Page 12 of The Tattered Gloves
For both of us.
She’d just end up disappointed and filled with regret if she tried feeling anything for me.
The school looked different at this time of day. Students were loitering in small groups on the lawn, talking or texting on their phones. Even texting couldn’t be done alone in high school.
I managed to go unnoticed as I walked through the entrance and down the familiar hall, passing the fishbowl office I’d sat in yesterday. The chatty secretary my aunt had spoken about looked up from the counter, instantly recognizing me, and waved.
Figuring I’d handed out enough rudeness for the morning, I gave a small wave back as my pace quickened down the hallway, toward the direction of my new locker. Although, I’d declined the normal student tour guide on my first day, the chatty secretary had been kind enough to show me around briefly while class was in session, even stopping by my locker briefly.
Today though, I’d be on my own.
It was what I was used to after all.
Roaming down the corridor, I found the locker without issue. The building might be somewhat outdated, but the lockers seemed relatively new.
However, getting into them proved otherwise.
After three attempts, I was ready to give up and just use my hand-me-down backpack as a makeshift locker.
Who needed an aligned spine anyway?
Certainly not me.
“It helps if you go past the last number just slightly,” a voice called out.
I looked to my right and found the same blonde girl I’d seen sneaking in the day before.
Although we shared the same hair color, the similarities stopped there. She was everything I was not. Tall, lean, and curvy in all the right places and dressed in a way that clearly showed she’d never worn a single piece of secondhand clothing.
“Thanks,” I replied dryly.
“You’re new here,” she said, not bothering to form her words into a question.
If everyone knew everything about each other, like my aunt had said, then it would be obvious to a popular-looking girl like her that I didn’t fit in. That I obviously didn’t belong.
“Yes,” I said, giving my locker combination another try.
To my surprise, her bit of advice actually worked, and the door sprung free, giving way to an unimpressive little space for my things.
Realizing I actually had nothing to put in there, I quickly shut it.
“Where are you from?” the nosy girl asked.
I guess this conversation is continuing.
“DC,” I answered as I made an attempt to leave.
She just followed right along. “DC? Wow, I bet this is crazy different.”
Crazy different.That’s one way to describe it.
“You could say that,” I replied, wondering just how long she’d be tagging along. Would she follow me into my first period class? Would she try to braid my hair and make friendship bracelets with me at lunch?
As I dodged down the correct hallway for my first period class, the friendly blonde stuck to me like glue, chatting away about small-town life.
“We don’t have a movie theater, but sometimes, on weekends and special occasions, the park will set up a giant screen and play old movies. It’s a great place to hang out.”
I gave a strained smile, stopping in front of the open door that led to my first class.
