So when there’s a note on my locker

I stubbornly think Geneva,

even as my stomach sinks.

She doesn’t have my phone number

and although she gave me hers

I haven’t had the guts to text her yet.

It is Geneva.

Geneva

Geneva

Geneva

But the piece of paper poking through

the vent is white and lined, and it slips

out into my fingers when I tug.

Then I see blue ink,

and everything I have been trying

not to see, trying not to know

is here.

Seven words, written

in neat looping print:

I know about the Colonel.

me too.