The Passed Note Issue 1 June 2016 - Page 57

I want to shove her

right into that mess of hers

with trash always sticking out

and threatening to

avalanche.

How could anyone be such a slob?

“Sorry,” she says,

sliding her books and binders

away

with her foot.

They scratch along the

sandy floor.

I turn my back to her,

stuffing my face

into my locker.

Someone walks by

cracking a joke,

something about

how it looks like

there’s been an explosion.

Snickers echo down the hall.

I don’t look up.

Don’t need to.

I know why they’re laughing.

I hang my jacket

on the hook,

grab my chem book,

tuck it under my arm

and slam my locker shut.

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