text: Normally, my alarm would start singing at 7:01AM alerting me that it was time to start the routine of high school. I would check my phone for the typical “good morning” text from you before the long walk down my cold hallway into the bathroom. I would turn the shower on, and like clock work my mom would start brewing coffee to bring me out of my morning zombie state. After the thirty minute shower you would send me a second text saying to, “hurry up” and not be late, as I so often was. These messages gave meaning to this monotonous routine, because I knew light was at the end of the tunnel when I would finally see your face at school. Then, after picking out what I thought to be a presentable outfit I would make my way downstairs to the kitchen around 7:45, thus giving me the exact time to make it to school right as the first period bell rang at 8:05. I would grab my coffee and hug my Mother good bye as she give me her usual request to give you a hug from her. I would get to school around 8:01 and wait for you by your locker until you pushed through those two grey doors at 8:04 without fail. I was always bothered by the light illuminating from behind you, as the doors slowly shut, that would cast a shadow upon your face so I could not see you as soon as I wanted. However, today my alarm clock was screaming at 7:01 and the shower never seemed to reach a temperature to warm my cold skin. The coffee my mother made just ran through my zombified organs failing to bring life to any part of my petrified body. My hug good bye with my mom lacked the tenderness as I noticed she chocked on her usual request for me. When I got to school I walked past your locker, because I knew you would not be coming in those grey doors within the next minute. Light would not shine through the hallways today and I would not be irritated from the shadow covering your gracious face. Today you would not come to school, and I would only see you in the picture frames and slide show that the school had put together for your ceremony this morning. Everyone’s eyes should have been on the beautiful memorial they had set up for you, the vibrant arrangement of roses surrounded photos of you at your most joyous moments, but instead they were watching me. Every one waiting for me to breakdown, cry, do anything besides remain emotionless. What they do not understand is that you gave me the source of all my emotions. Everything from my happiness and love when I would hear your laugh to the sadness and regret whenever I was the source of your sorrows. I could only feel a void in my chest where all of those feelings used to be. My focus remained on that photo that sat on the table of roses, which captured your freckles perfectly, as the presentation began and the teachers began talking for what would seem like hours about how great of a student you were. I could not seem to listen as my memory of you always expressing your disinterest in their totalitarian mindset overshadowed anything escaping their lips. The irony of these people, who were always reprimanding you for your free thought, are now explaining what a gift you were to have in their classrooms. The school cheerleaders in the front row could be seen sobbing hysterically. I think Amanda, The Captain, how she liked to be addressed by her mindless squad of blondes, acknowledged your existence one day in homeroom while you your fixing your hair with your phones camera. I remember how confused you were when she offered you some eyeliner as if you have ever worn make up since you have attended Patterson High. Well people deal with death differently I guess. “Bro, let’s get out of here,” Jason whispered, bringing me back from a trance state. He was the only friend I have at this school since you left. We met in the sixth grade when Greg was smashing my face into the summer asphalt for the third time that week. Jason, a significantly larger man, mostly due to being held back twice in kindergarten, grabbed Greg by the shirt and threw him to the ground. I still remember the look on his face as he too knew what the scent of dirt mixed with blood smelled like. Jason and I were essentially inseparable from that point forward. “Go where? The whole school is in the auditorium and will definitely notice me leaving in the middle of her ceremony,” I whispered back. Just then a video started playing about the dangers of texting and driving. Unreal, using you to initiate fear in kids of something that anyone with a brain realizes, but never seems to care until it’s too late and their phone is flying through the windshield as they collide into a stopped car. They are just diminishing your tragic accident to nothing other than a simplistic human error. “Just follow me, man,” Jason insisted as he attempted to squeeze under the handrail of the bleachers. I tried to nonchalantly follow, but Jason’s rather large figure made this an infeasible task. I can only assume my fellow peers thought I needed a moment to my self once this horrendous video started playing. We left through the back doors