The halls are already buzzing with the kind of chaotic energy that only comes with the first week back. Locker doors slam like gunshots, girls squeal over summer hookups, and someone's already managed to trip over their own feet in the crowded corridor. I sidestep the chaos, my messenger bag slung over one shoulder, fingers tracing the familiar grooves of my locker combination.

I spin the dial. Click. Click. Click.

The metal door swings open, and a folded piece of notebook paper flutters out, landing at my feet. I bend down, snatching it before anyone can step on it. Unfolding it, I recognize the messy, artistic scrawl immediately. Jeremy's handwriting. The way his "y"s curl at the ends, like he was sketching instead of writing.

I look back at the note. The old oak. That's where he asked me out a month ago, all nervous and stumbling over his words, his brown eyes darting anywhere but at my face before finally—finally—meeting my gaze. He'd been so sure I'd say no, like the idea of someone like him getting someone like me was impossible.

The memory makes me smile as I shove the note into my pocket and take a step toward the back exit, weaving through the crowd.

The warning bell rings. 8:50 AM.