EXOPLANET

It’s been a month and a half since

I was kicked out of Yearbook.

I still have a key but

it doesn’t feel like my space

anymore.

Knock on the door,

ask the advisor

if I can talk to her

in the hall.

She says they’re trying to make their last deadline,

which is tomorrow.

Deep breath,

tick,

exhale,

tock.

Mr. Lamb says

there are exoplanets that orbit

stars in systems they are not a part of.

Force their way in.

I say I’m sorry

I couldn’t be

the leader I wanted to be,

the leader she hoped I would be.

Say I’d like to help now,

if I can.

She tells me it isn’t her

I need to apologize to—

lets me past her

into the room.

I apologize to the staff,

tell them I cut up

their field day collage,

almost ruined the yearbook.

I thank them for doing my work for me.

Ask if I can help today,

their last day.

They all look at each other,

look at me.

Ask why I stopped caring,

say they respected me.

I tell them I’ve been having problems at home,

maybe they’ve heard.

Tell them I would really like to contribute.

They pull out a layout sheet,

let me in.

The last of the Senior pages—

I draw boxes,

label photos.

Easy

but it feels good,

I do it quickly,

the ruler

cool and smooth,

something solid

beneath my thumb.