no problem,â I tell her, still trying to figure out how I can get out of this.
âGreat. See you tomorrow,â she says. âSorry about your locker.â She gives Mark one last meaningful look and turns to leave.
âWait up, Char-Char,â Mark says and follows her.
âIâll give you a ride. Good luck, Chunks!â he says, throwing one last evil grin at me. I watch them go, and fight the urge to run after Mark and tackle him to the ground. He was screwing everything up. What the hell just happened?
âWhat was that all about?â Ahmed asks.
âIâll explain later. Letâs go,â I say, heading to my fart locker.
âSorry man, but youâre on your own. Iâm not going near there again. Itâs baaaaad . . . bad, bad. You dig? Meet me in the parking lot, but hurry âcause I have my momâs citizenship thing to go to today,â he says, smacking me on the back.
Ahmed is right. Itâs bad. Real bad. I can smell it way before I get to the hall, and it stops me in my tracks. My stomach lurches as a thousand rotten eggs infiltrate my nostrils and I wonder if I can just ditch my backpack for now. But I have a ton of homework, including an essay due in AP English tomorrow that Iâd already started working on. I have to go in. I hate Tanya Bate. If it werenât for her, I wouldnât be dealing with this shit right now. Those bombs were for her, not me. But a flash of Markâs evil grin makes me wonder if thatâs true.
I race down the empty hall holding my breath. I quickly work the combination, and, of course, it doesnât work the first time. Or the second. Or the third. By the fourth time, I have to breathe through my mouth, which is just as bad because instead of smelling a thousand rotten eggs, itâs like Iâm eating a thousand rotten eggs. I gag and dry heave. My eyes fill with tears and I can feel my ears burning as I try one last time, but the locker wonât open. I give up. Itâs no use. I run back down the hall trying to hold my breath, but I keep gagging and tasting the toxic smell. Once Iâm far enough away, I take a deep breath, but Ahmed was right, the smell gets stuck in your nose. I call him and let him know whatâs taking so long.
âWhat are you gonna do?â he asks after I explain I canât get my locker opened.
âI dunno, but I need my essay. I guess Iâll go to the office and see if they can get someone to open it, but itâs gonna take awhile,â I tell him, knowing he has to hurry home, âjust go. Iâll figure out a way to get home.â
âYou sure? Iâd wait, but . . .â
âYeah, I know. Donât worry about it. Iâll just walk home,â I say.
âAll right, Iâll talk to you later.â
I head to the office and tell the front desk attendant that I canât get my locker open, but I leave out the part about the stink bombs because itâs too embarrassing. The lady is old, and I have to repeat the whole thing three times before she understands. Then she has to repeat the story to someone else, I guess to the all-knowing High School Oz who makes all the decisions and who finally grants her authority to call the custodian.
After numerous calls to the custodianâand yet another repetition of the situation over the fuzzy static of the all important walkie-talkie used by administration and office personnelâshe turns back to me and says, âGo on. Joe will meet you at the locker.â
I head back and see Joe, aka the custodian, heading toward me with cutters in his hand. Everyone knows who he is because heâs been here forever and is exactly the kind of cantankerous old man who looks like every kid seriously bothers him. But nobody messes with him because even though heâs old, he still looks like he wouldnât think twice about beating the crap out of anyone who messed with him. He even has a huge