1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I spin around and walk for Masen, answering over my shoulder, “I want
to hear him talk.”
I head over to his table, a small round four-seater on the outside of the
room, and rest my ass on the edge, gripping the table with my hands at my
sides.
The boy’s eyes catch my thighs and slowly rise up my body, resting on
my face.
I can hear the beat of drums and guitar pounding out of his earbuds, but
he just sits there, the indents between his eyebrows growing deeper.
Reaching over, I gently tug out his earbuds and cast a look over my
shoulder at my friends, all of them watching us.
“They think you’re homeless,” I tell him, turning back and seeing his
eyes drift from them up to me. “But you’re not eating, and you don’t speak.
I think you’re a ghost.”
I give him a mischievous smile and drop the earbuds, placing my hand
over his heart. His warmth immediately courses through my hand, making
my stomach flip a little. “Nope, scratch that,” I add, pushing forward. “I
feel a heartbeat. And it’s getting faster.”
Masen just watches me, as if waiting for something. Maybe he wants
me to disappear, but he hasn’t pushed me away yet.
I take my hand off his chest and lean back again. “I remember you, you
know? You were at the scavenger hunt in February. At the warehouse in
Thunder Bay.”
He still doesn’t answer, and I’m starting to wonder if I have it wrong.
The guy that night was of few words, but he, at least, ended up being
friendly. How do you toy with someone who won’t engage?
“Do you like to go to the drive-in, Masen?” I ask. “That’s your name,
right?” I look down and fiddle with his pen, trying to act coy. “The