Sequinettes

I try out for the kickline squad

don’t make it,

despite the fact that

they’re so hard up for members

they have

a second round of tryouts.

So I shamelessly try out again.

Samantha is over

when I get the call

from the captain sharing the

super! great! news!

that this time I’ve made the squad.

‘The Breakfast Club’ is written above a group of five people. The first lays in front of the group with their head propped on their left hand, three sit behind them, and one kneels in the back center. The person in front has shoulder-length hair that is swept to the left so their right ear is visible. They wear a V-neck blouse over a turtleneck and a knee-length skirt. The three people in a row from left to right: The first has dark, poofy, shoulder-length hair and wears a dark long-sleeved shirt. The next person has short hair swept to the right and wears a long-sleeved shirt and pants. Their knees are up by their chest and their arms are wrapped around their knees. The next person has short hair cut above their ears. They wear a varsity jacket with an S on the front. The person in the back has dark flowing hair that covers their ears. They wear a jacket and a dark glove with a cutout on the back of the wrist. Their right elbow is propped on their knee with their right hand in a loose fist near their face.

I leap up and down

squeal with excitement

this changes everything.

It changes who I am.

The Breakfast Club recently opened my eyes.

I’m ready to be a Ringwaldian princess

cue my makeover montage.

Samantha doesn’t understand,

trying to bring me down,

leaving early because

I’m being obnoxious she’s jealous.

For days I wear the

super! great! news!

on my face

a perpetual grin.

Two upperclassmen

tip heads together,

discuss the new drill team lineup

in loud whispers. Say,

“How sad

the captains needed two tryouts

because the new recruits are all

so pathetic. Guess who even

made the cut . . .”

They turn,

look at me,

look at each other

and laugh.

Face burning, I smooth

my shirt over

that humiliating rim of pudge

exploding above

the waistband of my jeans.

Sticking Keds

over my big feet,

pulling a short dance team skirt

over my ample ass, and

punching pom-poms in the air

at five, six, seven, eight . . .

has zero effect on

my popularity.

Just makes my Popeye calves

bigger from all the marching.

And nobody gives     a     shit

where     I     fit

but me.

A top-down view of a pair of Keds sneakers. ‘Keds’ is written on the inside soles and the laces are tied in bows. The toe of the shoes point toward the top of the page.