1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“No one’s home,” he reassures me. “Let’s get your clothes in the wash.
You can take a shower, and I’ll find you something to wear.”
It only takes me a moment to consider. I don’t feel like I need to leave
anytime soon, and the stickiness is still all over me, despite Misha’s efforts
to clean me up.
I nod and pull off clothes, handing him everything, one by one. He puts
my shorts, shirt, and underthings in the washer, adding soap and starting it,
and then hands me a T-shirt from the dryer.
Pulling it on, I let him take my hand and lead me into the rest of the
house.
We walk through a large living room, and I look around, gaping. “Oh,
geez,” I mumble.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
It’s hilarious, really. He hangs out with the worst of the worst at school,
looks like a delinquent, and everyone—including Lyla, Trey, and even me
once—assumed he was a poor foster kid or nothing but a thug.
If Lyla discovers he lives in a house bigger than hers and mine put
together and has a Gauguin hanging on the wall, she’ll be the first one
kissing his ass.
The house is dark, but even still I can tell it’s stunning. There’s wood
shining everywhere, fancy art and knickknacks decorating the place, and I
smell the rich scent of polish. What did Misha say his dad did in his letters?
He’s an antiques dealer?
And if he’s the child of a senator, then he has to be well-set.
“Do you like peanut butter and jelly?” he asks, taking me up the stairs.
“It’s the only thing I make that I don’t burn.”
“It’s fine.”