Page 7 of We Were Something
Rising from the bench I’ve been sitting on for the past fifteen minutes or so, I dust my hands off and slink away, choosing to wander through the property and drunkenly reminisce about what life was like back when I was a student here.
I was never a joiner. Most of my time as a teen was spent trying to catch the eye of the next guy I had a crush on—not that I dated more than a few of my classmates. I always found them too immature and ridiculous, focused mostly on their own popularity and very rarely able to give me the attention I craved.
So instead of the boys of Roth Prep, I directed my concentration towardmen. College boys and the older guys I’d meet at The Wave or Harbors or one of the other spots my father owns, allowing 16-year-old me access without needing ID.
The only times I went to school events were the handful of soccer games I went to in support of Wyatt, who used to play for the school team. Most of my days were spent at the beach, hanging with friends, or partying into the wee hours.
Sometimes, I wonder ifnotgetting involved in school was a mistake, if I missed out on some sort of formative experience that helps youths grow up. Though I would consider the time I spent on my knees underneath Mr. Kelson’s desk to be formative enough.
I smirk, remembering how I took a black Sharpie and scrawled my name on the underside of the 25-year-old’s desk. He was new that year. Fresh out of teacher school, or wherever they go to learn how to keep us teenyboppers in line.
Those were certainly a fun few months of sneaking around, the thrill of not getting caught making each stolen moment feel much more important than it really was.
But just like every good thing, it had to come to an end eventually.
Rounding the corner away from the atrium, I pull on the door to B Block, smiling when it opens. Roth Prep might be a prestigious institution, but that didn’t keep them from lining the hallways with lockers just like so many other schools in the country.
My smile slips a bit when I spot someone standing halfway down the hall, staring at the spot where I know my old locker sits—until I spy who it is, my lips tilting back up at the lucky happenstance.
He looks up at the sound of the door shutting behind me and echoing across the tile floor, and I don’t think I’m imagining the subdued smile he aims my way when he sees me at the other end of the hall.
“Breaking into one of the lockers?” I ask, keeping my tone light and playful even though I feel a little bruised that he didn’t seek me out after our banter at the bar.
Logan slips his hands into the pockets of his suit pants as I walk toward him, only wobbling on my heels once, and come to a stop a foot away from him. “Nah.”
“Bummer, because that’s what I’m doing.”
At my reply, he lets out a low laugh.
“Why does that not surprise me in the slightest?”
“Trouble, remember?” I say, shrugging a shoulder and giving him a wink.
Then I turn my attention to locker 297, the one I had all through high school. Roth Prep is a K-12 academy, but we weren’t given a locker until we hit freshman year. A tragedy considering the amount of books we had to lug around all through middle school. Lucas was 296—we bribed Mrs. Boulder to give us neighboring spots since we were in the same grade and were given B Block lockers during the same year.
Reaching out, I give the lock a try. 12-22-22. Then I give it a tug.
“Oh my gosh,” I say, giggling to myself when I realize the locks haven’t been changed since I graduated. “I can’t believe it still works.”
“I can’t believe we had the same locker.”
My eyes flick up to Logan’s in surprise.
“297?” I ask.
He nods.
“What are the odds?”
I lift the latch and open it, taking a look inside.
Nothing fancy. A gym shirt and shorts hanging from a hook on the left, a stack of books on the shelf, and a pink mirror attached to the door.
And right there, under the mirror, is a handwritten list of each Roth student who used this tiny space. Marked in various shades of Sharpie and pen and definitely not the look any administrator would want for a reputable academy like this one, but it’s there all the same. Most of the lockers are filled with names, all of them written on the first day of freshman year, with the graduation year written on the last day before the ceremony.
The name at the bottom of the list, halfway down the door, is the current locker owner—someone named Haley Halbrook. Two above that is me. Paige Andrews. Written in hot pink with a heart over the I. I still do that.
I trace my finger up until I find Logan’s name.
