Punk Love Read online

  “Thanks, guys,” I said, pushing my kilt down my legs before swinging the door open.

  “Sure thing.” Ryan gave me thumbs-up, and I leaned forward to kiss his cheek, because back then, being a teenager meant going through a complex ceremony of kissing everyone’s cheek when you saw them. Double kiss their cheek if they were your BFFs.

  I refrained from even looking at Alex from fear I would explode.

  “Thanks for the ride, Alex.”

  He nodded once, looking straight ahead.

  I got out of the car and ran home, took a hot shower, and had a massive grilled cheese with creamy tomato soup I felt oddly guilty about, because I wasn’t vegetarian anymore. I was supposed to be vegan.

  But on the other hand…I mean, come on. It’s cheese.

  Veganism could wait one day. It was best to start diets and ideological ways of life on Mondays, right?

  The day after, at school, Ryan acted like the demonstration never happened.

  He didn’t mention Alex. Or Tom. Or Jadie.

  I was dying to know what Alex thought about me, but of course, couldn’t ask.

  The day after, I found a website with a few grainy pictures of their band playing, and I was so happy I thought I was going to cry, because now I could look at Alex whenever I wanted, even if the picture was taken in a darkened room, and about fifty feet away from him.

  Three days after the demonstration, I got a message on software called ICQ.

  To those who don’t know—ICQ was the early 2000s Messenger. Only without all the cool stuff. We used to do emojis with brackets, exclamation points and hyphens, and GIFs were something we didn’t even know how to pronounce (side note: I still don’t know if it’s Gif or Jeef). Each person was assigned a really complex, totally unmemorable number, like your social security number, but worse, and you could see who was online or not by the color (green, red, or black).

  The message was from an unknown number.

  209898179: Hi

  My initial instinct screamed “predator”.

  Wasn’t I old enough for pedophiles?

  My other guess was someone from a foreign country who would try to convince me he was a billionaire prince who was involved in a car accident and needed me—yes, fifteen-year-old me—to help manage his bank accounts, and if I’d give him my parents’ credit card number, he’d transfer all his funds to us.

  But after a few deep breaths, I decided there was an unlikely chance it was someone I knew.

  Maybe someone from school? Maybe even Jadie?

  Me: Who is this?

  The answer came after a few excruciating minutes.

  209898179: Alex.

  My heart.

  My poor heart.

  If this was a prank, I was going to strangle someone. But who would prank me? No one even knew I liked him. Not even Ryan. Not that Ryan would ever stoop this low. I told all my other girlfriends about the demonstration, but mentioned Alex only briefly, and with open disdain, because again: rejection. Hurt feelings. Shattered heart. I didn’t want to deal with all of that.

  Me: Alex who?

  209898179: I need to get drumsticks this week. I’m driving into the city.

  Me: Thanks for the fun fact?

  209898179: You coming or what?

  I stood up and went to the kitchen. My knees felt like Jell-O. The rest of me like rice pudding. I grabbed a glass. Poured myself some water. Proceeded to spill it all over my shirt trying to gulp it.

  He was asking me out, that much was clear.

  We were going to get married and have Viking-looking babies. That, too, was a given fact at this point.

  Now that I knew where my life was heading, the least I could do was keep my future husband waiting for a few minutes. Play hard to get.

  After drinking two glasses of water, then proceeding to pee for a full minute, then looking at myself in the mirror and screaming silently, I went back to my PC.

  Alex wasn’t online anymore. I knew he wouldn’t be. Guys like Alex didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  I wrote him back, anyway.

  Me: I guess. Pick me up Friday at four?

  I wore a stripy black and white dress that clung to my curves and killer fake-leather army boots for my maybe-date with Alex.

  My makeup, I thought, was on point. From my thick eyeliner to my nude lip gloss. I blew out my hair several times, straightened, then styled it, and flossed my teeth until my gums wanted to file a restraining order against me.

  I still looked like a good girl posing as a bad girl at a tame Halloween party, but I told myself Alex already knew who I was and still chose to send me a message, so maybe good girls were his jam.

