Thirteen
Gemma
When my last period of the day lets out, instead of heading for the exit, I make my way to my history teacher’s office. They called my name on the intercom as the bell rang to see him after school.
A sea of black blazers, silk ties, and plaid skirts fight me as I navigate the halls against the flow of traffic, the other students antsy to leave school.
I have so much homework to do this weekend. I make a mental tally and organize the list into efficient chunks to tackle.
Lucas has been texting me all day with disgusting pick up lines and it’s getting old. I scroll through my phone and another pops up at the top of my screen.
Lucas: The school skirt is hot on you. It would look better on my floor.
Stupid jerk.
A beam of sunlight catches my eye through a window and I pause to admire it. The natural light of golden hour is my favorite to shoot. I’m itching to get outside to see what I can capture through my lens.
“Hopefully this won’t take long,” I mumble as I head into the locker room.
Coach Garcia’s office sits in the hall between the girl’s and boy’s locker rooms. I pause outside his door.
The lights are off inside. I try the door, but it’s locked.
“Then why the hell…”
Trailing off, I furrow my eyebrows and retrace my way to the deserted locker room. It shouldn’t be empty. Blair is on the girl’s track and field team. She told me once that it’s always packed right after school with girls from her team and the cheer squad squabbling to get changed for their practices.
I jump when my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Lucas again.
Lucas: Let’s play a game today. You run and I’ll chase you. Loser has to give me a kiss. (That’s you [black heart emoji] [smirk emoji]).
“Asshole.” I put my phone away and linger by Mr. Garcia’s door.
It’s eerie in the empty room, every step echoing. I get the irrational feeling like I’m in a horror movie and my heart rate kicks up a notch.
I spin on my heel to head for the exit. Fuck this. Mr. Garcia can hit me up tomorrow for whatever he needed to see me about.
The lights cut off, sending my heart swan diving into my stomach. I let out a strangled sound, plastering myself against a wall of lockers. I cover my mouth with my hand and try to adjust my eyes as fast as possible to the darkness.
Some jerk is messing around. That’s all, I tell myself. Horror movies aren’t real.
A shadow moves in front of me before I can pull out my phone to use as a flashlight and my skin crawls with an automatic fight-or-flight response. With the hair on my arms raised to attention, I hold my shaking fists in front of me, balled tight to throw a punch.
“Hello?” My voice cracks. “Who’s there? This isn’t funny.”
Taking my chances, I skirt the edge of the room and make a run for the door. The handle won’t budge.
“What?” I hiss, yanking on the locked handle. “Are you kidding me right now?”
My heart pounds in a heavy thud-thud-thud, clanging against my ribcage. Panicked, outlandish thoughts dash through my head. I’m going to be some mentally unstable whack job’s victim and make the news. I can see the lead-in now: cult member uses corpse of eighteen-year-old high school student, Gemma Turner, to paint Satanic symbols in the locker room at Silver Lake High School.
“Not today, Satan,” I whisper.
Someone grabs me and a yell erupts from my lungs. I fling my arms and legs in wild arcs as I’m lifted from the ground, throwing all of my strength into aiming a blow at the assailant.
“Satan will have to take a number,” Lucas rumbles against my ear. There’s a smile in his voice. “Caught you. Give me a kiss.”
It takes a second for my mind to connect the dots. A pathetic wheeze leaves me.