Page 11 of Escape

My heart twinged at the name again, the memory hovering right over my brain. It felt like I was standing right on top of it, but I couldn’t look down.

“You’ll find your prize under your seat.”

I stayed frozen for another few seconds, not trusting that this whole desk wouldn’t blow up underneath me. But at least the timer stopped.

I slid my fingers carefully along the desk top and down under the seat, careful not to shift my weight too much. For all I knew, I was resting on a land mine and with one wrong move I’d be confetti, sprayed all over the walls.

Blindly searching under the plastic seat, my fingers finally brushed against a little bundle. With minimal movements, I gently peeled the taped package off and set it in front of me.

When I was sure I was still in one piece, I unfolded the sheet of paper and a small, gold key clinked against the table. It looked way too small to unlock a door. I searched the paper for answers, only finding four numbers scribbled across it. A three-digit number on the top and three spaced-out, two-digit numbers in a line underneath.

I stared at it for a while, trying to decipher the code. Too long to be a phone number. Too simple to be an algebra problem. I couldn’t find the sequence of numbers written anywhere around the classroom. I was about to give up when the door creaked open and I spotted the lockers out in the hallway.

I shot to my feet, a huge smile spreading across my face, forgetting all about the possibility of being blown to bits.

A locker number and combination.

Chapter 9

Jasmine

It didn’t take too long to find the correct locker in the next hall over. I crouched down and twisted the dial, trying to remember how the hell to correctly enter a locker combination. I hadn’t touched one since I was a student and I’d barely used my locker then.

After fumbling with it for a few moments, the door clicked. I pushed the little silver lever up and pulled. The locker opened with a rusty screech. Inside, a slouchy black backpack hung from the hook attached to the top. I looked around before pulling it into my lap and tugging it open.

Inside, three metal boxes lay stacked on top of each other. I picked one up to examine it and found that they were locked. Remembering the tiny key I’d been given, I quickly tried it in each one. Finally, the last one popped open.

There was another folded piece of paper inside, but this one was different. The paper was thick, glossy and smooth, not the regular lined notebook paper of the other note. I unfolded it carefully, looking for another key inside. There was nothing but a message written in pink, curly, permanent marker across the shining paper.

Have a great summer! Call me ;)

805-555-1234

- Ari <3

What the fuck? Ari…as in Ariana?

I flipped the paper over, but there was nothing else. The left edge was jagged like it had been ripped from a book. I ran my fingers over the smooth page again, it must have been ripped out of a yearbook. It couldn’t have been mine, I’d lost it in the move and it wouldn’t have made sense anyway for Ariana to write her number down for me. I’d already had it memorized and programmed in my phone since we met in middle school.

My stomach curled as I went through the possibilities. Could it have been Ariana who set this whole thing up? I whipped my head around, half expecting her to be standing in the hallway with her long, perfect blond hair and matching pink tracksuit. She was a bit cruel in high school, mostly to others, though. The only time she’d direct her wrath at me was when I couldn’t make time for her.

Could she be upset that we grew apart after high school? After my wedding? After….A pop of another door opening sounded behind me, pulling me out of the fuzzy, painful memory.

Still crouched down, I turned to find the entrance of the performing arts room cracked open. I carefully placed all of my accumulated notes and supplies in the open black box and zipped it into the backpack before slinging it over my shoulder.

When I stepped into the auditorium, nostalgia knocked into my chest. I used to love performing. Theatre class was the only time I actually felt like myself. In my friend group, it was considered lame and I used to pretend to complain about going. I played it off like I’d gotten switched to the class as a last-minute elective and didn’t have a choice. But the truth was, it was always at the top of my list. I’d begged the guidance counselor to get me in and the time I’d spent rehearsing and performing was some of my happiest high school memories.

On the stage below, the curtain slowly rose as the stage lights flickered on. There was a small card table in the middle with a few items I couldn’t quite make out stacked on top. After sweeping around the dark room for anybody lurking in the shadows, I slowly descended the shallow stairs.

As I made my way down, I ran my fingers over the empty, scratchy fabric seats, remembering when they would be filled with people who came to see our plays.

A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I remembered getting my first standing ovation when I played Juliet in our production of ‘Romeo and Juliet’, my junior year. But it faded quickly, my brain blocking out the face of the raven-haired girl who would stand front and center, whooping and clapping louder than anyone else in the crowd.

I hoisted myself up onto the stage. On the table, there was a small, stapled packet and next to it, a box of costumes and props. I grabbed the packet and flipped it open. The first page read:

You have one hour to learn your lines and put on a performance…or the show may never end.

I flipped through the rest of the pages, skimming the short script and stage directions, catching on words like cry, betrayal and die.