1642734778_punk-57-pdf

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.”