Punk 57 by Penelope Douglas

my pillow and reaching inside, pulling out a folded, worn piece of paper.
    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.
    I stare at the word written on the back of my door, in large, chalk letters that I didn’t write.
    Fraud.

    The next morning , I make my way to Ten’s locker, but only after stopping by the school office and reporting my own vandalized and getting a new one assigned. Students crowd the halls, and I hold my books in my arm and turn inward, trying to avoid any attention.
    “Do you have it?” I ask without saying hello first.
    He glances up from his locker and sighs, looking a little embarrassed. I’d texted him last night, demanding he bring the locket today.
    Reaching into the pocket of his knee-length shorts, he pulls out a long chain with a circular, silver locket hanging off it.
    I take it, instantly feeling a little relief at having what that asshole wants. Now I can get my notebook back.
    “Why would you take this?” I snap. Did he think it would go well with his J. Crew T-shirts?
    But Ten just shrugs. “It looked like an antique. I thought maybe it might be worth something.”
    I slip the necklace into my pocket. “Klepto.”
    “How did you know I took it anyway?”
    Because the hot new guy, who also happens to be squatting in an abandoned theme park, broke into my bedroom last night, cut my hair, and threatened to expose my hideous inner musings about all of my friends if I didn’t get it back.
    Yeah, no.
    “I’ll see you at lunch,” I say, ignoring his question and turning around to head to Art.
    Digging the necklace back out of my pocket as I walk, I flip it over, studying the aged silver and intricate detail around the large moonstone set in the middle. Ten is right. It looks like an antique. There are several scratches, and the metal feels thicker, more solid than your typical Target jewelry.
    What does the necklace mean to Masen Laurent, though? I open the locket, slowly climbing the stairwell, the people jogging and laughing around me a distant echo.
    But as soon as I pop it open, I dig in my eyebrows, seeing, not pictures as I expected, but a tiny, folded-up piece of paper.
    Taking it out, I unwrap it and turn it over, reading the words.
     
    Close your eyes. There’s nothing to see out here.
     
    I slow to a stop, staring at the note and saying the words to myself again.
    It sounds familiar, like I’ve heard them before. Or said them or something…
    The second bell rings, our one-minute warning, and I fold the paper