unnoticed by any faculty and continued down the hall. The hall decorated in posters made for you that I had not noticed this morning. “RIP Jazz”, “We miss you dearly.” When the hell did you start going by Jazz? I can only wonder how many likes these attention whores got on social media for posting these when they were finished. People love to use death as a publicity stunt. “Ok, where are you taking me?” I asked Jason as my heart sank. As I asked this question we had turned down a hallway. Your hallway. The one with locker 42. The locker that I was too afraid to stop by this morning. Sure, on the outside it was as dismal as the rest of them, but once it was opened your vibrant individualism radiated through the hall. It is your locker, or more correctly, was your locker. “Well, it won’t be long before they clean out Jasmine’s locker for her family, if they haven’t already, and I thought you might want something for yourself,” Jason sincerely explained. “Thanks bro, but you don’t think I would have done that already if I had known her combo?” I rhetorically asked. You always enjoyed keeping secrets from me insisting it kept the passion in our relationship alive. If I ever needed an explanation you would simply state that once you know everything about a person then there is no element of surprise, and you equated the lack of surprise to the lack of passion. “Well that’s what these are for my friend,” He smiled as he reached in his coat pocket pulling out a stethoscope. I laughed at the simplicity of his plan. “I hear a stick of dynamite can work just as well. Do you want me to keep a look out for any coppers?” I asked. “Well, I would’ve asked but being a white male in the state that you’re in I knew that teachers would be keeping a sharper eye on you than usual.” Jason knew just how my humor worked, and besides you, he was the only one that could execute a joke with such subtle darkness. I remember being at his Grandmother’s eulogy when he jokingly stated how surprised he was that she had made it to her late 60s while being as promiscuous as Eazy-E. Most likely due to him not accurately gauging the age of his audience nobody laughed, and they just blew it off as an immature coping mechanism. Again, everyone deals with death differently. “And relax, champ, I watched a couple YouTube videos on it the other night. Hell, you can learn more from there than anything these dense teachers spew at us,” Jason said with a tone of a bad con-artist trying to scalp tickets outside of a sold-out show. As he started to fidget with your lock I kept watch for any faculty members walking around searching for delinquents alike. In reality I was just hoping to see you come around the corner, hair still wet form the shower, your freckles on your cheek that presented your natural beauty, wearing your favorite pair of converse with a simple T-shirt and blue jeans. Then I see your face lighten when you look up from the floor and see me standing by your locker. You say nothing, but give me that smile that could clear up the rainy skies in Seattle. “And, ya, I’m the shit!” Jason exclaims, snapping me back to reality as I hear the padlock crash down to the floor. In pure astonishment that this oversimple plan worked I reached for the locker handle and the sheer coldness ran revelations through my body as I understood that your hand has not touched this since last Friday. The door slowly creaked open revealing everything remained just the way you left it. The collage of your favorite bands and moments at Patterson High line the door with your favorite picture in the center. The one I gave you the last time I saw you. It was of us laying in the warm sand at our favorite beach on a slightly overcast Tuesday. I remember how red your cheeks were when I gave you this small gesture of my kindness, as you adored my photography. “A perfect fit for a perfect photo,” your words still echoing through my head. “Are you ok, buddy? Do you need me to give you a minute?” Jason said as I noticed his hand was on my shoulder in an attempt to be comforting. “Ya, I just haven’t seen her locker since last Friday,” I calmly explained. My eyes moved from the door that froze our happiest moments in time to the cheerless bureaucracy of school textbooks, US History, Literature, and Trigonometry all vertically stacked together. However, sandwiched between the unread Dante’s Inferno, and the cold wall of locker 42, rested a withered black leather notebook that had the word “Dreams” written on the spine. I vaguely remember you talking to me about the joy you recently began experiencing from recording your dreams, but I had hardly gave it a second thought until today. I reluctantly pulled this book from your locker as I did not wish to encroach on your privacy, however, I needed something of yours. A small feather bookmark floated down to the floor inducing the realization that this was the journal you always had your face in between class. This too was another one of your secrets that you kept from me. I hope you don’t mind know given our circumstances.