1642734778_punk-57-pdf

probably doesn’t have any money, and if he can break into my house
without leaving a scratch, then I’m sure he’s done it before.
I’m tempted to seek him out now and get my notebook back, but it’s
probably in his locker or his car, and I don’t trust him to be able to do a
quick exchange without others spotting me talking to the weirdo who
dumped me on my ass yesterday. I don’t want to be seen with him again.
And luckily, I don’t see him in Art today. Perhaps he got out of the
class.
Or—my heart sinks a little—maybe he’s not at school today. Agitation
boils under my skin. If I have to go back to that junkyard again and search
him out, I’ll be pissed. I’m getting that book back.
After Art, I head to English IV, carrying my text, notebook, and copy of
Lolita. But as soon as I step into the room, I spot him sitting in the row to
the left of mine, one desk back.
Relief and a touch of annoyance both hit me. He wasn’t in this class
yesterday. Is he going to be in any more of my classes?
But he doesn’t seem to see me. Just like yesterday in Art, the guy
simply sits there, staring ahead with a slight scowl on his face as if this is all
such an inconvenience to him.
I take my seat, noticing his jeans and black T-shirt are actually clean
today.
Mr. Foster fires up his projector, the screen of his laptop appearing on
the big white board in front of the class, and he begins making the rounds,
handing back our latest essays. The final bell rings, and the class lowers
their voices, quietly chattering as the teacher walks up and down the aisles.
“So I’m going to go out on a limb,” Foster says, stopping at my desk
and holding my paper as he peers down at me. “Did you actually read the
book, or did you read reviews?”