1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I shoot him a nasty look. But then I see him give me a joking smile, and
I immediately relax a little.
Maybe I don’t need to lie at all. Just tell her I let Masen Laurent take me
home. What could happen?
I catch sight of the screen on the radio, seeing the name of the song
playing from the iPod, and break out in a smile, turning it up.
Masen glances over at me, probably wondering why I look happy.
“What?”
I gesture to the radio where Eminem’s “Without Me” is playing. “I have
a friend. He hates my taste in music,” I tell him. “I sent him this song once.
It led to a life-long argument that still hasn’t been settled.”
“He?”
I lean back in my seat. “In elementary school, our teachers set us up as
pen pals,” I explain. “When the school year ended, though, we just kept
writing, and we haven’t stopped. He lives in Thunder Bay, but we’ve never
met.”
Masen stares at the road ahead, his chest rising and falling steadily. He’s
not jealous, is he? Misha and I aren’t like that.
“Do you tell him everything?” he asks, still not looking at me.
I narrow my eyes on him. Maybe he suspects Misha is important to me.
Or maybe he wonders if my pen pal is more important than him.
The truth is, Misha is irreplaceable. But even with him, I don’t say
everything.
I turn my head to look at the window. “I tell him more than I tell anyone
else.”
“Do you lie to him?”
“Yes,” I reply honestly. “He gets the version of me I want to be.”