Annabelle
I hate to walk past the third floor lounge
of my school, where
the cool kids
hang out.
The cool kids talk loud and dress preppy,
carry condoms in their pencil
cases and smoke up at
break, throwing
their butts
into the
bushes.
If I have to go to the library, I take the second floor
as far as it will go, then climb
the stairs and double
back, just to avoid
the third floor
lounge.
If I really can’t avoid it, I hold my head so high I get a kink
in my neck, and I try not to look anyone straight
in the eyes, because if they know you’re
looking they flaunt it, their
popularity, pull it out
of tight tops like a
magician’s scarf
and fling it,
laughing,
in your
face.
My ex-best friend Stacey hangs out there with
her boyfriend Mark, wrapping him
around her like a shawl, the hair
on his head spiked up
with gel to make
him look
taller.
If Stacey sees me, she’ll wave and holler, Hey Annabelle, how’s it going?
and even though she doesn’t say it, I know she means
down here, among the loser girls who haven’t done
it yet, girls who think the purpose of school is
getting good marks and not a boyfriend
named Mark, who drives a yellow
Mini, his girl of the month
beaming beside him
like a yellow car
Princess.