Chaos Theory Read Free Page B

during the 1812 Overture when the little cannon fired. He’d gotten detention. There are two ticket stubs from the musical West Side Story . It had rocked, and so had my date, Trevor Christian, until I caught him sneaking out for a kiss and a cigarette with Deidra Hall—both were inexcusable.
    There are two football tickets from the playoffs. We lost, but Allan Ricks dropped a quick and clumsy kiss on me after halftime. In my locker are graded school assignments and notes from friends. This locker has a majesty no one can understand, but it all has meaning. It is chaos at its best.
    Students fill the halls now, but I just stand with black bags trailing from my jeans pocket.
    â€œOkay. This is not good.” Sandy says from beside me.
    â€œWhat’s not good?”
    â€œYou.” She flutters her hands like butterfly wings. “This. And you’re wearing your comfort clothes.”
    My reply is an intelligent, “Huh?”
    â€œYour comfort clothes!!! Those jeans are so worn they’ll split if you lean over. And you’re wearing that t-shirt!”
    I look down at the rust and black relic, a vintage Grateful Dead hand-me-down from Mom. It’s faded, comfortable, and too thin. My boobs pop out like raccoons in storm drains after a flood.
    â€œThe guys will eat you up in that.” She reaches in her locker and pulls out her favorite jean jacket with sequins she’d glued all over it. “I’m all for letting the apes ogle you, but when you need comfort, you don’t want to draw male testosterone.”
    I slip on the jacket. “It’s over, Sandy.”
    The smile on her face fades. “What’s over?”
    â€œMy whole damn locker experiment. I have to scrap it and start something new or I’ll never get noticed by MIT.”
    â€œAhhhh. That explains the garbage bags? You’re going to chuck the experiment?”
    I nod again.
    She doesn’t whoop with joy, and that surprises me. Instead, she says, “Life isn’t always about scholarships or being noticed by college recruiters.”
    â€œNow you sound like Mom and Dad.”
    â€œWell, they’re smart. What did they say?”
    I answer in a boring monotone separated by meaningful pauses. “They say you don’t abandon something because you can’t see the end result.”
    She looks at the locker with the same intensity as me. “And you HATE not seeing the end result, don’t you? How long have you been staring into the abyss?”
    I puff air, blowing my bangs out of my eyes. I didn’t brush my hair this morning. I must look a mess. “Over an hour.”
    â€œAn hour of just staring at it???”
    She puts her hands on her hips and taps one of her new pointed cowboy boots on the floor. Telling her I like them crosses my mind, but I’m too tied up in my failed project.
    She says, “You know what that means, right?” She reaches into her locker and tears a narrow extra-long sheet from a Post-it pad. With a black marker she writes something on it in big block letters, slams my locker shut, spins the combo, and sticks the Post-it on the outside.
    It reads, “Know Your Locker.” She’s right. The mess is staying. Winning isn’t as important as studying that damn chaos locker. “You know, I needed a book out of there.”
    We laugh like fools. The scents of honeysuckle and sage remain undisturbed and buried away.

Three
    Friday after school, the hallway is a jumble of people, laughter, and talk. Lockers crack open and slam closed. The com system squawks out weekend activity reminders. Sandy has to shout in my ear, “See you at BeeVee’s tonight for food or at pep band?” There’s a home game.
    Someone bumps me and my shoulder hits my locker door. The guy mouths, “Sorry.” The press of people carries him down the hall.
    â€œPep band. I’m going to the college library first.”
    Sandy nods and