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.
57