The Humidity of Tenth Grade

The red ink on the essay is a row of small cuts.

I spent three hours on the symbolism of the hut

just to get a 'C' and a note about my tone.

Everything feels like a loan I can't pay back.

I open the trunk and the smell hits me first—

damp polyester and the locker room worst.

My gym clothes are a cold, heavy pile of grit,

soaked through because the seal doesn't fit.

My new notebook has a sticky square of glue

where the price tag was ripped, a gray-black residue

that picks up the lint from the bottom of my bag.

Everything is a drag. Just wait, they say.

As if the clock is a prize I'm winning someday.