Seventh Grade, Yet to Dance

I smirk.
He yells.
She asks, “Got a problem?”

I swipe my hand across chipped paint.
Knowing I’ll brush over indentations
left behind by acrylic hangnails.

At the ankle, there’s a scar.
The time I danced in the house down the street
that clearly creaked sheepishly unclean.

Couples were laughing a sidewalk away.
My Punnett squares X’d and O’d without thought
while I giggled, forecasting mismatched features of babies undetermined.

In the same shirt as the cheerleading captain.
The one who rose from a shaky table
to tell me I tried too hard, too sad, too bad my parents weren’t respectable doctors.

Feeling the dew hit the roof of my mouth.
The stem of a dandelion split in two
like boys and girls around me, mockery’s smudged blueprint.

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