The air in the west hallway of Oakridge High always smelled faintly of industrial floor wax and damp winter coats.
It was a freezing Tuesday morning just ten minutes before the third-period bell rang.
Lockers lined both sides of the corridor in dull, chipped shades of industrial blue.
I was standing alone by locker number 412 trying to unjam my stuck combination lock.
My heavy backpack was unzipped and resting heavily against my ankles on the cold floor.
Tucked precariously in my hand was my thick, dog-eared black sketchpad.
That sketchpad was the only place where I felt like I actually existed.
For months, I had existed in the background of every classroom and hallway.
Chloe and her friends owned the social hierarchy of our sophomore class.
They moved through the school like they owned the very oxygen we breathed.
I had learned early on that the best strategy was simply becoming invisible to them.
That morning, however, my invisibility cloak completely failed.
Chloe came swinging down the hallway with her usual entourage flanking her sides.
They were laughing loudly about a weekend party I hadn't been invited to.
She was carrying an oversized canvas tote bag slung lazily over her shoulder.
As she approached my locker, she didn't bother to adjust her path.
Her heavy bag swung outward with dangerous momentum as she pivoted.
The thick strap clipped the edge of my sketchpad with a sharp thud.
The book was wrenched violently from my fingers before I could tighten my grip.
It tumbled through the air in a clumsy spin.
The spine hit the hard linoleum floor with a loud, echoing crack.
Doop-stapled notes and loose portrait sketches scattered wildly across the dirty tiles.
A sudden hush seemed to ripple through the nearby groups of students.
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit as I stared at the mess.
My face flared with a searing, burning heat that rushed up to my ears.
Chloe paused for a fraction of a second, glancing down at the disruption.
She offered a cold, practiced smirk that didn't reach her eyes.
"Watch where you drop your junk," she muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Her friends snickered behind their shoulders as they kept walking down the hall.
I immediately dropped down onto my hands and knees to scoop everything up.
My fingers fumbled frantically over the smooth paper surfaces.
Then my eyes locked onto the page that had slid the furthest away.
It was a detailed pencil portrait of Mark, the star runner on the track team.
Beneath his face, I had stupidly written a stupid, sappy little phrase.
