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I don’t ask if she wants me to open it. I figure spinning the lock will be a nice distraction for a second.
While she turns the dial, I’m about to ask about her last school. I assume it was public and smaller than Dalton.
Just as I open my mouth, I spot someone familiar in the corner of my eye. Carly Jefferson. She whispers to a group of three girls, about fifteen lockers down from Willow’s.
I’d like to think I’m more observant than paranoid. That this isn’t all in my head. But I have this feeling. You know the feeling—the one where everything stills around you. Just for a moment. Where every crack and flaw that frames a photo suddenly magnifies ten million times over.
It’s happening. Right now.
The hallway noises deaden in my mind. Leaving excruciating silence. Their furtive glances like sharp knives. Their smiles like snarls. Carly giggles and nudges her friend’s side. A couple guys join the huddle of girls. They lean against lockers and smirk. Taking a front row seat to a show.
Wrong.
Everything is wrong.
“Willo—” I start and grab her arm to stop her from opening the locker.
The dial has already clicked, and the blue metal swings back.
It should be empty. But it’s not.
Hundreds of tampons fall out, most in their wrapper. A handful have been torn open and soaked in what I hope is red dye.
She freezes.
I don’t even know what to do. I go as still, as quiet as her.
And the hallway erupts in laughter.
Here’s the truth: I’ve never been pranked at school. I’ve never been picked on by anyone but my brothers. I used to be well-liked. Even if I hated myself half the time.
I want to say something.
Do something.
Anything.
To stand up for the quieter person. For the first time in my life.
11
willow moore
My instinct is to run, but I have nowhere to actually go. I’ve already run away from Caribou, Maine. This is the place that I’ve run to.
My ribs tighten around my lungs with a hysteric thought and my new eulogy: Willow Moore, that fool who ran away to have her locker filled with tampons and be publicly humiliated in a new school.
It’s not true. I can’t let it be.
I ran away to build a relationship with my brother.
To become me without any apologies attached. None of these: “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m not as pretty or as popular as you hoped I’d be.”
Garrison makes the first move. He kicks the tampons at a couple girls and guys, grouped several lockers away. When he swings his head to me, pieces of his hair fall to his eyelashes, and he says, “Blaze.”
Blaze.
From Streets of Rage, an early nineties video game, she’s one of the strongest female characters in a slew of men. While I don’t have her judo skills or her physique, it’s easy to pretend I’m her when someone pretends with me. And by saying her name, I know Garrison is trying to bolster my confidence.
On our trek from the parking lot to the school this morning, Garrison asked if I’d ever played Streets of Rage. When I said I did, he told me, “So imagine you’re Blaze and I’m Axel and this hallway—the one we’re going to be walking down—is nothing we can’t handle.”
“Axel,” I whisper and brush the tampons out of my locker.
I remember the phone call from Rose Calloway—after I spilled tampons accidentally on the street. In front of the world.
I’m not going to be embarrassed. Remember what Rose said. I take a few deep breaths, my stomach twisting in knots.
It’s harder than it sounds.
Garrison says, “Now I wish I had a crowbar.” It’s the go-to weapon in Streets of Rage.
My eyes widen behind my glasses.
“Kidding.” He glares at the cluster of people, just now coming down from their laughing fit. “Sort of.”
I quickly stuff my backpack into my now empty locker, slamming it shut. Just as I turn, I realize that Garrison has left my side. He’s taken a few lengthy strides towards the group, all laughter faded.
I try to grip my backpack strap, only to meet air.
I stand stiffly, more in the middle of the hall. My uniform is as uncomfortable as I feel. I check the state of the bow, like a teacher will yell any second about its off-kilter state.
It looks okay though.
What doesn’t look so great: the scene in front of me.
“That’s not cool,” Garrison tells the shorter girl with dirty blonde hair. I wonder if she’ll have to take out her nose piercing before first period. This thought is trying to trounce the bolder, bigger one that screams, these are his friends.
He approaches them like he knows them. Like he’s talked to them often. Like he’s so familiar with who they are.
The shorter girl pushes out her chest and pulls back her shoulders to gain some height. “You know what’s not cool? Betraying your best friends.” Her eyes redden, and she takes an angrier step forward. The other girl clasps her shoulder. “You should be in there with John! You deserve jail time more than any one of them, and you know it!”
