Punk 57 Free PDF, Epub, Mobi By Penelope Douglas Book

Dear Misha,

So, have I ever told you my secret shame?

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.

No, actually, it’s far worse, and I’m a little embarrassed to tell you. But

I think negative feelings should be released. Just once, right?

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.

Part of me still does.

You would absolutely hate her. She’s everything we can’t stand. Mean,

cavalier, superficial... The kind who doesn’t have a thought stay in her head

too long or else she needs a nap, right? I’ve always been fascinated with

her, though.

And don’t roll your eyes at me. I can feel it.

It’s just that...given all of her detestable attributes, she’s never alone.

You know?

I kind of envy that. Okay, I really envy that.

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.

Are they laughing at you? Talking about you? Are they sneering at you

like their perfect world would be so much better if you weren’t there,

messing up their view?

Are they just wishing you’d get the hint already and leave?

I feel like that a lot.

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?

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 guess not. Narcissists don’t have insecurities, right?

Must be nice.

My phone buzzes from the center console of my truck, and I look away

from Ryen’s letter to see another text roll in.

Dammit. I’m so late.

The guys are no doubt wondering where the hell I am, and it’s still a

twenty-minute drive to the warehouse. Why can’t I be the invisible bass

player no one cares about?