I had the same locker for all four years of high school, and without fail, the lockers on either side of me belonged to girls with a propensity for exhibitionism. Or maybe it was just that their lockers were so aptly placed that it made little sense to stick their tongues down the throats of their boyfriends anywhere else, like, say, in front of their boyfriends’ lockers.
I hadn’t realized that our homeroom location was a prime one; though it’s true we were near the stairs, the bathrooms, and thus the rotating shift of teachers who, instead of enjoying their period off in the teachers lounge, which boasted a loud and presumably important microwave, were forced to sit in front of the bathrooms to make sure the kids who skipped class weren’t wearing sweatshirts over their black polos.
Topaz, our principal, was over six feet tall. His icy blue eyes were perpetually bulging, the veins popping bright and red as he towered over students. Between classes, he was known to wheel a giant Costco shopping cart through the hallways, stopping students with a sharp and familiar, “Take that off!” I never learned how he acquired the cart, but it was always full. Snapback hats, cardigans, and hoodies of every size and color piled up throughout the day, to be reclaimed at last bell. The punishment for being caught out of uniform was dependent upon his mood and the student in question. Most students were given detention. Repeat offenders received in-house suspension. On days when I passed him wearing sweatshirts, jeggings, or v-necks, I held my breath, pushing my hair over my hood or my scarf over my padded cleavage. He caught me every time, and called me out by last name with glee, but there was never a follow-up punishment.
A few months before graduation, I went to his office to push for a class-elected speaker in place of the salutatorian speech. I know. I was the worst. He greeted me with his quick, sharp “Bogin,” and–without pause–“You know I only have 3% body fat?” I didn’t know how to respond. He barreled on. “I have one of these scales that tells you exactly how much body fat and muscle mass you have and I’m only 3. Women can’t get below, like, twelve or something because their extra fat is necessary for childbirth.” He took a breath and reached behind his desk, pulling out a small bag. “Cricket?”
I scrunched up my eyebrows, unsure if I had heard him correctly. He stuffed a large hand into the bag and opened his palm to reveal six dried, brown bugs. “Come on. They’re chock-full of protein. You gotta try one.”
I pinched one between my fingers and inspected it. It was, indeed, a cricket. All I could think of was my cousin’s frog, Raindrop, who had lived in a tank under her lofted bed, patiently waiting for his daily cricket ration. I popped the brown bug into my mouth and chewed. Salty. Like a sunflower seed.
“Not bad, right?” Topaz asked, nodding, tossing back the rest of them.
Upon leaving his office, I passed one of the locker boyfriends, toting a neon green hoodie from the contraband collection. “Watch out,” I warned him. “It’s bug day.”