The gymnasium is empty when I enter it. I skulk carefully along the line of the bleachers, checking behind my back every few steps to make sure no one else is around. Stick to the shadows, I think, and get a grand feeling of vampiric drama that moves through my body.

There are voices ahead, in the guys’ locker room. I hesitate and check my phone again. The bell rings. Passing time is over. I’m already technically late for my next period. I can’t afford to lose any more time.

I creep toward the locker room entrance, take a deep breath, then plunge in.

The noises of students grow louder as I get closer to the room. I hear the squeak of sneakers, the rusty bang of lockers slamming shut, and the sizzle of water from the showers being turned on. There’s a bin of dodge balls in front of me, right before the main locker room. I hear a sudden peal of laughter and immediately duck behind them.

“Outh,” I say, rubbing my head where I just hit it against the metal. I wait for a second, then peek out over the red rubber balls. From this angle, I can see slant-wise into the locker room.

I suddenly realize that I look like a fucking pervert. I curse and mentally blame Conner. If I weren’t such a romantic sap, I wouldn’t be in this insane situation in the first place.

But there’s no time to dwell on this. I see shirtless guys taking off shoes and socks. Byron is there, arguing with somebody else.

“I can! Seriously, bro! Watch!”

He lays down on his belly, does a push-up, then attempts to clap between reps. Instead, he knocks his nose against the floor.

“That is so embarrassing,” his friend, Matt, says through a giggle. I try not to gag. These testosterone-driven displays of mediocrity are sending chills down my spine. Where’s Conner? 

And then I see him, just barely in my view. He’s still dressed in his gym clothes, glowing with a heavenly sheen of sweat. He’s angelic, is what he is.

He places his big, wonderful hands against his shirt, then he’s pulling it up over his head—

Oh god. Oh god. He’s undressing. Conner is undressing in front of me, and I’m just watching. I’m a pervert. I’m a fucking pervert!

I see his flat, toned belly, a peek of his v-line, then, god help me, his perfect chest, built and defined but not in an obnoxious, gymmed-out way. Every part of me has shut down. I have no idea what to do. My body is in crisis mode, setting off siren after siren, rendering me immobile, helpless. 

Conner’s shirt is off. He reaches for his shorts. My heart is in my throat, about to leap out of it like a trout. This is everything that I’ve dreamed of.

But it’s wrong. It’s wrong, I know it is. 

I shut my eyes tight. The world goes black. I hear the locker room banter and scuffle of moving feet. I imagine Conner now, pants gone, getting ready to head to the shower. I could just take one quick look. It wouldn’t be my fault—I’m just here for my stupid textbook.

But I don’t open my eyes. I keep them closed for thirty more brutal seconds—thirty more seconds late for the next period—cursing my conscience or whatever spiritual sensation has taken over my body.

I open my eyes. Conner is in a towel. Somebody slaps him on his back, and then he heads to the showers.

There, sitting on an old wooden bench by the lockers, is Conner’s backpack. Bingo.

The locker room proper is starting to clear. It looks like most everyone is in the shower. I wait for Byron and Matt to finally head over, then decide it’s time to make my move.

I dash forward with all the grace I can muster in my stiff, scratchy collared coat, and grab Conner’s backpack. I rip open the zipper—I’ll deal with that later—and rummage through Conner’s remarkably well-organized binder. Wrong textbook, wrong textbook, then, bam—I see it. I grab the biology book, try in vain to close the backpack up again, then move back toward the exit.

I hear a voice moving toward me, coming from the showers.

“Whatever, you guys! I’m telling you, I was able to do it yesterday—”

I barely have time to turn before Byron appears, hair wet, hips wrapped in a towel, right about to see me. I have no cover. I can’t be seen.

I immediately pull up my voluminous black collar and use it to cover my face. No time for any other action—I glide out of the locker room with a low, guttural murmur, refusing to look behind.

I burst out into the gymnasium, breathless, but with my textbook secured.

All I can hear from the locker room is a panicked voice—Byron’s.

“You guys! You guys! I think I just saw a ghost.”

Happy Halloween, Byron.