  We hadn’t talked on ICQ since agreeing to meet on Friday.

  It was excruciating, watching his name turn green every evening, knowing he was online and not being able to do anything about it. I wondered if he felt the same. If he saw my name, too, and wanted to talk. If so—why didn’t he?

  I also wondered what he was doing online (but at seventeen, did I really have to wonder? He was most definitely watching porn).

  There was only one thing that put a damper on my complete and utter euphoria—Ryan.

  I still hadn’t told my good friend that Alex had contacted me. That we were going into the city together on Friday, without him.

  Even though I hung out with Ryan every day at school, I never broached the subject of Alex.

  There were a few reasons for that:

  The first and most obvious one was that it had become pretty apparent that Ryan liked me, but not apparent enough that I could flat-out tell him that I only saw him as a friend.

  Secondly, I knew he didn’t like Alex. I was afraid to lose Ryan’s friendship, especially if things with Alex didn’t pan out, which—let’s admit it—was always a possibility when dealing with high-functioning sociopaths.

  Third and most bizarrely of all, it almost felt like betraying Alex.

  Without knowing him much at all, I already suspected he was a very private person. There was no other reason why Ryan would think Alex wasn’t getting any action. Clearly, Alex hadn’t shared with Ryan that we were seeing each other Friday. Otherwise, Ryan would have clubbed me with a ten-foot pole long ago. Ryan had mentioned fleetingly that he met up with the band almost every day that week for rehearsals.

  If Alex chose not to tell him, maybe there was a reason for that. A reason beyond the fact Alex wasn’t big on talking to people (or at all).

  It felt like a secret, and I didn’t like having secrets.

  Anyway. Excuse this five-hundred word long detour.

  It was four o’clock on Friday, and your girl was buzzing with excitement.

  I watched VH1 in the living room, gurgling milk to make my teeth appear whiter before chewing on a piece of mint gum to get rid of the milky residue.

  The last thing I needed was to taste like cow milk in case he kissed me.

  I did make a fairly honest attempt to go vegan the entire week, and mostly succeeded, save for a dash of cream in my coffee (this was mid 2000s, back when oat milk, almond milk, and soy milk still tasted like sweaty feet).

  Four twenty-five rolled around, and my excitement morphed into annoyance, dipped in embarrassment. Was he standing me up?

  At four thirty-five my phone buzzed with a message. By then, I was deflated, furious, and my eyeliner melted under my eyes.

  Alex: I’m here.

  I let him wait nine minutes before coming out the gate.

  One look at Alex, with his blond bun, massive shoulders, and don’t-fuck-with-me expression waiting behind the wheel, and my ire dissolved into thin air, replaced by heart eyes and the urgent need to browse baby name books to choose what we’d call our children.

  Of course, I couldn’t let him know that. Outwardly, I was still fuming.

  I slid into the passenger seat and buckled up.

  “Hi.” His voice was flat. Bored. Like he was a cab driver tasked with the job of driving me all the way across the country.

  “If you say so,” I answered maturely. Which was not the logical response for “hi”.

  He shot me a WTF look.

  I briefly thought about how we were so…dishonest. Closed off. There was a level of immaturity I strangely liked about how we interacted.

  There was something to be said about two people who were desperate not to show each other how much they liked one another in order not to lose face or get hurt, but still wanted to take a chance on love.

  Alex started driving. I sent a silent prayer to the universe that my neighbors, some of them girls my age, would see us.

  Me, just chilling with this hot, rich guy who looked like Ragnar Lothbrok’s psycho brother. No big deal. Nothing to see here.

  “You were late,” I pointed out, fighting the urge to twist my fingers together in my lap.

  “No shit.” He yawned, flicking the blinker, not bothering to look at me.

  “You couldn’t text?”

  “I could’ve.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “Was on a phone call.”

  “You’re being a jerk.”

  “I know,” he admitted, sounding sincere for a fraction of a second, his voice still hard, but not rude. “It’s a habit. Bear with me.”

