and wider, the invisible hands that were squeezing them, slowly releasing.
This one came quick.
Usually it happens while I’m outside or exerting myself. Whenever the air gets thick, I excuse myself to the restroom and do what I need to do. I hate when it happens all of sudden like this. Too many people around, even in the bathrooms. Now I’m late for class.
Slipping the inhaler up under the hem of my spandex shorts again, I take in a welcome deep breath and release it, readjusting the books in my arm.
Spinning back around, I turn right and take the next hallway, climbing the stairs up to Art. It’s the only class I have every day that I enjoy, but I let my friends think I hate it. Art, band, theater…they’re all targets for ridicule, and I don’t want to hear it from them.
Gingerly opening the classroom door, I step in and look around for Ms. Till, but I don’t see her. She must be in the supply closet.
And I don’t need another tardy, so…
I walk briskly across the room and head up the aisle, raising my eyes and pausing when I see Trey. He lounges at my table, in the seat next to mine.
Annoyance pricks at me. Awesome.
He must be skipping Chemistry—which he’s already failed and has to pass in order to graduate. This is my happy hour, and he’ll ruin it.
I let out a small sigh and force a half-smile. “Hey.”
He pulls out my chair with one hand, relaxing back in his seat and gazing at me as I sit down. Ms. Till probably won’t even notice he’s not one of her students.
“So I was thinking…” Trey broaches as everyone chatters around us. “Are you doing anything May seventh?”
“Hmmm…” I play cavalier as I lean back in my chair, fold my arms over my chest, and cross my legs. “I seem to remember something going on that night, but I forget.”
He places his hand on the back of my chair, cocking his head at me. “Well, do you think you can get a dress?”
“I…” But then I stop, seeing someone enter the room.
A guy walks in, his tall form strolling across the classroom and up the aisle toward us. I don’t breathe.
He looks familiar. Where do I know him from?
He carries nothing—no backpack, books, or even a pencil—and takes a seat at the empty table across the aisle from mine.
I glance around for Ms. Till, wondering what’s going on. Whoever he is, he isn’t in this class, but he just walked in as if he’s always been here.
Is he new?
I steal a glance to my left, studying him. He relaxes in his chair, one hand resting on the table, and his eyes focused ahead of him. Black stains coat the outside of his hand, from his wrist to the top of his pinky, like mine gets when I’m drawing and resting my hand on the paper, grinding it into the ink.
“Hello?” I hear Trey prompt.
I tear my eyes away, clearing my throat. “Um, yeah, I’m sure I can manage it.”
He wants me to buy a dress. Prom is May seventh, and no one else has asked me, because rumor has it Trey was asking me. He took his time, and I was starting to get worried. I want to go to prom, even if it is with him.
I let my eyes drift to the new guy again, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. Dirt smudges his dark blue jeans, as well as his fingers and elbow, but his slate-gray T-shirt is clean, and his shoes look in decent shape. His eyes are nearly hidden beneath thick lashes, and his short, dark brown hair hangs just lightly over his forehead. There’s a silver ring on the side of his bottom lip, catching the light. I fold my lips between my teeth as I stare at it, imagining what it feels like to have a piercing there.
“And maybe your hair done?” Trey goes on at my right. “But leave it down, because I like it down.”
I turn back, pulling my eyes away from the boy’s mouth, and right myself as I refocus my attention.
Prom. We were talking about prom.
“No problem,” I answer.
“Good.” He smiles and leans back. “Because I know this great taco place—”
He bursts into laughter, the guy next to him joining in on the joke, and I warm with a moment’s embarrassment. Oh, you thought he was asking you to prom? Stupid girl.
But I don’t pout at his attempt to make me feel like an idiot. My armor deflects, and I advance. “Well, have fun. I’ll be at prom with Manny. Ain’t that right, Manny?” I call out, kicking the leg of the boy’s chair in front of me a few times, drawing the Emo kid’s attention.
Manny Cortez jerks but keeps facing forward, trying to ignore us.
Trey and his friend keep laughing, but it’s focused on the weak kid now, and I can’t help but feel a sliver of satisfaction.
The other feelings are there, too. The guilt, the disgust at myself, the pity for Manny and how I used him just now…
But I amused Trey, and now Manny and any shame I feel is far below where I sit. I look down at it. I know it’s there. But it’s like seeing ants from an airplane. I’m in the clouds, too high for what’s on the ground to be of much concern.
“Yeah, Manny. You going to prom with my girl?” Trey jokes, kicking his chair like I had done. “Huh, huh?” And then he turns to me. “Nah, I don’t even think he likes girls.”
