Today was the longest day in the history of the known universe. Like, I’m pretty sure that if scientists measured every minute today, they would discover that each one had at least eight more seconds than normal.

All I want to do is go home and lie on my bed with all the lights off and try to pretend this year has already ended.

“Dude.” Conor’s voice breaks me out of my reverie. He walks up to my locker. “What’s up?”

“What?”

“You look like shit, man.” He stops next to me and swings his satchel to his other shoulder. On anyone else the bag would be mocked as a man purse, but once Conor started carrying the thing at the beginning of the year, they caught on, and now they’re all the rage. It’s amazing to me that I’m not still considered semipopular, since Conor still associates with me, but I guess that just goes to show how shunned I really am. “You look miz.”

I roll my eyes. “First of all, please stop with the abbreviations. You sound like a seventh grader. I can’t take it. Second, I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just find Gwen and get outta here. I’m beat.”

He shakes his head. “You better not be trying to use that as an excuse to skip out on my band thing tonight. You did that the last four times I asked, and it’s getting a little lame, dude.”

I heave a sigh. “No. I’m not. Get off my back. I’m coming.” Great. Blew my one shot at flaking. I slam my locker shut.

“Good.” He makes a motion with his fingers like I’m watching you and all I can think is Yeah, I’m quite aware you’re watching me—you and everyone else in this prison.

Before we can get deeper into our bickering, Gwen stomps up and collapses onto the door of my locker. “I could hear you guys arguing from down the hall. Can you please stop? This day has been crap; I just want to go home.”

“You too?” Conor nudges her leg with his boot. “Jesus, you Tellers are such grumps.” Gwen and I swing toward him and shoot him death glares. “Whoa, whoa, all right, sorry, guys.” He holds his hands up in front of him and starts backing down the hall. “Peace, man. Let’s GTFO of here.” He turns and strides away with the confidence of someone who knows he’s going to be followed.

“Abbreviations!” I yell at his back. He started using these abbreviations last year, after he briefly dated a freshman, and for whatever reason, they stuck. Thankfully, the girl didn’t.

He shoots his middle finger in the air. Gwen and I roll our eyes at each other but do what we always do—trail after Conor as he walks away.

—