1642734778_punk-57-pdf

Trey tosses another paper, harder this time. “Can you even find your
dick anymore, faggot?”
I wince. Jesus.
But then, in a flash of movement, the new kid reaches over the table,
grabs the back of Manny’s chair, and I watch, stunned, as he pulls the chair
with Manny in it back to his table and places himself between Emo kid and
us. Then he quickly reaches over, grabs Manny’s sketchbook and box of
pencils, and dumps them on his workspace, in front of his new table partner.
My heart races, but I lock my jaw, trying to appear less shaken than I
am. Oh, my God.
Students turn their heads to check out the action as the new guy slams
back down into his seat, doesn’t say a word or cast a look at anyone, and
resumes frowning. Manny’s breathing is hard, his body tight and rigid at
what just happened, and Trey and his friend are suddenly quiet, their eyes
locked on the new guy.
“Fags stick together, I guess,” Trey says under his breath.
I shoot a glance at New Guy out of the corner of my eye, knowing he
must’ve heard that. But he’s as still as ice. Only now the muscles in his arm
bulge, and his jaw flexes.
He’s mad, and he let us know it. No one ever does that. I never get
called out.
Trey doesn’t say anything more, and the rest of the class eventually
turns back around while the teacher gets started. I try to concentrate on her
instructions, but I can’t. I feel him next to me, and I want to look. Who the
hell is he?
And then it hits me. The warehouse. Holy shit.
I blink, looking at him again. It’s the guy from the scavenger hunt all
those months ago. I still have our pictures in my phone.