Crayola, smell. Starbucks grande
soy chai tea latte
drops. He laughs with pride
like Rosie Ruiz. Spills.
Sienna, indigo. Violet.
I sit in the “Kara Stinson:
Mayor of S****-ville 2010!” bathroom stall.
Cherry tomatoes
impaled by my spork.
Sunset orange. Sky blue, teal.
Broken under
the pressure of sweaty palms and coloring
books. Forgotten.
Dried mango in a
zip-lock bag. Snack size. Enough
to make it. Someone
purges in leftward toilet. Leaves.
Heels click on
counterfeit marble flooring.

I heard her beautiful f***ing
laugh down the hall from my English
class during first period. Then we'd see
each other in the hall
and she stumbles over my name
but she was so damn nice
that it didn't matter. She was trying to
be kind.
And was I Sofia or Sofie anyway? I didn't even know.
And then we'd part and go to homeroom.
And after, during second period. Theatre.
I'd see her again.
she'd tell everyone to call her daddy
and she'd say things like white boys all day and the wall grabbed my weave.
Then she'd somersault.
Like who the hell does that? But we loved it.
She lived to make people laugh. She'd see me
alone. And she'd come over. Are you okay?
I'd nod my head and smile, polite. Somehow she'd see through
me. But she also could see that I needed my space.
She wouldn't push me. With her,
knuckle sandwich for lunch graduated
to knuckle McChicken and a lack of
understanding
would be met with an incredibly secure
Wh-what?! On the last day
she said bye to me.
And just like that she was gone.
Never to smell crayola crayons
Or a high school bathroom
again.