The air in the hallway felt like it was vibrating. Every time Emory passed a locker, the conversation would hit a sudden, jagged snag—a hushed "That’s her" or a pointed look that lingered just a second too long. ​Emory was staring intensely at her lock, her fingers fumbling with the dial. She looked like she was trying to disappear into the gray metal. ​"You're off by two numbers," you said, leaning your back against the locker next to hers so you were facing the crowd, not her. It blocked the view of a group of girls whispering nearby. ​She didn't look up, her hair falling over her face like a curtain. "I can't even open a locker. Everyone’s watching me fail at a spinning dial."