Tentatively, Gabby approached the wall where her locker was situated. Overloaded with books and papers, her lunch was getting squished in her backpack between the heavy tomes of newly acquired eighth grade study material. The flattened sandwich and mashed potato chips were her punishment for avoiding the inevitable visit to the locker, but she dreaded this experience more and more every year. Approaching cautiously, she eyed it from across the hall. Her stomach dropped. Telltale handwriting became visible directly under her locker number. This year, the culprit started with ‘Gabby Michaelson has fleas!’ written in neat block printing that mocked her, leaving her with her mouth agape, horrified and embarrassed. Numb, Gabby walked to her locker and cringed, reading the message again, the hurtful words sinking deep into her sensitive brain. This time, it was painted on her locker in dark pink nail polish. The letters had gooey blobs of excess polish dripping from their perfectly square ends, as if the words oozed directly from the metal door.
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