Because even though it’s unassigned, locker eighty-nine ends most days housing several envelopes with almost identical contents: ten dollars, often in the form of a bill, sometimes made up of whatever loose change the sender can gather a letter, sometimes typed, sometimes handwritten, sometimes adorned with the telltale smudge of a tearstain and at the bottom of the letter, an email address. Well, “empty” might not be the right word here. How else do you explain the fact that every year, when we all get our schedules and combinations, and lockers eighty-eight and ninety meet their new leasers, locker eighty-nine stands empty? Instead, there seems to be an unspoken agreement that locker eighty-nine serves a higher purpose. It’s been unassigned for years now really, it should’ve been allocated to one of the hundreds of students in the school to load with books and papers and forgotten, mold-infested Tupperware. Everyone in school knows about locker eighty-nine: the locker on the bottom right, at the end of the hall near the science labs.
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