Another Day In Paradise | Danny Johnson x Reader

Hope Is Sweet Like Honey

"Alright, (Y/N)," you let yourself roll to a stop, reaching up to hold tight to the chain link fence surrounding your school, "You can do this, can't you? Not like you've got much a choice," Lifting one foot you tug at the laces of your skate, and then do the same with the other. You drop your backpack and grab your replacement shoes too, swapping them out with fumbling hands and a bubble of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. With your new shoes on and your skates in your arms you suck in a breath and force your legs to move, to continue down the sidewalk towards the main path that'll carry you all the way to the school's front door. If you don't move fast you might end up not moving at all. In your head you begin to repeat a sort of mantra, all good all good all good, like a broken record and it seems to help calm your fraying nerves the tiniest bit. It's just hit 8:00 o'clock so the school is nearly empty and you take a look around without worrying about looking like the ditzy new kid- the exterior is a red brick with slim windows all along the first and second floor, the bold letters Ashboro High standing proud above the main set of double doors. Grass stretches out on either side of the path you're walking on with a few old, struggling oak trees and a collection of flower boxes with nothing but dead shrubs. You don't see a playground, which makes sense since this is a high school, but you do see the beginnings of a soccer field around the left side of the building.

Your goals before classes start are really nothing special; you just want to find your locker and classroom before you wind up late. Shifting both skates into one arm rather than both you arrive at the three wide steps up to the entrance doors and hurry up them, pulling the door open with your now free hand and stepping inside to be hit with a chilling AC and the smell that only an old, yellowing building can pertain like rotted books and distant mildew. It isn't entirely unpleasant and you're certain you'll get used to it within the week. Your locker number and password are both on your phone, same with your schedule and the class numbers. With your right arm (the left still occupied with your skates) you reach awkwardly for your left back pocket, the one holding your beloved cell. As you do you nearly drop your skates and almost overbalance thanks to your backpack as you try to gather them up again. With a quiet curse you finally figure things out and gain your composure yet again, your face warm with embarrassment. Phone in one hand, skates in the other, backpack squarely on your shoulders. All good. You click on your phone and go to your trusty notes app, where everything you need is written out in a disorganized mess that only you could decipher. There were no titles or dates or anything like that and yet you pulled the information you needed without effort. You were locker 1821, and, looking to the locker just ahead of you (which was 1002) that seemed to be pretty far away. You huff, noting that you should probably look for a different door to enter through that's closer to your locker, and set off in a trudge to go searching.

Ten minutes pass. The hallways are empty and yet you still can't find the damn locker. The halls seem to wind with no rhyme or reason, branching off at random and leading to dead-ended locked doors being of no help. You felt like a rat in a maze and yet you kept searching anyways because you didn't really have any other choice. Maybe it would be smart to find a person instead, to ask for help- if you kept this up the halls would flood and then you'd never find your locker. Still scanning the numbers on the little metal doors you brought up your pace and kept an eye out for other signs of life; just your lucky day, you turn the next corner and are met with the sight of what you assume to be another student seated on the floor with his back against the locker that must be his. His hair is black, messy in a way that can only be intentional, and his gaze is glued to his phone. The boy is wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans that are torn at the knees.

"Excuse me?" You call down the hall, raising one hand in a tentative wave, "Do you mind giving me a quick hand?" The boy drags his eyes from his cell phone screen and instead looks at you with a piercing yellow gaze that threatens to send a shiver running down your spine. This guy doesn't seem all that approachable. You probably should have just kept your mouth shut. Without saying a word his gaze rakes you up and down, sizing you up like a bear, and then he hauls himself to his feet and begins to saunter in your direction, his gaze gluing back to his phone as he does so. "I, uh..." You don't really know what to say. He looks entirely uninterested. "I can't find my locker and, well, I'm new. I was wondering if you could... point..." You trail off as the boy moves past you, still without speaking a word. You turn to face him but he just continues away. A scoff escapes your lips before you can think twice about it, and then so does a muttered, "Jesus, jackass, thanks," that makes the boy stop for a moment and glance back over his shoulder. His face is still absolutely monotone, his yellow eyes all too menacing. With a streak of confidence you glare right back, meeting that golden gaze until he turns and continues taking his leave. "Great school, huh?" You mumble to yourself and shake your head. Welp, back to searching solo. You flick a glance up at the locker the boy was seated against, mindlessly noting that the number was 1692 and then continue to search and search and search. You turn another corner, find that the hallway contains lockers in the number family of 1300, and spin right on your heel to turn the other way. It takes another five minutes of hapless wandering before you arrive in the 1800s aisle, heaving a sigh of relief.