1642734778_punk-57-pdf

my sister’s stupid narcissistic decorating, and stands up. “Ryen, right?” he
asks, looking around my room. “I must say, this is not at all what I
expected.”
I’m a lot of what you’re not expecting, dickhead. “Get out.”
“Make me.”
I fist my hands. “How did you get in?”
“Through the front door.” He steps toward me. “So where is it?”
I pinch my eyebrows together, confused. “Where’s what?”
“My shit.” His teeth are bared, his smile gone.
His shit? What’s he talking about?
“Get out!” I yell. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You seem nervous.”
“You think?!” I retort. “I don’t like strange guys in my house, and I
really don’t like anyone in my room.”
“Don’t care,” he replies, looking bored. “You took something of mine.
Two things of mine, actually, and I want them back.”
“No, I didn’t. Now get out!”
He reaches behind himself and pulls something out of the back of his
jeans, holding it up. My face falls, and a knot tightens in my stomach.
Shit. My notebook.
A large, white leather-bound diary of rants and pity parties I’ve thrown
for myself over the past three years, and something I don’t want anyone to
see. Ever. Every bad thought or feeling I’ve ever had about myself, my
family, and my friends, that I couldn’t voice out loud, is in that book.
How did he find it?
“Under the mattress isn’t exactly a novel idea, you know?” he says.
“And yes, I read that part. And the other one. And the other one.”
My heart pounds in my ears, and a scream creeps its way up my throat.