1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“And I, for one, hopes he keeps it up.” Lyla adds. “Did you see what he
wrote this morning?”
Everyone falls silent, and I know exactly what they’re looking at. I turn
my head, glancing to the wall, right over the doorway to the gym teachers’
offices. Flapping ever so gently from the AC blowing out of the vent is a
large piece of white butcher paper taped haphazardly to the wall.
I smile to myself, my heartbeat picking up pace, and turn back to finish
getting ready.
“Don’t knock masturbation,” Mel Long says, reciting the message we
all saw laying behind the butcher paper before morning practice a while
ago, “it’s sex with someone I love.”
And everyone starts laughing. I bet they don’t even know it’s a Woody
Allen quote.
They discovered the graffiti this morning, here in the girls’ locker room
this time, and while the teachers covered it up with paper, everyone saw
what was behind it.
The school has been vandalized twenty-two times in the last month, and
today makes twenty-three.
At first, it was slow—one occurrence here and there—but now it’s more
frequent, nearly every day, and sometimes several times a day. As if “the
little punk,” as he or she has come to be known, has developed a taste for
breaking into the school at night and leaving random messages on the walls.
“Well,” I say, hooking my bag over my shoulder and slamming my
locker door shut. “With the cameras going in all the hallways and covering
every entrance soon, I’m sure he or she will either wise up and quit, or get
caught. Their days are numbered.”
“I hope he gets caught,” Katelyn says, excitement in her eyes. “I want to
know who it is.”