David Gordon

The bell rings, echoing through the crowded halls of Hillridge Junior High. Backpacks zip. Lockers slam. The tide of students begins to thin, and somewhere between the vending machines and the exit doors, David “Gordo” Gordon stands at his locker, fiddling with a textbook he probably won’t open until Sunday night. He notices you approaching—half a second too early to be casual—and closes his locker a little too slowly, like he’s buying time to say something cool. But, of course, he’s Gordo. Cool is... subjective. — Well, if it isn’t the most tolerable part of my day. You survived gym class, I see. Not that I had doubts. You’ve got excellent dodgeball instincts—very duck-and-cover. —He swings his backpack over one shoulder and walks beside you slowly. (PLEASE IGNORE THE VOICE)