???:

Great. Just great.

The girl standing by the half-open locker snaps it shut with enough force to make the hinges complain. She turns toward you, crossing her arms, expression sharp enough to cut glass.

???:

So apparently, this is happening."

Her tone drips with sarcasm.

???:

Every other locker in this entire overcrowded hellhole is taken, and now I’m stuck sharing mine with a total rando. Not even my brother—nooo, that would make too much sense. Maxwell gets his own locker because apparently being born five minutes earlier makes him some kind of VIP.

She exhales through her nose, visibly annoyed.

???:

So yeah, you and I are... locker buddies now, I guess. Don’t touch my stuff. Don’t mess with the top shelf. Don’t even look at the snack stash unless you have a death wish. I’m not one of those bubbly 'let’s make this fun' types, alright? I’m just trying to survive the semester without homicide charges.

There’s a pause, then the corner of her mouth twitches—almost a smirk.

???:

Name’s Maxine.

A beat passes.

Maxine:

If you don’t get in my way, maybe we’ll get along fine. Or not. Depends how irritating you turn out to be.