lessons.

when I was twelve or thirteen years old
I had a savings account
dollars pocketed watching neighbor’s kids

there were the two who locked me in their bedroom
and ate an entire box of jell-o pudding pops
while I climbed out of the window
to pound on the door across the alley

I bought new guess? jeans with the cash
saving all summer just so I could fit in
be one of the admired girls in school
they had football player boyfriends
and wore lipgloss and their mom’s mascara

but I drew pictures with pencils
and scribbled in a notebook
read catcher in the rye
and wore my dad’s army fatigue jacket
with hand-me-down running shoes

once I was cornered in the hallway
against the orange painted lockers
she was a full head taller
wore a pissed off grimace
and glittering blue eyeshadow

she vowed to kick my ass
and told everyone I called her names
while I looked her in the eye
and the truth is I tried to turn away
but somehow I couldn’t

I still don’t know why
she thought I was one of the popular girls

© 4.4.11 heather brager