She knew I was there.

She walks straight toward me, and students in ISAP

are supposed to sit two desks apart, but today

she comes and places a hand on the chair

right next to me, glances back at Mr. West.

He looks up, feeling our proximity,

and the brown eyes behind his glasses

take us in, take in whatever prayer

is on our faces. One hand rises, waves

us off. Deja sits down.

Do you want to talk, she whispers.

Not really.

You have to talk to me sometime. You have

to tell me what’s up with you.

Do I?

Did something happen? Something I don’t see?

I can only sigh.