1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I feel tears welling, and I choke on a sob. Reaching down, I grab my
bag and hook it over my shoulder as I walk through the class, avoiding
stares and hushed whispers as I leave the room.
“Ryen?”
But as soon as I hit the hallway, I let the tears loose and run to the
bathroom.
“Where have you been?” Lyla charges as she walks up to my side in the
lunch line. “You weren’t at practice this morning, and Ten said he saw you
before first period, but then no one’s seen you since then. And rumor has it
you broke down crying in Art?”
Her tone sounds disgusted, and I don’t spare her a look as I grab a salad
shaker and a packet of dressing. I’m not hungry, and my limbs are tired and
heavy, but I can’t hide out in the library anymore. I feel like I’m losing
everything, and I need to stand the fuck up and get over it.
“Trey got in major trouble this weekend,” she says as if it’s my fault.
Well I guess it is, although she can’t know that.
“All of us, including the whole team,” she continues, “went to his house
after the game Friday night. His stepmom went upstairs, came back down,
and kicked everyone out.”
Her voice grates on my ears.
But she keeps pushing. “Which you might’ve known if you were ever
around anymore.”
“I don’t care,” I grit out, turning to her, unable to control myself. “You
got that? And I’m sick of you thinking that I should. Now leave me alone.”
She rears back, giving me a WTF look and then narrows her eyes,
looking angry. “You want to be left alone?” she asks. “I can do that. We can