Nervous hands, nervous feet, and one super nervous smile. I slowly make my way to your locker counting off the digits in my head as if they are mile markers on a highway. C-137…C-139…C-141…I hadn’t seen you all day except for the hallway shuffle where I clumsily slipped you a double-sealed piece of paper that was burning holes in my pockets all throughout eighth period. The only thing worse than eighth period was ninth period when I realized just how big the holes were. How is a guy supposed to answer questions on the War of 1812 when there are holes in his pockets?! I proceeded to stare blankly at my teacher and gave an elaborate “Uhhh…” as my face turned that familiar hue of pink. I was not sure whether I had phrased it correctly or whether it sounded any more intelligent than my answer in eighth period history class, but I was sure I had said what I wanted to say. I stop at locker C-145 tall, green, and unattended. I turn to go and am met with a squeal and the best hug I ever received. I guess I asked you correctly.