Now, I step into a classroom at random. How hard is it to find an anonymous place to make out with my pen pal? Why does the world have to be against me?
I’m being dramatic and I know it, but I want to write R back with a solution. Of course, we don’t have to do it at school. But what other choice is there? Not our homes, that’s for sure. A park? A public toilet? The local library?
I’m mulling it over when I notice the classroom I’m in has another door. I open it, and — well, shit.
It’s a storeroom. It’s slightly bigger than the closet I first met R in, and it’s a square shape, its shelves filled with staplers and packs of printer paper and colourful pieces of card used for posters.
I check the door. There’s no keyhole, which means no way for teachers to lock us out unless the classroom it’s connected to is locked. The door handle is the kind that you twist down, which means jamming a chair under it should keep anyone from coming in. Sure, dragging a chair in here will make the room a squeeze for R and I, but I don’t mind getting pressed up close to him.
I pace the room. It’s about two and a half steps each way, and there’s no window. I close the door after myself and stand in the darkness, holding my hands up. They’re a fuzzy shape, but I can’t see the details or even see the individual fingers.
It’s perfect.
I write the letter during my final double of the day, which is a study period in the library.
R,
It’s not a dumb idea. Not at all, and since I received your letter, I’ve been searching for a dark place where we could meet. I’ve found one: the storeroom connected to Room 12 in the English and Humanities building. You can scope it out for yourself, but it looks like it fits all our requirements. We’ll be able to lock it by sliding a chair under the door handle, so no interruptions. One issue is that the classroom will be locked after school hours, so if we want to meet, I think it’ll have to be during lunch.
Another downside to the storeroom is that the classroom it’s connected to is very bright. Which means that when the storeroom’s door is opened, there’s enough light to see inside. And whoever’s waiting inside will be able to see out.
The only solution I can come up with is that before someone enters, they knock on the door. Then, both of us will close our eyes. The person will have to enter blindly and close the door behind them.
It’s going to require trust. And we’re going to have to be careful. But I’m willing to do it if you are.
Write me back and let me know what you think.
-F
I post the letter, and since it’s the middle of class, no one is in the Year 12 locker area. That evening, just as I’m heading to the car park to meet Mum, I pass by Locker 99. I feel a burst of excitement when I see R has replied.
Dear F,
Yes. I did what you said and checked it out, and it looks perfect. I never thought I’d describe a tiny storeroom as perfect, but here we are.
I think the knocking and closing our eyes method is the best we can do. I’m happy to do it. I trust you.
I can do lunchtimes. I could even do tomorrow lunchtime, if you’re happy to.
I’m excited, even if it’ll be weird that we can’t talk. I’m weirdly nervous, too. But I’m reassured that you’re as enthusiastic as I am.
-R
I write a response there, by the lockers, unable to wait until tomorrow morning.
R,
Yes. Tomorrow lunchtime. Come at 1:10. I’ll arrive at 1, so there’s no chance of running into each other in the hallway.
-F
Every Friday morning, the school has assembly, and I sit for forty-five minutes in the hall, jiggling my leg. Tim, who’s sitting beside me, raises a brow.
During maths, I catch myself wasting time daydreaming, which annoys me supremely, because Aaron Wynn is actually doing work for once in his life. I’ve never seen him so laserfocused before — he completes practice questions like his life depends on it.
When the bell rings for lunchtime, I head to the lockers as fast as I can, stopping short of running. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I shove my books into my locker, scoff down my lunch before taking a huge swig of water, so my mouth doesn’t taste like sandwich, then head for Room 12. I stand outside casually as the remainder of a Year 9 History class comes out. Once the teacher has gone too, I slip inside, past the rows of desks and chairs, and open the storeroom.
I pull a chair in with me, to barricade the door later, then close the door after myself.
