Our electronic school bells were, like, the best inventions since sliced bread. They were always on time. First period was about to start in five minutes. Cindy and I walked down the nosebleed section of lockers where all the misfits, ex-jocks, wannabe cheerleaders, punk rockers, and the socially anxious hid from the rest of the school. Personally, I think lockers should be assigned rather than chosen so we could all learn to get along and appreciate each others’ differences. But the idea of an over-talkative, Red Bull–addicted, burnt-out cheerleader accosting me every time I needed to go to my locker did sort of weird me out. “I so need to clean out my locker,” Cindy said. She dumped her books at the top of the locker. She had two pairs of shoes, three pairs of jeans, a minimal number of books, and a cosmetics bag the size of a small suitcase stuffed into her locker. “Okay, don’t think I’m weird,” I said. “Too late for that.” “Well …” I paused to think about the psychological ramifications of revealing that I might have imagined the whole thing.
