Veering toward my locker on the right, I spot a group of students ahead, some pausing to read something on the wall and some taking pictures of it. I look up, immediately recognizing the Eminem lyric.
Needles prick my throat, and I look away. He can go screw himself. He doesn’t like that rapper, and even though I do, quoting his songs isn’t going to get on my good side.
“Well, well, well,” Ten muses. “I thought he got caught or something. He’s been slacking on the messages.”
I walk up to my locker and start dialing in the combination. Ten follows, fiddling on his phone.
“‘Love the Way You Lie’ by Eminem,” he says. “Hey, he’s speaking your language now.”
I force a little smile for Ten’s sake. He’s the only one in my life who’s easy, and I don’t want him to know anything is wrong. Our friendship is uncomplicated.
And in all honesty, he’s been good to me. I may not be sure where his loyalties truly lie, but he’s here now. I’m grateful for that.
I empty my bag, stuffing in the books I took home over the weekend and pulling out what I need for the morning. I haven’t seen or talked to Misha since our fight, and I’m still in shock. I’m angry, but I’m sad, too. I would’ve thought that the reality of Masen being Misha would’ve set in by now and crystallized into hatred.
But it hasn’t. I’m hurt.
“Are you okay?” Ten asks, hovering close, his eyes on my face. “You look like you were up all night, not sleeping in.”
“I’m fine.”
I finish getting my things and close my locker, Ten and I walking farther down the hall. But then I glance up and notice more writing on the wall.
Everything was real.
I suck in a small breath, feeling my chest shake with a sob. It’s in large black paint, surrounded by messy paint streaks of blue—my favorite color—and purple. I stop and stare at it, my shoulders feeling heavy.
He broke into the school this weekend and did this.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ten whispers, this time sounding more concerned. “Tell me the truth.”
I wipe away a tear before it has a chance to fall. “Nothing,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “My sister’s just harassing me about mixing whites and colors in the wash again, so you know…”
He scoffs, but I can tell he doesn’t buy that excuse.
I make a quick right into the stairwell. “I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”
“Ryen?”
But I keep going, jogging up the stairs and pausing briefly when I see yet another message written on the wall, reading it as I pass by.
I didn’t mean to lie, but I meant every kiss.
Damn him. I break into a run.
I shouldn’t have come to school today. I hoped he’d gone back to Thunder Bay, but he must’ve painted those messages last night. There are too many people in the school over the weekend and too much of a chance the staff or janitors would’ve gotten all of it taken down by this morning if he’d done it earlier than that.
No. He was still in Falcon’s Well last night.
I want him gone. I can’t help my heart and what it wants despite the pain, but I can help what I do with those feelings. Everything I told him—about Misha and how he didn’t like my music and the stuff at the drive-in and all the things he wanted to know that were true—he already knew all of that shit from my letters. What a kick, to sit there and humor me to get my clothes off.
I approach the door and arch up on my tiptoes, peering in the window. He’s sitting at his seat, one earbud in his ear while he twirls a pen in his fingers and stares at a notebook.
I slump back down.
Great. You would think he could back off, at least for a while. It’s not like he needs to be at school anymore anyway. Misha had written me last fall and told me that he had enough credits to graduate early, so if he didn’t come here for me, then why the hell is he playing student when he doesn’t need to?
Why is he really here?
I whip open the door and make my way down the aisle, trying not to look at him but already feeling his eyes on me.
He’s all I’m aware of, and the memory of the Physics lab suddenly hits me, the feel of my legs wrapped around his body and his piercing between my lips.
He can’t be here. I can’t do this. Tears spring to my eyes.
But then someone standing in the aisle suddenly turns toward me, and something wet and orange slams into me, covering my hands and T-shirt.
“Ugh!” I growl, inspecting my hands and clothes.
Manny Cortez scurries backward, taking his freshly-painted clay bowl with him. “I’m sorry!” he exclaims, looking scared.
“You’re gonna be,” I threaten, pointing behind him. “The kiln’s that way, moron. Do you need a map?”
He winces, his eyes dropping as others around him laugh. My stomach rolls, and I grind my teeth together to hold back the sob as I push past him and charge toward my seat in the back.
He walks away, diving into the supply room.
Dropping my bag, I sit in my seat and pull out my sketch pad and pencils. Misha’s presence is heavy next to me.
“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.”