She watches the girls, thin as pixie
sticks, with silver charm bracelets
and pink rubber bands on their
braces already finish the race in
gym class. They whip out their
flip phones, giggling like paper
cuts, taking a picture of the
lopsided girl who dares to
accessorize with an inhaler.
She is still running, running,
running. Sweat pearls her
forehead. Sensible New
Balance gym shoes pound
the track. Her P.E. uniform
bunches between her thighs.
Pink skin. Chafing. She is
determined. She does not
cry, hanging on to the hope-
like she hung on to the gym
class rope- that junior high
is the last time hostility
will be rewarded.