Punk 57

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Annie is my only sibling, and despite my less-than-stellar relationship with our dad, she and I get along really well. Just go home and get in bed, Annie. Stop getting up at 4:30 in the morning, and get a decent night of sleep. I wonder if the cheerleader feels it. When the music stops and everyone goes home? When the day is gone and she doesn’t have anyone to entertain herself with? When she removes her makeup, taking off her brave face for the day, do the demons she keeps buried start playing with her when there’s no one else to play with? I shoot my glare farther up the road and see that she’s right. Her blue MINI Cooper sits on the right shoulder, waiting for her. It feels like shit to be alone. To be in a place full of people and feel like they don’t want you there. To feel like you’re at a party you weren’t invited to. No one even knows your name. No one wants to. No one cares.

Letting out a silent laugh, she shakes her head and speeds up, forcing me to, as well. “And do you know where we are?” she argues. “On the road between Thunder Bay and Falcon’s Well. No one’s ever on this road. I’m fine.” She arches an eyebrow at me. “And you sound like Dad.” But how can I be mad at her? She’s going places, and she’s a happy kid. Anything I can do to make her happier, I guess. But no. Ryen likes to keep our friendship status quo. It works, after all. Why risk losing it by changing it?I stare at her words again, running over the sentence in my head. When she removes her make-up, taking off her brave face for the day… th, grazing the piercing there. “A little here,” I mumble, the lyrics turning in my head, “to cover the bags under your eyes, and some pink on your cheeks to spread the lies.”

Yessssss.” She bows her head in dramatic nods. “I’ll see you when you get home, okay? Go get my root beer and candy.” This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. I put the pen to paper again, trying to finish my thought, but I stop, searching my brain. What the hell was next? A little here to cover the bags under your eyes…

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And no, it’s not watching Teen Mom like you. Go ahead and try to deny it. I know you don’t have to sit there with your sister, man. She’s old enough to watch TV by herself. I stop and think as I pull my bottom lip in between my teeth, grazing the piercing there. “A little here,” I mumble, the lyrics turning in my head, “to cover the bags under your eyes, and some pink on your cheeks to spread the lies.” I know it’s pathetic to want a place among other people, and I know you’ll say it’s better to stand alone and be right than stand in a crowd and be wrong, but... I still feel that need all the time. Do you ever feel it? Proofreading & Interior Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting What did she always tell me? Just start. Don’t worry about what I’m going to say. Just start, and everything will open up.

But after the school year ended, we didn’t stop. Even though we live less than thirty miles away from each other and have Facebook now, we continue to communicate this way because it keeps it special. I noticed it missing, and I’d just taken out money yesterday. I didn’t spend it, and this is the third time my cash has gone missing. She puts on the ten-year-old sad face she knows works on me. “I was going shopping for some science project supplies, and you never spend your money. It shouldn’t go to waste.” I hear my phone beep again, and I falter. “Alright,” I growl, willing the damn texts to stop. Can’t my bandmates host a party without me for five minutes? You see, there’s a girl at school. You know the kind. Cheerleader, popular, gets everything she wants… I hate to admit this, especially to you, but a long time ago I wanted to be her.He hasn’t written in three months. Something’s wrong. Did he die? Get arrested? Knowing Misha, neither would be a stretch. A chain hanging somewhere in the vast space above me blows in the gust and bangs against a rafter while a shiver creeps up my spine. Slipping the paper into my glove box, among a few other of my favorites of Ryen’s letters, I take my pen, hovering it over the notepad that sits on my lap. And some caramels,” she adds, ignoring my request. “Or anything chewy.” She then hops off the step, taking off at a faster pace down the street away from me.

We only had three rules. No social media, no phone numbers, no pictures. We had a good thing going. Why ruin it? Alright, I gotta go. But yes, to answer your question, that lyric you sent me last time sounds great. Go with it, and I can’t wait to read the whole song.Without him around, I’m going crazy. I need to know someone is listening. It’s my own fault. I should've gotten his number or picture or something. So driving helps me think. He’s doesn’t need to bust my ass just because I can’t help it when ideas hit me. The bitter February chill cuts through my hoodie, and I turn on the heater and flip on my brights, the wide light casts a glow deep into the darkness ahead. Until I run across a photo of a girl online. Name’s Ryen, loves Gallo’s pizza, and worships her iPhone. What are the chances?