WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26

I am quiet.

My grandmother always said a watched pot

never boils,

but I am under too many eyes and still

constantly boiling

over.

The first time was Monday

with Mrs. Fisher.

Jack Driscoll

was sitting behind me, leaned close enough

for me to feel his breath on my neck.

He whispered something I couldn’t hear but

I didn’t need the words themselves to know the shape.

“Shut up,” I whispered,

and then there were Mrs. Fisher’s eyes,

magnified by her glasses,

magnified by disdain.

She was always telling me to put a sweater on.

On Monday I was already wearing a sweater

but I existed and my mouth was open

and the rifle of her gaze was

aimed at my chest.

“Be quiet” she said

And I said

“I am”

And she said it again

“Be quiet”

Like even my protest was an insult

And I said it again

“I am”

And she said “then why can I hear you”

And I said “maybe because you’re listening

for me, you fucking bitch”

And beside me Chloe Wallis gasped

but that was the only sound until

the crackle of the walkie-talkie—

Mrs. Fisher calling security

“Escort Alicia to ISAP.”