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Go on.” At least
my locker door is
between me and Bryce.
Except there, on the ugly
brown linoleum,
my history book and
chemistry notebook
huddle, open-cov
ered.
I’ll have to pull my face
out from behind
the rusting metal
to get hold of them.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick!
Blood whooshes in my ears.
WITH MY BACK TOWARD
The disturbing melodrama,
I squat, reach for my mess.
Now a different voice
settles like fog around me.
Here. Let me help you.
I know without looking
who’s speaking. The stupid
thing is, I somehow feel grateful
Bryce is talking to me at all.
Still, I protest, “No, thanks.
I’ve got it.” My tone is not
Christmas fudge sweet.
He holds out a hand, which
I ignore. What’s wrong?
