OUR LAST FIRST DAY

I.

April and I sit catty-corner,

back of the bus.

Dylan comes on,

flashes his pass,

flannel heavy with smoke.

Ask if he’s ready.

He shrugs at me.

I tell him I’m psyched,

he mumbles high school’s wack,

I tell April to ignore him.

Dylan scored 16 billion on his SATs,

the rest of us have to work,

he sticks his tongue out at me.

II.

The bus crawls through tunnels,

lands straight on Park.

We file out,

windows above

lighting us,

so bright

we’re fluorescent.

Chloe, at the corner,

somehow earlier than us,

a lit cigarette, fountain Coke,

cutoffs, Sharpie-drawn Converse,

Mother Love Bone T-shirt.

Me in a plain white V-neck,

plain blue blue jeans,

I click my brown clogs together.

Chloe and I, different styles,

friends our whole lives.

III.

April, nervous, says she doesn’t want to go in.

I whisper Dad’s go-to line:

let the butterflies into your heart.

Some girls from her class fly by in formation,

she picks up their wind, glides into their frame.

I grab Chloe’s ringed fingers,

no more waiting, let’s start—

we move from sidewalk to gates—

Dylan winks at me,

we swarm in—

our last first day.

I squint back into the sky

knowing that this is the moment

in the movie of our lives

where the prop guy

rains down

confetti.