After school
Papa is waiting near the buses.
He stands like a giant sequoia,
wearing his tweed coat that Mama made
and his mustache and those glasses—
all he needs is a pipe.
He nods hello
to the kids
who crane their necks to stare
as they pass.
Some ask “Who’s that?” and
some glance at me,
guessing the connection.
“How was your first day?” Papa asks,
adjusting my scarf.
I know he wants me to like Hillsborough,
so I shrug and say, “Good.”
There was some good, like the Science Groove
and writing in a journal.
“Are we going home now?
Where’s the car?”
“I left it at the college,” he says. “We’ll walk there
so you can see the downtown.
Do you have everything—books
for homework, your lunch box?”
“Yes,” I say quickly,
telling the truth about the first part.
I have my books. But my obento
is still in my locker.