Borderline

Sitting in social studies

zoned out

doodling. Calculating

how much weight I have lost. Testing

how it looks in dashes and slashes

clumps of five pounds.

Sophisticated charts marking progress.

I actually am good at math.

Greasy Mr. Groth is passing back tests

when I stand, the edges of my vision fill

with black snow, darkness

fighting

to the front of my eyes, threatening.

‘Oh crap—head heavy room moving’ written in a wavy flow from the top left to the bottom right.

I sit back down quick, hugging my paper

sweating despite being cold.

That was close.

With a sly smile, I

turn my attention back

to my weight loss

numbers.

A ‘Little Professor’ calculator drawn on a piece of wrinkled torn paper. A wrist strap is attached to the top of the device next to the display screen. Below the screen is a pair of eyes wearing rectangular glasses with a mustache looking down at an open book above the number pad.