Weird Girls

I want to believe the faceless gray
principal at freshman orientation
when he declares "these will be
the best years of your lives."

I want to believe that I’m about to star
in Fast Times at Ridgemont High
or Grease, join the Pink Ladies
for slumber parties where I’ll kick
waxed gams, harmonize with the gals
to snappy tunes, then strut around the backyard pool
to get my friend's brother hard.

But I know he isn’t talking to me,
because high school can’t be that different
from junior high, where I couldn’t make the volleyball team,
where I got cut from the choir,
didn’t even get to play Scottie
in the cancelled Star Trek play;
where at Fort Nightly, the only boy
who ever asked me “may I have this dance”
years later blew his head off in the attic
with his dad’s revolver.

And you know he isn’t talking to you, either,
because we fit together, but not quite anywhere else,
decorate our lockers with John, Paul,
George and Ringo -unrecognizable to most
because that was last decade’s craze.
In Band, we make up rude names
like Gay Boy, Jew Boy, Slut.
In English, we voluntarily sit in front.

Chances are you'll always be
the nameless Weird Girl, and no amount
of monogrammed sweaters or pennies in my loafers
will get me noticed for anything more
than being your best friend.

-lrfg