THE GLITTER IN THE LOCKER ROOM

My name is Andrew-Clarken, and I am a ghost. Not the kind that rattles chains or haunts old mansions, but the kind that sits in the third row of a high school classroom and hopes the teacher never calls his name. In my house, "normal" is the law. My parents are good people—predictable, steady, and quiet. Our living room is beige, our dinner is always served at 6:00 PM sharp, and we don't talk about "feelings" or "fashions." We just... exist. My only rebellion is the leather-bound book hidden in the gap between my mattress and the bedframe. It’s my secret diary, the only place where I’m allowed to be loud. But today, the silence of my life didn’t just break—it shattered. It happened during History class. I was hunched over my desk, my pen flying across the page of my diary. I was writing about the suffocating boredom of suburban life when a scent hit me. It wasn’t the usual smell of high school—old gym socks and floor wax. It smelled like expensive vanilla and something sharp, like rain on a city street. "That’s a very intense grip you have on that pen, Andrew-Clarken," a voice purred. I froze. I didn't just stop writing; I stopped breathing. I slowly looked up to see Janice leaning against the desk next to mine. Janice was a legend before he even walked through the front doors this morning. Word had spread that a boy from the "classy" side of the hills—the neighbourhood where the gates have lions on them—was transferring to our public school. He didn't look like he belonged in a room with flickering fluorescent lights. He wore a tailored grey blazer over a black silk shirt, and his hair was styled into a perfect, gravity-defying wave. But it was his face that stopped everyone’s heart: a thin, precise line of silver eyeliner traced his lids, making his eyes look like polished stones. "It’s just... notes," I managed to horizontal-stutter, slamming the diary shut so fast I nearly caught my thumb in the pages. "Notes don't make people’s ears turn that shade of red," Janice said, his lips curling into a smirk that was both mocking and beautiful. He reached out, his fingers—manicured and glowing with a clear coat of polish—hovering just inches from my book. "What are you hiding in there? A manifesto? Love poems? A list of people you want to curse?" "It’s nothing, Janice. I’m just a normal guy doing normal schoolwork." Janice laughed, a bright, melodic sound that made the kids in the front row turn around. "Normal? Oh, Andrew. Normal is just a lack of imagination. And from the way you were scrawling in that book, I’d say you have a very vivid imagination." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a secret. "I think I’m going to enjoy 'disturbing' you this year. You’re like a locked box, and I’ve always been very good at picking locks." For the rest of the period, I couldn't write a single word. I could feel his gaze on me, a "classy" predator watching a very "normal" prey. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked at my family photo on my phone lock screen—mom, dad, and me, all wearing matching blue sweaters. We looked safe. We looked boring. Then I looked at Janice, who was currently reapplying a shimmering lip balm while the teacher talked about the Great Depression. My life was officially disturbed. And the worst part? As I watched the sunlight catch the glitter on his eyelids, I realised I didn't want him to stop.