The Syndrome Playlist

I’m staring at Locker 843 in total shock.

My locker back at my old school was a hunk of trash. Not quite large enough to shove my European History textbook into, though that certainly didn’t stop me. The lockers at that school were also not the tall ones, so of course my locker was in the middle of the bottom row. Great for my back. It had a dent in the middle and the corners were bent outwards, making it look like Iron Fist got pissed and punched my locker. And that’s an important point. Only my locker. Seriously, all the other lockers looked almost new, but mine looked like it lost a fight with Hulk. Hulk Hogan that is. My locker was too small for The Incredible Hulk to hit only mine.

Canterlot High’s Locker 843 is a full-length locker. Like, I could probably fit in it if I crouched a little bit. It’s a nice, shiny green that reminds me of the freshly cut lawn outside. The slits near the top aren’t jagged and seem free of tetanus. Even the little plaque with the locker number punched into it looks pristine. God, it’s gorgeous. I don’t want to open it.

I spin the dial. 9-7-8. Seems simple enough, but if I’m late to class or otherwise stressed out, those minute turns are going to be a pain in the neck. Opening Locker 843 reveals that trying to fit inside might be substantially more difficult than I first thought. Three shelves leave room for books and a bag or two. Crap. There goes my hiding slash napping spot. Once fell asleep standing up on a train in rural Germany, so I don’t doubt my capabilities of being able to sleep anywhere, anytime.

Swinging my backpack off my shoulder, I start digging books and supplies out. Definitely don’t need to carry everything at once. Scoliosis is “one cantankerous bitch” according to my grandfather. He calls a lot of his medical issues “cantankerous bitches” when my grandma isn’t around.

Out of my peripherals, the locker to my left opens. I look over to see Resident of Locker 84…2? Yeah, 842. She is pale, almost having pure ivory skin. I had a friend in middle school who was albino, so when she turns towards me, I’m stunned by dark blue eyes. Her purple hair seems to defy the laws of physics, curling like the scroll of a cello on multiple levels.

She smiles at me, giving me a once over with her eyes. The smile flips as she looks at me longer. I’m still smiling pleasantly, but my shoulders sag a little bit.

“Oh my,” she says. Is that a faux-British accent? It seems a bit more subtle than flat-out London talk. “I’m sorry if this is a bit… brash, but I must take care of this!”

Before I can ask what “this” is, she pulls out some measuring tape and starts wrapping it around my waist.

“Uh, what are you doing?”

Not even bothering to look up, she simply states, “Getting you out of that garb. Some nicer pants, and goodness! What happened to your shoes?”

I look down at my High Tops. “Sure they’re a little bit worse for wear, but they still work, right?”

Straightening up and pulling out a notebook, she simply shakes her head. “Attire is not all about functionality, it is about aesthetics. I design clothes, and I am determined to make you look as dashing as possible.”

“Design clo… Look, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t even know your name.”

The girl with gravity defying hair stares at me blankly before it clicks. “Oh! Oh, of course, you’re new. Where are my manners? I am Rarity.”

She extends a hand gently, palm and fingers down, probably intending to look regal, but I can’t help but think of kissing a mob boss’s ring. Course, she’s not wearing a ring, and kissing her hand might come off as creepy. I know there was a time when that was deemed appropriate, even normal, but the twenty-first century is weird. So, I play it safe, taking her hand gently in one of my mine and do a little bow.

It pays off. Rarity performs a curtsey, even taking the edge of her skirt with her other hand. “My, a bow! You do not see that in this school except for the local productions. And you are?”

“Alex. And you were kidding about the clothes, right?”

“Of course not. I could tailor you a splendid suit in no time at all!”

“I’m not sure a suit would fit in a high school.”

Rarity shakes her head. “That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she says vehemently. “A proper suit, a well-made suit, fits any occasion.”

“Yeah, I bet the jocks would love a three-piece.”

She raises a questioning eyebrow. “The jocks?”

I nod. “Yeah, the jocks. Is it different here? Must be the greasers then.”

Rarity continues staring at me blankly.

“Skaters?”

Nothing.

“Who’s the bully?”

There’s another moment of nothing before Rarity bursts into giggles. “No, Alex, we don’t have bullies at Canterlot,” she laughs. “All the bad ones have been reformed, or vanquished all together.”

Now it’s my turn for the vacant face. “No bullies?”

Rarity shakes her head in affirmation.

“There’s nobody getting shoved inside lockers?”

Another shake.

“No one being a generally rude schmuck?”

Another shake. “None whatsoever. Diamond Tiara can be a bit temperamental according to my sister, and Trixie is certainly a bit much, but everyone at Canterlot High is on good, no, excellent terms!”

I push my glasses up and pinch the bridge of my nose. God damn it. “No. No, I refuse to believe that everyone here is a decent human being. I can’t be the only asshole on campus.”

Rarity crinkles her nose for a moment. “Well, avoiding such harsh language, all of my friends and acquaintances are wonderful people. I am sure you are as well!”

The bell rings. All of the students, Rarity and I included, automatically look up at the ceiling.

Back to eye level, I ask Rarity, “Whatcha got going next?”

“I have study hall. And yourself?”

“Also study hall. Great! You can show me where the library is while I gentlemanly escort you to your next class.”

“And what about the distinct lack of, how did you put it, schmucks?” Rarity smirks.

I sigh. “Look, just give me this one alright?”

Rarity giggles at that, but nods. I offer my arm, which she takes.

Before we head to wherever the library is, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“Rarity, would you be opposed to skipping?”