Popularity
Heather Dorn
In junior high I sat
with a group
of girls who let me
eat with them
even though I didn’t
have a bleach washed
denim skirt
or “New Kids” buttons
on my backpack
or shiny hair
that smelled of strawberries
and shimmered
like the foil pouch of the Pop-Tarts
they ate for breakfast
I asked them
one day
if they wanted
to make a lunch club
and we could
pick code names
I would be Princess Helen
or Cleopatra
or Barbie
and solve mysteries
like what our teachers really
did when they went
in that “Teacher’s Lounge”
or if they would really make you
eat the gross concoction of milk
and peaches and Salisbury steak
the inevitable product of boredom
and make stories
of lunchtime adventure
running from leprechauns
and finding 4-leaf clovers
discovered next to rainbows
and pots of gold that were invisible
reporting to the secret base
of cat agents who circled the school
licking their paws with a cryptic code
one meow for yes and a hiss for no no no
“So you want to?” I asked.
“No,” Amanda scoffed.
“Why not?” I persisted.
“Because it’s stupid,”
she fired back
and they all laughed
they always laughed
like that
So I said, “OK”
and just finished
my peaches
in silence
