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A heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder and spins me around. It’s Mr. Morris, the school principal. I recognize the red-faced man beside him as the school’s security guard.
“Natasha, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside,” Mr. Morris says.
“But why? What’s—”
Before I can finish, the guard slips some tool from his pocket—a cross between a Slim Jim and a crowbar—and cracks my locker wide open.
The principal sighs.
The guard grunts.
And I stare in disbelief at a pile of brand-new designer clothes, shoes, and sunglasses that definitely isn’t mine.
“Come with me.” Mr. Morris gestures for me to follow as the guard clears out my locker.
“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice so shallow and empty, I feel like a ghost of myself.
