1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I toss the smooth, tan fabric at her. “Don’t have sex in it.”
She smiles gleefully, fanning out the skirt to have another look at it.
“Thank you.”
I grab my small bag, filled with drawing pencils, and my phone.
“What do you have right now?” Lyla asks, folding the skirt over her
arm. “Art?”
I nod.
“I don’t understand how you can’t get out of that. I know you hate it.”
I close my locker, hearing the bell ring and seeing everyone around us
start to hustle. “It’s almost the end of the year. I’ll live.”
“Mmm,” she replies absently, probably having not heard me. “Alright,
let’s go.” She jerks her chin to Mel and Katelyn and then looks to me as she
backs away. “See you at lunch, okay? And thank you.”
All three of them disappear down the hallway, lost in the throng of
bodies as they head for Spanish, their first class of the day. Everyone flits
about, rushing upstairs, slamming lockers, and diving into classrooms…and
I feel the ache in my chest start to spread. My stomach burns from the strain
of trying to breathe, and I make my way down the hallway, my shoulder
brushing the lockers for support.
I shoot a quick smile to Brandon Hewitt, one of Trey’s friends, as I pass,
and soon, all the doors start to close and the footsteps and chatter fade
away. A tiny whistle drifts up from my lungs as my breath shakes from the
inside as if little strings are flapping in my throat.
I blink hard, the world starting to spin behind my lids.
I draw in as much air as I can, knowing they don’t see my white
knuckles, me clenching my books, or the needles swishing around in my
throat like a swizzle stick as I struggle not to cough.
I’m good at pretending.