The Boy in My Locker

Written and Illustrated by Chris Francis

As Aubrey prepares for her big trumpet solo, she hears a strange voice in her head. Unfortunately, the curious distraction made Aubrey blow out her notes all wrong, but more importantly, who was that boy inside her head? I pushed out my chair and placed my trumpet on Charlie’s lap. “Where are you going?” he asked. I didn’t respond. I plowed through the French Horn section and escaped out the back of the gym. I had to find out where that voice was coming from. “Hello?” I called out. I wandered down the hall to my locker and swung open the door. A rush of energy seeped inside me, dancing through my body— through my veins like I had just chugged fifty energy drinks. My head tingled. Something strange was happening to me. “Help me. I’m here,” The voice called out—much clearer this time—definitely a boy. “Where? Are you hurt?” “No, I’m in danger,” the boy replied. “Are you in my locker?” I asked. “It sounds like you’re in my locker.” I pulled my school backpack out, along with my gym bag, my social studies diorama, my paper mache sculpture of a walrus, and about eight of my subject binders. “Is there a trap door back there?” “No,” the boy replied. “I’m up here.” I stood up and scanned the top shelves. “Here,” the boy said. “I’m right here.” I glanced at my little plastic mirror on my locker door, expecting to see my ugly face, covered in freckles and the one annoying zit on my chin. But instead, a boy’s image glared back at me. “Hi,” he said—bulky goggles wrapped around his eyes—a leather hood over his head. “Woo. Um. Hi,” I replied. “How are you doing that? Where are you?” The boy unstrapped his strange glasses and wiped soot from his mouth. “I’m right here.” He swatted at random floaty-bits in the air. “Where’s ‘here’?” I asked. He studied the inside of the mirror and then pointed to his chest. “43.3° North, 79.7° West, Quadrant Nine, sub-section Q.” I shrugged and tapped on the mirror. “That means nothing to me. I’m asking where you are because if I’m not mistaken, you’re inside my locker.” The boy scratched his nose with his blackened fingernails. He blew strands of hair away from his eyes and tapped on the mirror himself. “Your locker? You mean, like a safe?” “No, not a safe. I’m locker 1435.” A bolt of energy surged through the reflection and powered through me. I fell back and bounced off the wall, sliding down to the floor. I checked the hallway for any witnesses—nobody—and then quickly struggled back up to my feet. “Who are you? I don’t understand why you’re in my locker.” Another surge of energy shook the floor. I adjusted the hair clip that held back the mop on my head and cautiously leaned into the mirror again. “Hello?” I whispered loudly. “Are you there?” For a moment, my reflection stared back at me—confused— nervous—hideous. I slammed my hand on the door— this was ridiculous. What’s the matter with me? Is this some kinda prank? “I’m here,” the boy replied, finally. He took his goggles off again and gasped for air. “Sorry, it’s a bother to breathe here, my apologies. You’re 1435?” “Yes. I don’t understand. Is there something wrong with our wifi? Is this some kinda signal being transmitted into my mirror? Are you in trouble?” The boy nodded. Debris fell to the ground behind him. “I don’t know what ‘wifi’ is I’m afraid, but what I can tell you is my world is collapsing—we can’t control the DM energy output. We need to get to your planet.” “The DM what?” I looked behind me, checking to see if there was anyone secretly filming me— prepping some stupid video to post on Youtube or something. “You’re joking right?” I replied. “Seriously. Who are you?” Faint rumbles bellowed up from the hazy air, like a thousand trombones searching for the wrong note. “Reach out to me—please—reach out your hand.” The boy dropped his head down, surfacing again seconds later with his goggles back on his dirt-covered face. “Please.” “What will happen if I reach my hand out?” “Trust me,” the boy replied. “Please.” “I don’t understand, why do you need my help? Why are you so dirty?” The boy rubbed more soot off his goggles and ducked to the side as a dark object crashed into the wall beside him. “My friends and I have been left behind. This is the only window to your world. You need to help us get through.” “Am I on TV?” I looked up at the ceiling, expecting to see a camera or two. “Is this a practical joke? Is the band playing a joke on me?” “I don’t understand,” replied the boy.” “Everyone’s in on it, right? All the parents in the gym. This was all a setup. Someone sabotaged my trumpet.” I looked up at the ceiling again, then scanned the other lockers for hidden cameras. “You’re all watching me in the gym, aren’t you. Hi, everyone!” “This is no joke,” The boy replied. “This is real.” Footsteps echoed out behind me from around the corner of the hallway. I slammed the locker shut and lowered myself to my faded pink Nikes, pretending to adjust the laces through the holes. I recognized those footsteps. I knew exactly who was coming.