I force a half smile, shaking my head at him and hoping he’ll shut up now. Manny served a purpose. I don’t want to torture him.
Manny is ninety pounds, at most, with hair so black it’s almost blue, and a face so pale and smooth that, with the right clothes, he could easily pass for a girl. Eyeliner, black nail polish, skinny jeans, cracked and dirty Converse sneakers… Check to all.
He and I have gone to school together since Kindergarten, and I still have the heart-shaped eraser he gave me with a Valentine’s card in second grade. I was the only one who got one from him. No one knows about that, and not even Misha knows why I keep it.
I raise my eyes, seeing him quietly sitting there. The bones under his black T-shirt are tense, and his head is bowed, probably hoping we won’t say anything else. Probably hoping if he stays still and quiet, he’ll become invisible again. I know that feeling.
But something to my left pulls at me, and I glance at the new kid, who’s still focused ahead, but his brow is hard and tense now as if he’s angry.
“No, seriously,” Trey continues, and I reluctantly turn back as he addresses me again. “Prom. I’ll pick you up at six. Limo, dinner, we’ll put in an appearance at the dance… You’re mine all night.”
I nod, barely listening.
“Okay, let’s go ahead and get started,” Ms. Till announces, coming out of the closet and setting a caddy of art supplies on her table.
She pulls down her screen, turns off the lights, and I glance to my left again, seeing the new kid just sitting there, scowling ahead. Does he have an admittance slip? A class schedule? Is he even going to introduce himself to the teacher? I’m starting to wonder if he’s even real, and I’m half-tempted to reach out and poke him. Am I the only one who noticed him walk in the room?
Ms. Till begins going through some examples of straight line drawing while I notice Trey tear a piece of paper from my notebook.
“Manny?” he whispers, balling up a piece of the paper and tossing the pea-sized wad at Manny’s head. “Hey, Manny? The Emo look is over, man. Or does your boyfriend like it?”
Trey and his friend chuckle quietly, but Manny is a statue.
Trey balls up another paper, and now my guilt—heavier than before—creeps in.
“Hey, man.” Trey flings the paper ball at Manny. It hits his hair before falling to the floor. “I like your eyeliner. How ‘bout letting my girl here borrow it?”
A movement to my right catches my eye, and I see the new kid’s hand—resting on the table—curl into a fist.
Trey tosses another paper, harder this time. “Can you even find your dick anymore, faggot?”
I wince. Jesus.
But then, in a flash of movement, the new kid reaches over the table, grabs the back of Manny’s chair, and I watch, stunned, as he pulls the chair with Manny in it back to his table and places himself between Emo kid and us. Then he quickly reaches over, grabs Manny’s sketchbook and box of pencils, and dumps them on his workspace, in front of his new table partner.
My heart races, but I lock my jaw, trying to appear less shaken than I am. Oh, my God.
Students turn their heads to check out the action as the new guy slams back down into his seat, doesn’t say a word or cast a look at anyone, and resumes frowning. Manny’s breathing is hard, his body tight and rigid at what just happened, and Trey and his friend are suddenly quiet, their eyes locked on the new guy.
“Fags stick together, I guess,” Trey says under his breath.
I shoot a glance at New Guy out of the corner of my eye, knowing he must’ve heard that. But he’s as still as ice. Only now the muscles in his arm bulge, and his jaw flexes.
He’s mad, and he let us know it. No one ever does that. I never get called out.
Trey doesn’t say anything more, and the rest of the class eventually turns back around while the teacher gets started. I try to concentrate on her instructions, but I can’t. I feel him next to me, and I want to look. Who the hell is he?
And then it hits me. The warehouse. Holy shit.
I blink, looking at him again. It’s the guy from the scavenger hunt all those months ago. I still have our pictures in my phone.
Does he remember me?
That’s so weird. I’d never actually posted our pictures to the page we were supposed to post on. After I left him and his friend, I was so pre-occupied the rest of the night, unable to stop myself from looking around for him again, that I never finished my hunt.
But I never found him. After I walked away from him, he seemed to disappear.
Ms. Till finishes her brief instructions, and I spend the rest of the hour stealing glances and messing around on pointless little drawings. I’d been working on a project for a week, but I ignore it today, because I don’t want Trey to see it.
And even though this is the class I enjoy most, it’s also the one I feel the least secure. Art isn’t my calling, but I enjoy doing things with my hands and being creative, so it was either this or Auto Shop. And I wasn’t spending five months in a room with twenty guys trying to look up my cheerleading skirt.
So instead I’m here, drawing a picture for Misha. Designing his first album cover as a surprise graduation gift. Not that he has to use it—I wouldn’t expect him to—but I think he’ll get a kick out of it. Something to motivate him.
