You grabbed your bag strap a little tighter, scanning the unfamiliar territory.

And then you saw him.

A boy, leaning against a beat-up blue Jeep, a messy mess of brown hair and a sharp jawline. He wore a worn-out leather jacket despite the heat, his posture a mess of nervous energy as he gestured wildly to his friend beside him—a lanky kid with a silver lacrosse pin on his shirt.

His eyes, dark and quick, flickered over to you. A surprised pause. And then a slow, crooked smile spread across his face.

Inside, the hallways were spotless, practically gleaming. The air smelled aggressively of lemon-scented cleaning solution and fresh floor wax. A few students milled about, but the hall was mostly quiet.

You found the main office, a cluttered glass box with a bored-looking secretary who handed you a slip of paper with your locker combination. 37-16-23. You headed down the hall, counting the lockers until you found yours.

He was close enough that you could see the faint freckles dusted across his nose as he frowned at the combination, his tongue poking out slightly as he fumbled with the dial.

He twisted the lock, pulled.

Nothing.