1642734778_punk-57-pdf

again. But instead, he twists around and takes my hand, leading us out of
the cafeteria.
“Mr. Laurent!” the principal calls.
But Misha ignores her and pulls me into the men’s bathroom, wetting
some paper towels and ringing them out.
He pushes me back against the sink and kneels down, lifting my foot
and setting it on his thigh, slowly wiping the drying orange juice off my leg.
Pain springs to the back of my eyes, and I watch him, carefully and
quietly taking care of me.
Wetting more paper towels, he moves to the other leg and then starts
untying my socked shoes.
“Are we still friends?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Because I need
Misha, not Masen.”
I was wrong last night. Everything is Misha. They’re not separate.
And I need my friend.
Holding my soiled Chucks, he stands up and takes my hand, still silent
as he leads me out of the bathroom.
“Where are we going?”
“Away from here.”
We don’t bother to look back, and I’ll probably be in trouble tomorrow,
but no one and nothing could drag me away from him right now. I tighten
my hold on his hand, ready to follow him anywhere. At least for today.
We drive for a long time, and we don’t speak. The music plays, the
afternoon is overcast, and my eyelids are heavy, probably because Thursday
night was the last time I slept well.
I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive him, but I want him. The smell of
him, the sight of him, the feel of him… He doesn’t even have to touch me.