1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I try to act like a badass, but honestly, I’m nervous as hell.
I should’ve told him no this morning. I’d stopped writing on the walls,
and doing anything more illegal would be risking too much. I have
acceptance letters to NYU, Cornell, and Dartmouth. Like I’m going to
jeopardize that simply because I’m infatuated with him and will use any
excuse to be close to him.
Actually it was hard to refuse him anything while he was inside me. I
would’ve told him I’d tattoo his name on my neck if he wanted.
He’d probably love that. I glance over at him, laughing inside at the
idea. His brown hair, wispy and sticking up a little, is pushed forward, and I
stare at his mouth, remembering the warmth of the smooth metal ring
grazing the dozens of places he’s kissed on my body.
I suddenly want to know everything. What he was like as a kid. What
his favorite kinds of music are. Where he goes when he wants some peace
and quiet and whom does he go to when he needs to talk.
Who does he love? Who’s there for him? Who knows him best?
Who knows him better than me? I can’t help the jealousy I feel at that
thought. He has an entire life and history with people who aren’t me.
I chew on the corner of my mouth, feeling so many things I know I
shouldn’t say.
But I want to.
“I like you,” I tell him, looking down, my voice quiet.
I see him turn his head toward me, not saying anything.
“You said some nice things last Friday night,” I go on, “and I wanted
you to know—in case you don’t already—that I actually kind of like you.” I
raise my eyes, seeing him watch me with something I can’t read going on in
his eyes. “I know I can be…me. I don’t get sappy, and I don’t give up