Chapter Ten #2
Pivoting away from a now-blubbering Cynthia, I shake out my wrists, and head toward the lockers.
A few jocks offer tentative fist bumps as I pass, wanting to cement their place in my pecking order.
There’s a running joke that I was the only freshman who could control the entire campus before he'd even explored it. They don’t know it’s because I had to.
My chest is tight, my heart clenching against the darkness suffocating it.
Pushing into the locker room, I leave the public eye behind for the smell of stale testosterone and layers of deodorant.
Between alcoves for the showers, toilets and water fountain, lockers line the walls above wooden benches.
Sweat-soaked gym bags and wet towels have been left to rot in the corners.
Steam wafts into the main space to curl around ceiling lights, that wiry second-year from the swim team blasting bass-heavy EDM from a portable speaker balanced on top of a shampoo bottle.
He often sets up his own personal DJ booth like that, and I like the music so I leave him to it.
I duck past two guys tangled in a towel-snap war, moving toward the very end of the row.
My locker’s in the corner. Prime territory.
Out of the way, semi-private, and far enough from the entrance that no one accidentally breathes in my orbit unless they have a reason to.
Part of the new campus upgrades was converting the old-style padlocks to digital scanning.
Naturally, both Dean Colt and my parents decided that I would be the best place to start. Setting trends and all that.
I press my thumb to the lock, and the door pops open. Using my fingers, I pry the cool metal open, briefly registering a little more resistance than usual. I probably should have taken a pause at that, but it’s all too late when I tug harder to swing the door open, and my locker detonates.
A blinding eruption of glitter explodes straight into my face with the force of a miniature tsunami.
The air fills with shimmering confetti in every direction, like some demented cannon blast. Purple.
Silver. Hot pink. Neon green. Sparkles coat my skin in seconds, sticking to the damp sweat still clinging to my forehead, jaw and chest, catching in my lashes, my mouth, my ears.
Thousands of tiny, glinting knives embed themselves into my scalp, sifting into my hair like I’m being cursed by a vindictive drag queen.
I stand there frozen, dumbfounded, completely and utterly still. My mind goes blank, partly in shock but mostly in pure, unfiltered disbelief.
“What the-” I start, but my breath hitches, and I cough out splutters of wet, involuntary puffs of glitter.
The damn stuff is in my lungs. It scratches on the way out, sharp edges of the flecks dragging against my throat.
I cough again, harder this time, bent slightly at the waist, spitting flecks of iridescence onto the lino.
The sound of muffled snorts hit my ears, and a half-second later, the choking, gasping bouts of laughter come.
Someone wheezes so hard, they thud to the floor from where they no doubt fell off the bench.
A deep baritone is trying way too hard to whisper whilst saying, “Holy shit bro. Everest just got fairy bombed.” I register the unmistakable click of a phone being unlocked just as Swim Kid’s music changes to a rave remix of Barbie Girl.
I blink, shaking the specks from my lashes and watching them rain towards the ground.
My designer T-shirt is ruined. There’s nothing that can be done to save it from the arts-and-crafts vomit covering my torso.
My eyes lift to the locker’s contents, half-expecting to find the remnants of the glitter cannon shoved into my gym shoes.
Instead, it’s tucked inside my hoodie sleeve along with a folded square of matte paper.
I don’t touch it immediately, mostly because I’m trying to delay the tickle playing at the bridge of my nose, and fail.
The sneeze comes violently, a sudden, unglamorous expulsion that sends a new burst of sparkles bursting around me in a shimmering arc.
They catch in the fluorescent lights, enveloping me inside my personal snow globe of hellish color.
I wipe my nose with the back of my wrist, smearing the sparkles further across my cheekbone, leaving a streak that might never come off.
More people are flocking into the locker room, beckoned in by their friends.
Each one gasps louder than the last, but I’m pointedly ignoring them all.
It’s too late to tell them to get out or to put their phones down.
Carefully, I reach for the note and pluck it free, brushing off the top layer of glitter with a flick of my fingers before unfolding it.
The handwriting is neat, decorative, and feminine.
Try not to choke on your ego, Captain.
I narrow my eyes at the signature-less message. It has to be her. I don’t know how Meg found the time to sneak in whilst I was distracted, but her intention is loud and clear. This is a sequin-coated declaration of war.
My jaw ticks. I tried to be as nice as I can.
I offered to help her reputation, I’ve already publicly defended her, and this is how she repays me.
The sensation of the glitter clinging to my throat and the curve of my collarbone is maddening.
Like I’m being massaged with sandpaper. The laughter dies down behind me, replaced by the occasional cough and rustle of someone sneaking out before I recover from this disaster.
Anyone from my ranks caught in here when I’m ready to face them will face a punishment, if only for sticking around.
The fact that no one saw anything suspicious before I was made a fool of is even worse.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to straighten. I smooth down the front of my ruined T-shirt and shut my locker with a quiet, metallic click. The music cuts out and a wet squeak of shower sandals round the corner. Swim Kid pulls up short at his audience, and then his eyes land on me.
“Say a single word,” I dare him with a hoarse voice.
I don’t bother finishing my threat, mostly because it hurts to speak.
Also because I don’t know how I could possibly seem imposing right now whilst looking like a pissed-off version of Tinkerbell.
Luckily, Swim Kid values his life and retreats back into the showers, clutching his towel at his waist. Twisting my head, I address those lingering with a side-glance.
“Whoever brings Megan O’Connor to me can have my ticket to the Lakers game next weekend.
” Suddenly, the men scatter and cause a pile-up in the doorway.
A shudder rolls the length of my spine, and my hands curl into fists at my sides.
Despite it all, a slow smirk pulls at my lips.
Yep, someone is definitely fucking with me, and she’s about to get what’s coming to her.