Punk 57 by Penelope Douglas Page A

back up, stuffing it into the locket and closing it.
    Everyone around me hustles up and down the stairs, and I jog to my class, slipping the necklace back into my jean shorts.
    Who does the locket belong to? A family member? A girlfriend? Maybe he stole it. He’s living at the Cove, after all, and judging by the state of his hands and jeans, it doesn’t look like a parent is watching over him. He 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?”
    I hear a snort behind me—from J.D., no doubt—and I smile.
    “You asked for an analysis of the story, so I watched the movie,” I explain, plucking my Anna Karenina paper out of his hand. “Spoiler alert, there was a lot of sex in it.”
    Laughter breaks out, and I feel a rush hit my veins, pumping me up after my minor humiliation yesterday.
    Mr. Foster and I constantly go head to head, and while Art may be the class I enjoy the most, Foster is my favorite teacher. He encourages us to use our voice and is one of the only adults to talk to his students like adults.
    “I asked for an analysis of the novel , Ryen.”
    “And I tried” I tell him. “I honestly did. But it was depressing and in a pointless way. What was I supposed to learn? Women, don’t cheat on your husbands in nineteenth century Russia, or you’ll be cast out of society and forced to throw yourself in front of a train?” I sit up in my seat. “Got it. And the next time I’m in nineteenth century Russia, I’m going to remember it.”
    I hear J.D. chuckle again behind me and more giggles break out in the room.
    But Foster lowers his voice, looking me deep in the eyes. “You’re better than this,” he whispers.
    I stare at him for a moment, seeing the plea in his eyes. Seeing how highly he thinks of my intellect and how angry he is that I don’t make better use out of it.
    He backs away, moving onto the next student but still speaking to me. “Read Jane Eyre , and redo it,” he demands.
    I should quietly accept my punishment and be grateful he’s giving me another chance instead of accepting the C that’s written on my Anna Karenina paper right now. But I can’t resist smarting off some more.
    “Can I at least read something written in the past hundred years?” I ask. “Something where a middle-aged