Of course, I don’t want Trey to see it and ask about it. He’ll just make a joke out of something I love.
No one knows about Misha Lare. Not even Lyla. He’s mine and too hard to put into words. I don’t even want to try.
Not to mention, if I don’t tell anyone, he won’t be as real. And it won’t hurt so much when I eventually have to lose him.
Which I will, if I haven’t already. All good things come to an end.
“It’s him,” Ten whispers in my ear before sitting down at the lunch table with Lyla, Mel, and me. “That’s the guy vandalizing the school.”
He twists his head, jerking his chin behind us, and I look up from my Math homework, and turn around, following his eyes.
The new kid sits at a round table by himself, legs spread out underneath and crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest. Black wires drape his chest, leading to the earbuds sitting in his ears, and the same hard expression from this morning is focused on the tabletop in front of him.
I hold back a smile. So he is real. Ten sees him, too.
And then my gaze drops to his right arm, seeing the tattoos scaling down the length. A flutter hits my stomach.
I hadn’t seen those this morning.
Probably because I wasn’t seated on that side of him. I couldn’t make out what the pictures were, but I could tell there was script mixed in. Glancing around the room, I notice others looking at him, as well. Curious sideways glances, closed whispers…
Turning back around, I put my pencil to the paper again, finishing the assignment I’d gotten this morning so I won’t have to do it tonight. “You think he’s sneaking into the school? What makes you say that?”
“Well, look at him. Jail’s in his future.”
“Yeah, that’s proof,” I mumble sarcastically, still writing.
Honestly, he doesn’t look that bad. A little dirty, a little angry, but that doesn’t imply he’s a criminal.
I glance behind me again, taking in his face for a moment…the muscles of his jaw, the strong, dark eyes, the slant of his nose and eyebrows like he’s in a constant state of displeasure… He looks more like the type who would punch you for saying hello, not spray-painting song lyrics on school walls.
His stare suddenly rises, and he looks up. I follow his gaze.
Trey is walking this way, saying something to Principal Burrowes as he passes by, and New Guy watches them.
“Is he new?” Lyla asks across from me, and I see her taking in the new guy. “He’s not bad looking at all. What’s his name?”
“Masen Laurent,” Ten answers.
I can’t help it. I say the name in my head, letting it roll across my mind. So that’s the name he was trying to keep his friend from telling me at the warehouse?
“He was in my Physics class this morning,” Ten explains.
“He was in my first period, too,” I add, turning the textbook page and jotting down the next problem. “He didn’t speak.”
“What do you know about him?” Lyla asks.
I shrug, not looking up. “Nothing. Don’t care.”
Trey and J.D. sit down, one on each side of Lyla, and begin digging into their sandwiches.
“Hey, babe.” Trey presses a fry to my closed mouth. I grab it and fling it over my shoulder, hearing him and J.D. laugh, while I continue my homework.
“I don’t think he’s said anything to anyone,” Ten says. “Mr. Kline asked him a question in Physics, and he just sat there.”
“Who?” J.D. asks.
“Masen Laurent.” Ten gestures to the new kid behind us. “He just started today.”
“I wonder how he’s getting in at night,” Lyla says in a low voice.
I drop my pencil to the table and raise my eyes, looking at her pointedly. “Don’t say ‘he’ like you know it’s him doing the vandalism. We don’t know that. And besides, he just started today. The vandalism has been going on for over a month.”
I don’t want him taking the fall for something I know he’s not doing.
“Fine,” she snaps, rolling her eyes and picking at her shaker salad. “I wonder how ‘the guy’ is getting in at night then?”
“Well, I have an idea,” Ten offers. “I don’t think he leaves the school, actually. The one doing the vandalism, I mean. I think he stays in the school overnight.”
J.D. bites into his hamburger again. “Why would he do that?”
“Because how else would you get around the alarms?” Ten argues. “Think about it. The school’s open late—swim lessons at the pool, the GED class, the teams using the weight room, tutoring… He can leave after school, eat and do whatever, and make it back before the doors are locked around nine. And then he’s got all night. Maybe he even lives here. The attacks are happening nearly every day now, after all.”
I finish my final equation, my pencil digging slowly into the paper. It’s a good point. How else would someone get around the alarms, unless they hide out and wait for the doors to be locked?
Or unless they have keys and the alarm code.
“There are no homeless kids at this school,” I point out. “I think we would know.”
It’s not a huge high school, after all.
“Well, like you said,” Lyla shoots back. “He just arrived, so we don’t know anything about him yet.” I see her look over my head, and I know exactly whom she’s watching. “He could’ve been here for the last month before starting school and no one would’ve known it.”
