1642734778_punk-57-pdf

gun and used the car for target practice. Some of it is already dried, which
means it was done a while ago, probably right after I left campus.
And right in the middle, on top of the hood, in big white letters, is the
word FAG sitting bright and loud, glaring back at me.
Rage heats up every single muscle in my body. Motherfucker.
I raise my eyes, anger and readiness boiling under my skin as I let my
gaze slowly scan the parking lot. I spot Trey Burrowes near what I assume
is his car—a blue Camaro that his doting little step-mommy probably
bought him. I ignore the people gathering around and narrow my eyes,
seeing him stroll around all cocky, chewing on a straw and shooting Lyla a
lascivious glance that his best friend probably doesn’t see.
I take off. Stalking right for him, I dig in my heels, ready to slam his
fucking face into the hood of his fucking car. I’m almost glad he’s picking a
fight right now. I’ve wanted to hit something all day.
I hear someone call “Masen” but I don’t stop to find out who. I lunge
straight for him and grab his collar, throwing him around and slamming him
up against his car.
He growls, taking my jaw in his hand and trying to push me off, but I
twist away from him and swing my fist back, landing a punch in his
stomach.
I hear screams and shouts around me, feeling a crowd close in, and I
quickly grab him again, slamming him against the car.
“Fuck you, faggot,” he bursts out, swinging his fist back and knocking
me in the face. The metallic taste of blood seeps into my mouth from the
inside of my cheek, but I still don’t release my hold on him.
“Can’t take a joke?” he yells.
I bring my knee up, hitting him in his stomach. He hunches over, and I
raise my fist high, pounding down on the back of his head twice.