He totally catches me staring from across the hall like the gawker that I’m not, and I flip open my econ book to a random page as if my sole purpose in this hallway at this moment is to save the lives of hundreds of innocent children by defining the term “gross domestic product.” Here it is! The sum of all market values of goods and services produced by a nation in a given year. Says so right on page ninety-four. Disaster averted! Lives saved! Awards, um, awarded! Still, he’s smiling right at me, and I can’t escape. I wave and head toward him with my best fancy-meeting-you-here-at-your-own-locker face, front and center. “Hi, Josh,” I say, super-originally. He leans against his open locker door, shoulders shifting under a faded Addicts in the Attic shirt. “How’s it going?” “Good,” I say, once again demonstrating my knack for witty conversation. “So, um, you like the Addicts?” No, idiot. He hates them. Why else would he be wearing their shirt? “You know those guys?”
