“S’cool. I got it, Clary.”

Clary is no one I know. Not a surprise. Up close, she's a tall, red-headed, pretty girl with a high-pitched voice.

“Honestly, it’s no trouble, Argus!” She says.

“It’s okay...I’ve put stuff in my own locker many other times.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.” Argus is curt but not unkind.

“Double sure?”

Damn, if persistence was a crime.

“Yeah, Clare.”

“Okay, but if you need anything. I just feel bad that I took the bottom locker. I could always switch.”

“You don’t need to – I like the top locker, honestly. Anyway, I should really get to my meeting.”

Her voice flies a pitch higher.

“Meeting? You decided to join my Hope’s Heart as I suggested. That’s great Argus!”

Guácala. Hope’s Heart is a community service group forced down the throats of any decently successful student in this school. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? 

It wouldn’t be if the club members kept their mouths shut about all the great work they do. In freshman year, an upperclassman in HH skipped giving me an invitation after barely meeting my eyes, as if my black chanclas were any less of an indicator of success than his shitty Nike sneakers. Hope’s Heart is filled with the kind of putrid fake-kindness that only tends to manifest when points on your academic resume are used as an incentive to do charity work.

Charity is charity, and I’m all for selfish gains, but don’t hide under the guise of saintliness.

The guy, who I now know is named Argus, shakes his head with a smile. Can’t tell if he’s pissed or stressed. “No, uh, I joined a different club. It’s unofficial. An all-inclusive creativity club. We’re hoping it takes off after the budget cuts eliminated some of our other groups. It’s for arts and crafts, writing, music—”

Interesting.

“Oh yeah?” She says oh yeah the way a parent would respond to a child who says they want to be the president, “Do you plan on getting credits some other way then?” Figures that’s her primary concern.

Argus has the type of face that doesn’t get angry, eyes that crinkle when he fake smiles, bringing attention to his brown irises, an effective distraction from the tight grin on the lower half of his face. He’d never scare the vomit out of someone like Gina Oleander. Though that doesn’t mean he’s automatically nice. That HH girl better watch her cornflakes.

"Yeah, sure. You know what, I’m going to be late. See ya around, Clary.”

“Okie Dokie, see ya around.”

He doesn’t get far. Argus wheels around to face the wall of lockers I’m leaning against. And because he stares ahead, the first thing he sees is my dark clothing and the paper bag crumpled in one my fists. My sudden appearance makes him pause with his mouth slightly open. I don’t have a concrete expression to match–I’m neither angry nor happy. It’s unsettling him, and I can tell.

Just like Gina, he averts his gaze right and left as if checking for a hallway filled with people he can use to prosecute me (in the event that I commit murder as an act of vengeance for my lost breakfast.) With ample reassurance, Argus continues, mouthing the word okaaay and ducking his head as he passes.

I’m not interested in avenging myself, although it might look that way because I’m following. What I want is to not go home. To not spend the afternoon wasting my gas and driving around. To not have to breathe the same air as Trinidad’s gossip group. I also want a fucking backpack.

An unofficial club with no required official dues or official fundraisers, in need of official members, is like a miracle from La Rosa de Guadalupe. A gift sent from the clouds.

The squeak from my boots stops when Argus gets on the elevator. Ding goes the doors and he gets in.

"Shit."

I run, bounding up the stairs and stopping by each floor to check if he’s gotten off. One time. Two times. Tres veces. Until the elevator stops on the third floor. I couldn’t be farther from the parking lot.

You made a deal, Flores.

I need to meet Gina, but I also need a place to stay. Money for food is everything I could ask for in the short term, but I like having a consistent place to rest my head so much more. Besides, Gina Oleander didn’t puke because of the bumpy acne that grows on the side of my chin. She can have eighty million pregnancies tests and the reality wouldn’t change.

The elevator lets its passenger off. I stuff my hands into my pockets and watch him enter the only classroom with a welcome sign made of copy paper and a sharpie ink.

Get in, Mari. Sign stuff. Get out. A good plan of action. But as soon as my feet stop at the entryway and catch sight of the multiple empty desks at the front of the classroom, I know I done wrong.

“Shit, I told you she was following me.”

“Honestly, the more stalkers you got the better. We need people if we want this club to be legit.”

“Fo’real.”

“Man, it smells like vomit in here.”

Maybe spending another week in my van isn’t such a bad idea after all.