He wasn’t wrong about that. People would pay. That meant more than even Brougham probably realized. In a school where seven-figure family incomes were the norm, it really was a lucky break for me that we had a uniform. Without it, my status as a scholarship student would’ve been abundantly clear to anyone who looked at me. But even with the uniform, kids found a way to flaunt their wealth. Fendi bags and camel Gucci skirts and Cartier watches decorated every second ensemble. Each time a new iPhone was released, it was all you’d see in the hallways by the next Monday. People usually didn’t make comments about older models, per se, but anyone who lagged in upgrading would find themselves on the receiving end of lingering, pointed looks anytime they checked their phone around other students.

There was no way in hell my parents would be able to keep up with all that. My locker income was the only thing that gave me even a fighting chance at fitting in with the other students here. Obviously, ten dollars an email wasn’t going to get me Fendi and Gucci, but it was enough to cover a decent iPhone plan and the odd thrift store haul. Add in Ainsley’s skills with a sewing machine, and on a good day I could pass for upper middle class. And, thankfully, that was enough to get me by.

So, yeah, some extra income would not go astray.

But if people found out it was me running the locker, all the fancy clothes in the world couldn’t protect me from the awkwardness that would follow. How would I have a normal conversation with someone in English class when they knew I knew all about how they lost their virginity? Or that they’d secretly cheated on their boyfriend? Or that they sabotaged their sister’s relationship so they could have a shot in her place?

And a million times more pressing than that, the reason I would never, ever admit to being behind the locker, was that I’d used it to do something awful to Brooke. If she ever found out about that, who knew if she’d ever forgive me again. She’d definitely never trust me again. I wouldn’t, in her shoes.

Locker eighty-nine couldn’t become a real person.

I could’ve opened myself up and explained all that to Brougham. Problem was, I didn’t really like him, let alone trust him.

In the distance, a door slammed. I made out the murmur of voices, then footsteps that grew closer, but not so close I could see who they belonged to. One of the voices was male. And angry. Was this the “friend” Brougham’s mother had mentioned? Or his father, home early?