1642734778_punk-57-pdf

Masen approaches, and my heartbeat picks up pace.
“The one writing on the walls at night?” he continues. “We have
something in common. I like to write on things, too.” He stops in front of
me and takes my hand. “But you know that, right?”
My skin warms where he touches it, and I try to jerk my hand free, but
he holds on tight.
He likes to write on things, too? What? And then I remember the wall at
the Cove, my chalk wall in my room, my locker that first day…
I jerk my hand harder, yanking it free. “What? Did you find Trey a bit
too big and scary, so you’re going to take your fight to me instead now?”
He gives me a casual grin and snatches my hand again, pulling out a
Sharpie from his pocket with his other hand.
“Let go.”
He sticks the marker in his mouth, bites off the cap, and flips the pen
around, shoving it back inside the cap. “But I thought you wanted my phone
number. For the drive-in, remember?”
He looks down at me with an innocent expression on his face, and I
don’t know what he’s doing, but I have to admit I’m kind of afraid to put up
a fight this time. Throwing me into a pool when no one’s around isn’t that
embarrassing, but I highly doubt he’s going to give a shit that we’re not
alone right now if he deems it necessary to put me in my place again. I
don’t want his fucking number.
He takes my left index finger and starts writing on the inside of it, while
I grind my teeth and glare at him.
“You know, I remember so much of what was in that diary,” he muses
as he writes. “I can say whatever I want. I don’t need proof. Not with
them.” He jerks his chin, indicating all the students sitting over in the table
area that we can’t see.