“Who died and made my locker the tomb?!” “Hey,” Xander says, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m sure that you are aware that it is not the point of me showing you this. You can read the message, right?” Of course, I can read. And just reading the notes pasted on my locker is already letting me realize the reason why he wanted to show me this. ‘Hailey, we miss you.’ ‘Miss Hailey, please come back.’ ‘We need our peacekeeper.’ ‘Thank you for saving me.’ ‘I’ve never been bullied again thanks to you.’ ‘Felisha is cool, but Hailey May Collins will always be cooler!’ These are, no doubt, words of encouragement from the students. I know because there’s no way that Xander and the others have done this. They all have wonderful penmanship, but the ones scribbled on post it notes on my lockers all have horrible writing—not that I am judging them for that. It’s just an honest observation. My heart feels lighter, for some reason, the more I read the messages. I headed over to my locker
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