  Why? I wanted to ask.

  Have you ever gone on a date before? Another question I couldn’t allow to tumble past my lips.

  I wasn’t even sure it was a date to begin with. Maybe he truly needed to get drumsticks and had some sort of crippling social anxiety that prevented him from going into stores without a companion or something.

  “Whatever.” I popped a Mentos into my mouth.

  “Didn’t you say you’re vegan?” He scowled, finally awarding me with some attention.

  “I am,” I hissed, confused. My breath all minty and wintery and inviting. Freaked out, I wondered if he had some kind of sixth sense or laser-vision that showed him there was still milk coating my teeth.

  Maybe he’d installed secret cameras in my house.

  Or maybe I just read too many pulp fiction thrillers and needed to take a (vegan) chill pill.

  “Mentos,” he said slowly, methodically, “has beeswax and carmine, which comes from insects. It is therefore not vegan.”

  I practically puked the Mentos back into my hand, rolled the window down and tossed it out. Then I rubbed my tongue with my hand (always a good look). Not because I wanted to show my devotion to being vegan, but because beeswax sounded gross as fuck.

  “Holy hell, I just had a mental image of myself chewing on a cockroach. What kind of crap do they put into our food when we aren’t looking?”

  “Don’t you ever read the labels?” Alex smirked.

  I turned to stare at him like he just fell from a parallel universe straight into the car seat.

  “No, Alex, I don’t. First, because life is too short. Second, because I don’t really want to know. And third, because I can’t even pronounce seventy-five percent of the ingredients in the stuff I eat.”

  “You should read labels. It’s fascinating.”

  “What else do you find fascinating?” I wondered.

  “People who think they’re vegan, but they’re not.”

  He was so lucky he was hot, because I was starting to dislike him. For real.

  I decided to change the subject. If I wanted to feel dumb, I would walk straight into my math class.

  “How was your week?” I asked, opting for a safe topic.

  “It was fine. Had back-to-back rehearsals. Which reminds me, Ryan is a shit bass player. I don’t know why we’re still keeping him. I think Tom feels sorry for him. Especially since he moved to your shitty-ass town.”

  He managed to insult me and my friend and my town when I’d simply asked him about his week.

  At this point his assholeness was basically a talent. Something to be cherished and developed. Was there an asshole Olympics? He could bring the country so many gold medals.

  “He’s good,” I disagreed on principle. “I’ve heard him myself. Plus, it doesn’t matter, does it?” I crossed my arms over my chest, smirking. As things stood right now, Ryan was a genuine, real friend of mine, while Alex was a guy who was (maybe) going to do dirty things to me and (definitely) going to break my heart. My loyalties still laid firmly at Ryan’s feet. “It’s not like you’re doing this for a living.”

  “No, but I like to be good at everything I do.” Alex’s tone turned especially frosty.

  “Well, you’re not good with punctuality, that’s for damn sure, and your manners could use a few tweaks, too.” I shrugged. “So, maybe start there.”

  Something wonderful happened after I said this.

  Alex laughed.

  Actually laughed.

  And that was when I found out he had adorable dimples.

  My heart hiccupped in my chest.

  I was so screwed.

  So, so, sososo screwed.

  The most screwed virgin on planet Earth, possibly.

  “So, you heard him play, huh?” He shot a sidelong look my way.

  I smiled smugly as the Volvo swooshed by the twinkling, bright blue ocean, crowded promenade, and colorful gift shops, heading toward the highway.

  “Couple of times,” I kept it coy.

  It was one time, exactly. When I’d gone to Ryan’s house to drop off some homework one of his teachers had sent for him on a day he was “sick”. And by sick, I mean playing videogames and smoking weed. He forced me to listen to something he wrote. I still had PTSD, not because it was bad, but because it lasted twenty minutes, and I really needed to pee.

  “You hang out with him a lot?” Alex asked.

