EVERYONE HAS A LUCKY number, day, pencil, underwear, or a pair of socks. I used to think that my lucky day was my birthday. The day I breathed the breath of life; if I had to have a lucky day, that ought to be it, right?

I stopped believing that when my grandfather died on my 16th birthday.

Of course, I was devastated. Albert Desmond was the man I looked up to -- and I still do -- with his ragged clothes, warm, crooked smile, and cane in hand. I always associated him with callery pear trees because of his deep, wood-like smell. He was the most selfless and optimistic person I knew; he was the flickering flames in a fireplace; he was the calm and quiet waves rocking after a violent storm.

His death was shocking and unexpected because of his perfect health. It doesn't matter that it was on a sunny March day, and the birds were chirping . After that, I never celebrated my birthday or even spoke of it.

***

"Ferngdon and Grey, please stay for a second after everyone has left."

My shoulders sag in disappointment, and I plot my butt back in my seat. My stomach growls in protest, and I exhale heavily, my hand on my stomach.

Hunter gives me a questioning look, and I just shrug in return. Due to my hunger, I don't even bother trying to figure out why we're staying. I rest my head in the palm of my hand and watch everyone pile out of the class.

Mr. Waheed claps his hands together and looks up at us from his disorganized papers. He always reeks of smoke, and his lanky body figure and triangular face gives him the impression of looking weak. "The school has asked me to pick five of the most eligible students for the town's upcoming project, and you're two of them. Argh," he squeezes his eyes shut, "I forgot the papers in the teacher's lounge. Okay, just stay here for a second, and I'll be back."

He rushes out of the class, and I run my hand down my face tiredly, closing my eyes. "Great," I mutter.

A couple of silent seconds pass by before Hunter decides to break it. "It's your birthday."

My eyes snap open as I tense up. I don't know if he forgot, or if he's just trying to get me to open up. Like that's going to happen. "So?"

He opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it again. Good.

"What's taking you guys so long?" I hear Phoebe's irritated voice before I see her coming in, her eyes not leaving the screen of her phone.

"Waheed wants us to join some state project thing." I wave my hand dismissively, glad that she walked in; the dreaded topic is forgotten. "Why are you here?"

"I forgot my phone in my locker and decided to come in when I thought I heard your voices. Can we-"

Her voice is interrupted when the school alarms start ringing, simultaneously flashing red. The monotone income says, "Please stay where you are. The school is going into lockdown. . ."

In the next half-second, someone runs by the class, shutting the door in the process. The unmistakable sound of a lock clicking only heightens my panic.

"What's going on?" Phoebe asks, her voice tinged with alarm.

As if on cue, the intercom continues. "There has been a bomb threat near, and we would appreciate it if you stayed calm, and where you are. All the supervisors will be visiting each class to settle everything down. . ."

"It's probably fake," Hunter speaks. The school often does that; have a fake lockdown so they can record how fast it takes us to prepare us for the time when there is an actual conflict.

I already heard the lock click earlier, but I still go and jiggle the door handle. Groaning, I press my back against the door and slide to the floor. Phoebe sits on of the chairs, running a hand through her sleek ebony hair.

"How long do you think we'll be stuck here?"

"Twenty minutes top. As always, they're going to start from the east wing where the administration is." We're on the west wing.

I close my eyes and none of us say anything for a while. The sound of a pen clicking and unclicking makes me open my eyes. Phoebe is staring at me with an unreadable expression.

"It's your birthday."

"I know."

"How're you doing?"

"We're locked in a classroom for twenty minutes, and I'll be skipping lunch. Of course I'm not okay, I'm starving," I reply.

Phoebe and Hunter discreetly exchange glances, and I roll my eyes. "How're you lovebirds doing?"

"