Wednesday morning, Higgins, in her turbo teacher transport, rides the geek circuit known as Honors English, handing back American Poetry tests. Cries of the wounded fill the air.
“My parents will kill me!”
“Lucky you. Mine will take away my computer.”
Higgins cruises on, oblivious to the carnage. She drops my paper with what, for her, passes for a smile. At least, her waxen red lips gyrate. Maybe. I glance down. A+.
Yesss! The Kid rides again.
My GPA is the only facet of my existence that hasn’t nosedived lately. I didn’t care much before, but now, I take whatever crumb of happiness I can salvage. Even in American Poetry. I return Higgins’s simper with a grinlet of my own. Make her day. Behind me, the whispered grievances continue.
“Like to roll her down the stairs.”
“How would we get her upstairs?”
“Details.”
Higgins taps her fist on the desk. “Your assignment for the weekend: Write a poem in one of the styles discussed.”
Groans. General agitation.
“Does it have to rhyme?” Lucille Shulklapper asks.
“Does it?” Higgins says.
“Other classes just have to memorize the book,” Amy says.
“Other classes aren’t getting extra points for honors.”
Touché.
“The assignment stands, boys and girls,” Higgins says. “I expect impressive tales of teen angst, and I expect them no later than Monday morning.”
After class, I drift into the hall, trying to imagine a poetry topic that doesn’t include Caitlin. I’d sworn her to secrecy about the pages of poetry I wrote for her when we were together. But writing about anything else seems impossible. Seeing Caitlin now doesn’t help. Since she flaked on me last week, I’ve spent every molecule of energy not calling her, not seeing her, not crawling in her window at night, though I yearned to see her, longed for her voice, craved her touch.
Today she’s touching Saint. They’re doing the between-the-lockers liplock she once did with me. Is she showing off? Trying to make me jealous? It works. My pancreas is gripped by a giant hand. Caitlin and Saint separate. She heads my way alone. Does she see me? I want to say I love you, I miss you.
Instead, I whisper, “Fat pig,” and move on.
I’ll leave Thanksgiving with Caitlin’s mom to your imagination....