Maybe she has no fucking clue she’s standing in front of Misha Lare right now.
We’re not a big deal, and this is probably the only thing going on in a fifty mile radius, so why wouldn’t she be here, if only because there’s nothing else to do? Does she really not know who I am? I guess there would be plenty of people here who haven’t heard of us. “Okay, nevermind.” And she turns to walk away.ĭane sweeps in, stopping her, and turns to me, scolding under his breath, “Dude, why are you looking at her like she slapped your grandma? Damn.”Īnd then he turns to Ryen and smiles. She shakes her head, like I’m the one being rude.
Seven years and this is how you want to meet, Angel? I’m getting a little pissed she’s acting clueless. “I need a picture of a picture of a picture. “Or…” she goes on, sounding annoyed that I haven’t responded. She’s seriously going to keep up with this charade? “I also need a picture of eating something Lady & The Tramp style with someone,” she suggests instead.īut I keep my arms crossed and narrow my eyes on her. When I don’t, she lets out a sigh and looks down at her card. She shifts her stance and I see her chest rise with a heavy breath, looking like she’s waiting for me to say something. Our names and pictures are on our Facebook page and the rack cards by the entrance. It’s damn near impossible to be invisible these days, and she came to an event for my band. Why isn’t she saying anything? She has to know who I am. I look at Ryen, both of us locked in an awkward silence. Or right under my nose, and I wouldn’t even know it. I should’ve gotten his number or picture or something. Did he die? Get arrested? Knowing Misha, neither would be a stretch. Name’s Ryen, loves Gallo’s pizza, and worships her iPhone. Until I run across a photo of a girl online. No social media, no phone numbers, no pictures. She’s the only one who keeps me on track, talks me down, and accepts everything I am. Sometimes there’s one a week or three in a day, but I need them. Her letters are always on black paper with silver writing. Whether or not Eminem is the greatest rapper ever…Īnd that was the start. And in no time at all, we were arguing about everything. It didn’t take long for us to figure out the mistake. My teacher, believing Ryen was a boy like me, agreed.
Thinking I was a girl, with a name like Misha, the other teacher paired me up with her student, Ryen. In fifth grade, my teacher set us up with pen pals from a different school. I can’t help but smile at the words in her letter.
Title: Punk 57 ( Goodreads / Purchase links)Īuthor: Penelope Douglas ( Website / Twitter / Facebook / Goodreads )
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