And everyone starts laughing. I bet they don’t even know it’s a Woody Allen quote.
They discovered the graffiti this morning, here in the girls’ locker room this time, and while the teachers covered it up with paper, everyone saw what was behind it.
The school has been vandalized twenty-two times in the last month, and today makes twenty-three.
At first, it was slow—one occurrence here and there—but now it’s more frequent, nearly every day, and sometimes several times a day. As if “the little punk,” as he or she has come to be known, has developed a taste for breaking into the school at night and leaving random messages on the walls.
“Well,” I say, hooking my bag over my shoulder and slamming my locker door shut. “With the cameras going in all the hallways and covering every entrance soon, I’m sure he or she will either wise up and quit, or get caught. Their days are numbered.”
“I hope he gets caught,” Katelyn says, excitement in her eyes. “I want to know who it is.”
“Boo.” Lyla pouts. “That’s no fun.”
I twist around and head out of the locker room. Yeah, of course it’s no fun if Punk gets caught. No one knows what to expect when they come to school in the morning, and it’s gotten to the point where the first thing on everyone’s agenda is to look for whatever message the vandal has left. They think the intrigue is fun, and while they’re curious, Falcon’s Well would be just a little bit more tedious without the mystery.
Sometimes the messages are serious.
I polish up my sheen, but you can’t shine shit.
-Punk
And then everyone is quiet, visibly brushing off the cryptic message as if it’s nothing, but you know it’s in their heads all day, a thought without a leash.
And then sometimes it’s comical.
FYI, your mom wouldn’t date your dad if she could make that choice again.
-Punk
And everyone laughs.
But the next day, I heard, several parents called the school, because their sons and daughters had given them the third degree to see if it was true.
The messages are never signed, and they’re never directed to anyone in particular, but they’ve become anticipated. Who is he? What will he write next? How is he doing it without being seen?
And they all assume it’s a “he” and not a “she” even though there’s no proof it’s one or the other.
But the mystery buzzes around school, and I’m pretty sure attendance is up just so no one misses what happens next.
Strolling up to my locker, I drop my bag to the ground, pulling in a long breath. The sudden weight on my chest makes it a struggle to inhale as I twist the dial on the lock, keying in the combination.
My head falls forward, but I snap it back up.
Shit.
Opening the door, shielding myself for all the eyes around me, I reach under my skirt, under the tight elastic of my spandex shorts, and grab my inhaler.
“Hey, can I borrow your suede skirt today?”
I jump, releasing my inhaler, and pulling my hand out.
Lyla stands to my left while Katelyn and Mel hover at my right.
Picking up my backpack, I dig out my books from last night and load them into my locker. “You mean the expensive one that I sold half my closet to a consignment shop to pay for?” I ask, shoving my books onto the shelf. “Not a chance.”
“I’ll tell your mom about all the clothes you hide in your locker.”
“And I’ll tell your mom about all the times you weren’t actually sleeping at my house for the night,” I retort, smiling as I place my bag on the hook in my locker and look to Katelyn and Mel.
The other girls laugh, and I turn back to my locker, retrieving my Art notebook and English text for my first two classes.
“Please?” she begs. “My legs look so good in it.”
I pull in a breath with everything I have, the struggle to fill my lungs growing like there’s a thousand pounds sitting on my chest.
Fine. Whatever. Anything to get her out of here. I reach into my locker and pull out the skirt hanging on a plastic hook I’d stuck in the back.
I toss the smooth, tan fabric at her. “Don’t have sex in it.”
She smiles gleefully, fanning out the skirt to have another look at it. “Thank you.”
I grab my small bag, filled with drawing pencils, and my phone.
“What do you have right now?” Lyla asks, folding the skirt over her arm. “Art?”
I nod.
“I don’t understand how you can’t get out of that. I know you hate it.”
I close my locker, hearing the bell ring and seeing everyone around us start to hustle. “It’s almost the end of the year. I’ll live.”