1642734778_punk-57-pdf

I shove it at his chest.
He takes the paper. “Now the necklace.”
“I didn’t take a necklace!” I shout. “Just the paper.”
He snaps the scissors at my hair again, and I scream. “Dammit! I told
you! I didn’t take it! It—”
Ten. Ten was with me. He took it.
Shit.
“What?” Masen growls, probably seeing the realization on my face.
I breathe hard, flexing my jaw. “My friend was with me. I’ll get it.
Alright? I’ll get it. Now get off me!”
He pauses, staring down at me. But eventually he pushes off the bed and
tosses the scissors onto the desk, sliding the poem into his back pocket.
I shoot up, grabbing at my ponytail and finding the small bit of hair that
was snipped. Only about half an inch from a few strands.
I scowl at him. “Prick.”
“Tomorrow,” he orders, ignoring my insult. “The parking lot after
school.” And then he holds up my notebook. “I’m keeping this as
insurance.”
“No. I don’t trust you.”
“What do ya know, Rocks?” He smiles. “Something we have in
common. I don’t trust you, either.” He curls the notebook, squeezing it in
his fist. “Now don’t waste any more of my time. Tomorrow.”
I grind my teeth, watching him walk toward the door. He stops in the
doorway and turns around, taking a last look around my room.
“You know… I really do like your room,” he muses. “Maybe if you
were more like this at school, people wouldn’t talk behind your back so
much.”
He walks out, slamming the door behind him, and my face falls.