1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“I was getting a little lonely,” Lyla purrs, resting back in her seat with her
arms folded over her chest and her legs crossed. “You were gone so long.”
Lonely? I doubt she even knows the meaning of the word. Not that I
have any opinion of a chick who messes around on her boyfriend—unless
the boyfriend is me or one of my friends—but I don’t like her for other
reasons. She’s like Ryen on crack.
At least my Ryen is still in there somewhere. I see it in how she’s
uncomfortable when that Cortez kid is bullied. I saw it this morning when
she gave the janitor nail polish remover to help take off the graffiti.
And I see it all over her room. The collages, the poetry, the lyrics I’ve
sent her for review, the quotes and colors everywhere… That’s the Ryen I
know.
But in ten years she could be Lyla. Self-serving, false, and screwing
anything to forget how much she hates herself.
And everything I’ve always found incredible about her will be gone.
I pull out my chair and sit down, knowing damn well I have no
intention of doing this assignment. Misha Lare is as good as done with high