1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“You don’t have to tell me that.” I play along. “All those big concepts
inside my itty bitty brain. It’s enough to make me feel as dumb as a bag of
wet hair.” And then I assure her, “But don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I
need help. Now can I get my nine hours? Coach is taking us through a
circuit in the morning.”
She shoots me a little snarl and glances at my wall. “I can’t believe
Mom let you do this to your room.”
And then she spins around and pulls the door closed.
I look at my wall. I decorated it using black chalkboard paint about a
year ago and use it to doodle, draw, and write everywhere. Misha’s lyrics
are scattered over the wide expanse, as well as my own thoughts, ideas, and
little scribbles.
There are pictures and posters and lots of words, everything meaning
something special to me. My whole room is like that, and I love it. It’s a
place where I don’t invite anyone. Especially my friends. They’ll just make
a joke out of my really bad artwork that I love and Misha’s and my words.
I learned a long time ago that you don’t need to reveal everything inside
of you to the people around you. They like to judge, and I’m happier when
they don’t. Some things stay hidden.
My phone buzzes on my bed, and I head over to pick it up.
Outside, the text reads.
Tapping my middle finger over the touchscreen, I shoot back, Be out in
a minute.
Finally. I have to get out of here.
Tossing the phone down, I peel off my tank top and push my sleep
shorts down my legs, letting everything drop to the floor. I dash to my arm