It is a
Monday,
Simply think
of a room, all chocking with schoolgirls,
ankle high
socks, hair tied back and polished black shoes
no phones,
no accessories, no make-up,
definitely
no boyfriends behind walls nor improper laughter
part of the
school rules, high commands.
Late
morning, the girls' buzz rises steady as a rundown Xerox machine
all repeating
line after line, the same photocopies of lines
like a bee
stuck in a glass bottle,
each to her
wavelength, an assertion of territory
enough space
for female hormones and last minute angst driven nerves.
Out of the
room, a line. She among the holders of papers
the hoarders
of other lines, brisks ahead to the wooden plank
Belle is her
goal, she steadies her soles
reckons
she'll be the school's star
the ground
tremors with faint whispers, dark magic and teen jealousy,
under her
breath a pillow of stones, of things she collects from the world for luck
Recite, but
some verbs chock her
recite and
the lab keys clink, hit the floor loud with roaring laughter
of other
females, relentless tigresses
the show
must go on but some lines taste bitter onto her palette,
a rush of
brain-freeze.
She rushes
to finish,
Scrooge, the
middle name of her torturer, marker with red pens
the woman
behind the highest pitched laugh
pins the
names onto the board, to her it must be
Belle,
young, rich and central
she is going
to be a star,
nearly an
actress
but Scrooge
turns over to her and says
spend
less on make-up, your acne is perfect for the leper.
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