Page 27 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
They fill every inch of the hallway. Clustered around lockers, sprawled against walls, and moving in groups that take up entire corridors. It feels like thousands of them, and the noise is deafening. Laughter, shouting, locker doors slamming, and the constant hum of conversation.
I press myself against the wall, trying to get my bearings. The signs hanging from the ceiling indicate the east wing and west wing, but students block my view, making it impossible to see where the hallways actually lead.
I push forward, clutching my schedule like a lifeline. Bodies press in from all sides. Someone’s backpack clips my shoulder. An elbow jabs my ribs as a girl reaches past me to grab something from her locker.
“Excuse me,” I mumble, trying to squeeze past a group of guys blocking the hallway.
They don’t move, or even acknowledge I spoke.
I edge around them, my backpack catching on someone’s jacket. A girl shoots me an annoyed look as I accidentally step on her foot.
“Sorry,” I yelp, but she’s already turned away.
The crowd pushes me forward like a current. I try to find the staircase, but everywhere I look there are just more students. More noise. More bodies.
A group of cheerleaders takes up half the hallway, practicing some kind of routine. I try to go around them, but there’sno space. Students flow around them on both sides, somehow knowing exactly where to step without colliding.
I don’t have that instinct. I bump into someone’s shoulder. Then someone else’s arm. My backpack swings and hits a girl carrying a stack of textbooks.
“Watch it,” she snaps.
“Sorry, I…”
But she’s already gone, absorbed back into the crowd.
I finally spot a staircase and push toward it, navigating through what feels like an impossible maze of bodies. The marble steps are wide and grand, but they’re also packed with students sitting on them, standing in groups, and blocking passage.
I climb carefully, keeping my backpack tight against my body so it doesn’t hit anyone else. Ryder’s wrath is fresh in my mind. My legs feel shaky. My head pounds from the noise.
How do these people navigate this every day?
On the second floor, it’s somehow even more crowded. Lockers line both walls, and students lean against every available surface. I follow the signs toward the east wing, but progress is slow. Every few feet, I have to stop and wait for a group to move, and squeeze through gaps that barely exist.
I check my phone. First period starts in three minutes.
I walk faster, my heart racing. I can’t be late on my first day. I can’t draw that kind of attention.
“Excuse me,” I say louder this time. “Excuse me, I need to get through.”
No one listens. No one cares.
I finally spot room 214 at the end of the hallway just as the final bell rings. So close. But there’s a wall of students between me and the door, and they’re not moving.
Through the chaos, I push forward more aggressively. I stumble past the final group of students and reach the door toroom 214. Through the small window, I spy students already seated. Ms. Patterson is at the front of the room, writing on the board.
This is it.
My hand hovers over the doorknob. Maybe I should just skip it. No one would miss me. They wouldn’t even be expecting me.
I release the doorknob and take a large breath.
I didn’t fight my way through all those students to turn away now.
I smooth down my uniform, fix my hair, and open the door.
Every head turns toward me.
Ms. Patterson looks up from the board, her expression neutral. “Can I help you?”
