1642734778_punk-57-pdf

No. He was still in Falcon’s Well last night.
I want him gone. I can’t help my heart and what it wants despite the
pain, but I can help what I do with those feelings. Everything I told him—
about Misha and how he didn’t like my music and the stuff at the drive-in
and all the things he wanted to know that were true—he already knew all of
that shit from my letters. What a kick, to sit there and humor me to get my
clothes off.
I approach the door and arch up on my tiptoes, peering in the window.
He’s sitting at his seat, one earbud in his ear while he twirls a pen in his
fingers and stares at a notebook.
I slump back down.
Great. You would think he could back off, at least for a while. It’s not
like he needs to be at school anymore anyway. Misha had written me last
fall and told me that he had enough credits to graduate early, so if he didn’t
come here for me, then why the hell is he playing student when he doesn’t
need to?
Why is he really here?
I whip open the door and make my way down the aisle, trying not to
look at him but already feeling his eyes on me.
He’s all I’m aware of, and the memory of the Physics lab suddenly hits
me, the feel of my legs wrapped around his body and his piercing between
my lips.
He can’t be here. I can’t do this. Tears spring to my eyes.
But then someone standing in the aisle suddenly turns toward me, and
something wet and orange slams into me, covering my hands and T-shirt.
“Ugh!” I growl, inspecting my hands and clothes.
Manny Cortez scurries backward, taking his freshly-painted clay bowl
with him. “I’m sorry!” he exclaims, looking scared.