We rent locker space the way our parents rent houses. They are our sliver of space in this public world, a place to store, to fill, to hide. The others keep sports bags in theirs, heavy books, secret notes, but mine is always empty, a rectangle of suspended air that no one else can breathe.
Today that changes.
It’s only small but I can picture the day they find it—the look on the teacher’s face, my mother’s tears, the student testimonies. They will ask me why I did it but I don’t know. Maybe it was something he said.
Photo Credit: Karl Villanueva