1642734778_punk-57-pdf

He shrugs, a mischievous look in his eyes.
Oooookay. “Well, if we get caught, you two are the first ones I’m
throwing under the bus.”
“Not if we throw you first,” Lyla sing-songs, staring out at the road.
Ten laughs behind me, and I shake my head, not really amused. The
thing about being a leader is that someone’s always trying to take your job.
I was joking with my comment. I don’t think she was.
Lyla and Ten—a.k.a. Theodore Edward Neilson—are, for all intents and
purposes, my friends. We’ve known each other throughout middle school
and high school, Lyla and I cheer together, and they’re like my suit of
armor.
Yeah, they can be uncomfortable, they make too much noise, and they
don’t always feel good, but I need them. You don’t want to be alone in high
school, and if you have friends—good ones or not—you have a little power.
High school is like prison in that way. You can’t make it on your own.
“I’ve got Chucks on the floor back there,” Lyla tells Ten. “Get them for
her, would you?”
He dips down, rustling through what is probably a mountain of crap on
the floor of the 90’s BMW Lyla’s mom passed down to her.
Ten drops one shoe over the seat and then hands me the other one as
soon as he finds it.
“Thanks.” I take the shoes, slip off my sandals, and begin putting them
on.
I’m grateful for the shoes. The Cove will be filthy and wet.
“I wish I’d known sooner,” I say, thinking out loud. “I would’ve
brought my camera.”
“Who wants to take pictures?” Lyla shoots back. “Go find some dark
little Tilt-a-Whirl car when we get there and show Trey what it means to be