  “Every day at school,” I said cheerfully, feeling a lot less cheery when I thought about the fact Alex went to school, too, and I had absolutely no idea who he was hanging out with.

  In my mind, all the girls in his high school looked like they’d just walked out of Playboy magazine, bunny ears and lace bras included.

  “He wants in your pants,” Alex informed me, flat-out.

  “How is that different from you?” I asked bravely. “I’m sure you didn’t invite me here because of my extensive knowledge of drumsticks.”

  Or Mentos, for that matter.

  “The difference is you want me in your pants, too,” Alex deadpanned, his eyes still on the road. I choked on my saliva. Dude actually said it. “Our interests are aligned. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I hang out with Ryan, too,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, well, first of all, you do it at school, where your options are limited to teenyboppers or Ryan, who actually possesses a few gray cells, even if they’re not used in full capacity. Second, Ryan is not a class A cunt, so hanging out with him doesn’t take endurance. It is surprisingly easy to know where you stand with people when you are a jerk. I always know my options, honeypie.”

  What. The…

  “Honeypie?” I spluttered.

  It was the corniest…most embarrassing…bizarre nickname I’d ever been called by someone in my age bracket.

  Honeypie. Who even said that outside of banal ’80s movies? My grams, maybe.

  “Yeah.” Alex scowled, his eyes darkening. I could practically see his walls rising. “What’s wrong with Honeypie?”

  “What’s good about it?” I couldn’t stop laughing.

  It was an honest-to-God heaven-sent icebreaker. His face turned serious and a little flushed, and sobered up quickly. I realized that he called me that because he didn’t understand the context of the word in the language we were speaking.

  He was, after all, an immigrant from Russia. Sure, he came here when he was eight, and his accent was faint, barely there—maybe just a lilt around the vowels every now and then—but he was, for all intents and purposes, still a bilingual person who wasn’t completely well-versed in the local lingo.

  His world was different than mine. His brain was a multi-lane highway.

  Suddenly, I felt like complete and utter shit for my remark.

  He looked annoyed now, the shells of his ears pink, and it made my heart pinch.

  The look on his face put a dent in his immortal, unshaken confidence. It allowed me to take my guard down a notch.

  “No, you’re right. Honeypie is…great.” I breathed through my nose, careful not to laugh or even smirk. “Please, continue.”

  He shot me a look from the corner of his eye. “I don’t even remember what we were talking about.”

  “The merits of being an asshole,” I reminded him dutifully.

  “I have nothing more to contribute to this subject. Other than the fact that I am one. What are you, anyway?” he asked, his voice hard and unwavering. He meant where I was from.

  “A human.”

  “No, really.”

  “Okay, a Martian.” I sighed. “But don’t tell anyone. I’ve seen how they treated ET. Appalling, if you ask me.”

  “You’re fucking exasperating. Just answer the question, Lara.”

  “Honeypie,” I corrected primly. “I demand to be referred to by my new pet name.”

  “What’s. Your. Damn. Heritage?” he ground out.

  “Half Russian, half Moroccan. The Russian side traveled a lot and my great-grandmothers liked to keep their options open, so there’s some Polish and Bulgarian mixed in, too. From the North African side, I have some roots in Tunisia, too. Very worldly, I am.”

  “Speak any Russian?” His eyes lit up with hope.

  “Only profanity.” I chewed on my bottom lip.

  “Those are the most important words.” He cracked another devastating smile. His smiles were rare and far-between, but I knew I would sell my soul to see just a sliver of them. I was such a goner for this guy, it was pathetic. “Start talking.”

  And so I found myself sitting next to Alex, shooting curses in Russian for a couple minutes, making my grandmother from heavens above cringe in her furry pink house robe and cup of homemade vodka. He laughed at me, because now, I wasn’t the one with the dialect advantage. He was the one fluent in the language we were speaking. And before we knew it, we were at a music shop bang in the middle of the big city.

  “Whoa. I did not realize we’ve been driving for an hour,” I muttered when we got out of the car, adjusting my messenger bag on my shoulder.