1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I make it back to the school just as the final bell is ringing. The rain had
started in Thunder Bay just as I jumped on the ferry, but it still held off
here, the clouds threatening but not giving in yet.
My father left Annie’s room as soon as he started crying, and once I
heard the hum of Brahms coming from his office, I knew it was safe to get
out of the house. He’d be in there the rest of the night, drinking scotch and
working on his model WWII battlefield.
I can see the soccer team practicing on the field off to my right, and I
hook the duffel bag over my head, hanging it across my chest. Digging the
scarf out of my bag, I reach into Ryen’s Jeep and set it on the driver’s seat. I
pull my Sharpie out of my pocket and look around, pulling out a small piece
of paper I spot in a cup holder. I leave a note on the back of the receipt.
You’ll look better in blue. (And no, I didn’t steal it.)
I drop it on top of the scarf as students start flooding the parking lot and
climbing into their cars. It’s Friday afternoon, so I doubt Ryen has any team
practices, but I keep an eye on her Jeep anyway as I head to my truck,
making sure no one tries to take it out of the open cab.
I toss my duffel in the bed of my truck but suddenly look up, noticing
people crowding around my hood, at the front of my vehicle. They stare at
something, and unease coils its way through my body. What now?
Gasps and whispers fill the air, and more people head over. I charge to
the front of the truck and stop, finding a whole fucking mess.
Large circles of white paint are splattered on my hood, shooting out in
all directions and spilling down the sides, as if someone took a paintball