2007-05-26
no more books
In the last hours of school, nobody sticks around long...only the janitors, who drag buckets through the halls like the living dead...and the jocks who prowl the field as if talking to the bleachers, soaking in the silent applause. It's a half day and Dad forgot to pick me up.
All the lockers have swung ajar. I could listen to them like clam shells, pick up clues from the people slammed them open and shut, five days of the week.
I peek inside and find half-chewed pencils, a mirror glued to a paper plate, crumpled Scantron tests and an essay that reads, "Miss Havisham was a beautiful, young, proud girl." The word, "young," was circled with a question mark.
In the locked classrooms, a few books flop on the desks like movie props. What the hell for? We haven't thumbed through them since finals.
A lone desk darkens the hall like a landlocked boat. I sat there once when I missed a Civics test. (I still failed it). Usually, it's Thayer warming the seat, once Ms. Armstrong gets tired of his ADD.
We used to eat lunch in the band room. I couldn't deal with the sour cafeteria smells and all those mouths, chewing in 4/4 time.
I turn a corner and get a whiff of Pine Sol. The janitor's closet reminds me of a tag sale. Notice the gallon-sized can of "graffiti remover."
I don't play basketball, but I guess every sport has its own shoe. Except yoga.
"Used book" that are "usable" go in the trash.
Textbooks are returned to your teachers.
As I sit on the curb and wait for Dad's car, a tide of papers cartwheel in the breeze. Weeks later, they will crumble into the grass like melted snow: all the quadratic equations and gross national products, the research papers and dangling participles. I will try to remember them and draw a blank.
f-i-n at 3:52 p.m.