1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“Manny, it’s Ryen,” I say.
I don’t hear anything, and for a moment I think the bathroom is empty,
but then I hear a shuffle and step inside.
Inching past the empty stalls, I walk along the sinks to the hidden space
where the hand dryers sit.
Manny is standing with his back to me, his backpack dangling from his
right hand, and his head bowed.
He’s shaking.
“Manny?”
He raises his head but doesn’t turn around. “Get out,” he demands. “Get
the fuck away from me.”
“Manny, what happened?”
I step to the side, trying to see his face, but then I see something, and I
stop. Blood trails off his ear and down his neck.
The hole on his lobe where a black gauge used to fit is now empty, and
he’s bleeding, although it looks like it’s stopped.
Trey. Oh, my God, did he rip it out?
I take a step toward Manny, but he flinches, moving away.
Of course. Why would she help? He sees me just as dangerous as he
sees Trey.
He thinks I’ll victimize him. And why not? I’ve done it in the past.
Grief fills my heart. How many times have I made him feel alone?
I stay rooted, not wanting to make him scared, but I want to help. “It
won’t always be like this.”
“It’s always been like this,” he retorts.
I stand there, thinking back to grade school. Manny and I got along
okay until fourth grade when I…changed. But even before that he was on
the periphery of whatever was happening. He was small and lanky, never