The Closet

I head for my closet after school. I want to take the poster of Maya Angelou home, and I’d like to keep some of my tree pictures and my turkey-bone sculpture. The rest of the stuff can stay, as long as it doesn’t have my name on it. Who knows, some other kids may need a safe place to run to next year.

Haven’t been able to get rid of the smell. I leave the door cracked open a bit so I can breathe. It’s hard to get the tree pictures off the wall without tearing them. The day is getting hotter and there’s no circulation in here. I open the door wider—who’s going to come by now? By this point in the year, teachers take off faster than students when the final bell rings. The only people left are the few teams scattered on the practice fields.

I don’t know what to do with the comforter. It’s really too ratty to take home. I should have gone to my locker first and gotten my backpack—I forgot about the books that are in here. I fold the comforter and set it on the floor, turn out the light, and head out the door for my locker. Somebody slams into my chest and knocks me back into the closet. The light flicks on and the door closes.

I am trapped with Andy Evans.

He stares at me without talking. He is not as tall as my memories, but is still loathsome. The lightbulb throws shadows under his eyes. He is made out of slabs of stone and gives off a smell that makes me afraid I’ll wet my pants. He cracks his knuckles. His hands are enourmous.