Junior High
- 6 days ago
- 2 min read
By Sarah Watkins
one swats her freckled friend on the shoulder, laughing and showing her chessboard teeth.
another lays his acne-bubbled cheek on his faded white sweatshirt, closes his dark eyes,
and is lulled to sleep by the voice I’ve put on; to him, I am good for white noise,
perhaps for filling a borrowed space that will be vacated by the end of May, but not much else.
when I ask, so what does Steve mean when he says that his books are his shelter?
there are murmurs and teasings, a purple lead-covered pencil cap
thrown across the room, a smattering of laughter like a closeby thunder rumble—
contact with reluctant eyes with an eagerness to please that each tries to hide. I know by a squeal
of metal that someone has grabbed their desk’s top with both hands is using all their force
to loosen it. they stop when I look around. pens work on ballpoint masterpieces
in the margins, wide-eyed rabbits and stickmen with gunwounds.
the girl who has been picking at the patch on her shirt
grabs ahold of the thread she has loosened and gives it a big pull.
someone share with me—what is a shelter?
scalps, side profiles, maybe ten eyes altogether.
a boy mumbles, where are we? and the boy beside him points to the wrong paragraph.
a girl zips her backpack—there are fifteen minutes left of class.
another crinkles her nose at the blonde boy across from her
as he snatches her pencil. a boy slumps back in his chair
and glances at the red numbers on the digital clock from my dorm room,
where I would nap every day after my eight A.M.
where we would talk about how to keep theoretical students
always staring, always watching, always wanting more.
I am holding a book that makes my arms ache,
I am wearing shoes that make my back ache—
shoes a student told me at eight A.M.
didn’t match my outfit.
my throat is dry and I am out of water.
a girl with her textbook shut who has told me she could do a better job teaching than I do
is murmuring to the girl beside her, and I cannot bring my voice to call out
for their attention again.
then: it’s like a place—and I find the face—where you are kept alive.
kept, uh, away from the weather and stuff.
the voice is a mumble, and I am its echo,
and repeating—a place where you are kept alive!—is that note I was slipped on Monday:
you talk a lot. thats a good thing. I feel safe when i’m in your classroom.
idk why.
I say a quick thank you
and call the sleeping boy’s name.
there is a gentle groan when he lifts his head and looks back at the textbook with sleep-red eyes
and I say, welcome back to the world of the living.
An Arkansas native, Sarah Watkins is an educator by trade and a writer by necessity. She currently resides in northeast Arkansas with her husband. Her work has recently been featured in several publications, including Menagerie, Moss Puppy Magazine, and Heart of Flesh Literary Journal. Instagram: @sarahwatkinspoetry