“So peg the dirty new kid with no friends?” I retort. “What possible reason would he have for vandalizing the school? Oh, wait. I forgot. I don’t care.”
And I lean over my assignment, filling out the header, continuing, “Masen Laurent is not living in the school. He’s not vandalizing the walls, the lockers, or anything else. He’s new, you’re scheming, and I’m bored with this conversation.”
“We can get it out of him,” Trey chimes in. “I can sneak into my stepmom’s office and check his file. See where he lives.”
“Hell yeah,” J.D. agrees.
The sinister tone to their voices unnerves me. Trey gets away with everything, especially since the principal is his stepmother.
I close my book and notebook, piling them on top of each other. “And how would that be any fun for me?”
Trey smiles. “What did you have in mind? Name it.”
I rest my forearms on the table and turn my head over my shoulder, watching Masen Laurent. His stoic expression is confusing. As if everyone around him doesn’t exist.
They bustle about, passing by him, their voices carrying across his table, laughter to his left and a dropped tray to his right, but a bubble surrounds him. Life carries on outside of it, but nothing breaches it.
But I feel, even though he responds to nothing going on around him, he’s aware of it. He’s aware of everything, and a chill runs down my arms.
Turning back to Trey, I take a deep breath, shaking it off. “Do you trust me?”
“No, but I’ll give you a long leash.”
J.D. laughs, and I rise from the table, pushing back my chair.
“Where are you going?” Lyla asks.
I spin around and walk for Masen, answering over my shoulder, “I want to hear him talk.”
I head over to his table, a small round four-seater on the outside of the room, and rest my ass on the edge, gripping the table with my hands at my sides.
The boy’s eyes catch my thighs and slowly rise up my body, resting on my face.
I can hear the beat of drums and guitar pounding out of his earbuds, but he just sits there, the indents between his eyebrows growing deeper.
Reaching over, I gently tug out his earbuds and cast a look over my shoulder at my friends, all of them watching us.
“They think you’re homeless,” I tell him, turning back and seeing his eyes drift from them up to me. “But you’re not eating, and you don’t speak. I think you’re a ghost.”
I give him a mischievous smile and drop the earbuds, placing my hand over his heart. His warmth immediately courses through my hand, making my stomach flip a little. “Nope, scratch that,” I add, pushing forward. “I feel a heartbeat. And it’s getting faster.”
Masen just watches me, as if waiting for something. Maybe he wants me to disappear, but he hasn’t pushed me away yet.
I take my hand off his chest and lean back again. “I remember you, you know? You were at the scavenger hunt in February. At the warehouse in Thunder Bay.”
He still doesn’t answer, and I’m starting to wonder if I have it wrong. The guy that night was of few words, but he, at least, ended up being friendly. How do you toy with someone who won’t engage?
“Do you like to go to the drive-in, Masen?” I ask. “That’s your name, right?” I look down and fiddle with his pen, trying to act coy. “The weather’s getting nice enough for it. Maybe you’d like to come with my girlfriends and me some time. Wanna give me your number?”
His chest caves with every exhale, and I feel my skin start to hum as he just holds my eyes. His deep green pools glow with a fire I can’t place. Anger? Fear? Desire? What the hell is he thinking, and why won’t he speak? I force the lump down my throat, feeling like I’m waiting for the Jack to pop out of the box.
“You don’t like people?” I press, leaning in and whispering, “Or you don’t like girls?”
“Miss Trevarrow?” a stern female voice I recognize as Principal Burrowes calls. “Off the table.”
I turn my head to acknowledge her, but then, all of a sudden, hands grab my waist and pull me forward.
I gasp, shocked, as I land in Masen’s lap, straddling him.
“I like girls,” he whispers in my ear, and my heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
Then the tip of his tongue glides up my neck, and I’m frozen, breathing a mile a minute as heat races through my blood.
Fuck.
“But you?” His deep voice and hot breath fall over the skin of my neck. “You kind of taste like shit.”
What?
And then he stands up, and I tumble off his lap, landing on the floor. I shoot my hands out, catching myself.
What the hell?
Laughter echoes around me, and I dart my head around, seeing a few people at nearby tables chuckling as they stare at me.
Walls close in around me, and I burn with embarrassment.
I don’t have to turn around to know Lyla is probably smiling, as well.
Son of a bitch.
And then I watch as Masen Laurent grabs his notebook and pen, drapes his earbuds around his neck, and walks around me, leaving the cafeteria without another word.
Asshole. What the hell is his problem?
I stand up, brushing off my skirt, and head back to my table.
That wasn’t the first time anyone’s laughed at my expense, but it will be the last.
