There is a locker. I happen to own it. This one is messier than ones from previous years. It’s slender and tall like a skyscraper. My teacher imagines there’s not much that can fit in such a small space, but she’s in for a big awakening, I’m careful when opening it for there are all kinds of bottles. Water bottles, big and small, Gatorade bottles of all shapes and sizes, and bottles still half filled sit at the top shelf anxiously waiting to plunge like a cheetah attacking its prey.

Along with the bottles, a bunch of papers fly out like dandelions fluttering with the cool spring wind. There’re papers I don’t even remember seeing. Crinkled and worn as if they were from 1776, is how I like to describe them.

She hands me a huge a huge trash bag. Here, clean this mess up, she commands. As the papers and bottles disappear gradually, I discover something among the last thin layer of trash. It’s a pair of lime basketball shorts along with an ivory jacket, a shabby old Cowboys jersey, dirty mustard colored crew neck with a jelly stain, and a pair of steely grey socks with rainbow skulls. I didn’t even notice all these clothes were gone.

Wow! You really do have a lot of stuff in you locker, she concludes. We survey what’s left of my locker. I wander. How so I fit all that stuff in my locker as well as my books? Five binders, a million pencils, and apricot folder, six heavy text books and three, four-hundred page library books remain in my, not spotless, locker.