On the Playground

 

But here’s the thing: she likes to win. Oh, sure,

“competitive” is one of her put-downs,

along with “stuck-up,” “tries too hard,” and “sore

loser” . . . but did you ever notice how

she always rigs the game? You take your turn

and suddenly it’s “Thursday rules” or “you

said a word starting with p so you earn

only half-points” or “I was touching blue

when I said ‘no give-backs.’” Nobody likes

her, not really. She doesn’t even know

she’s pretty, you can tell. The hair? And my

cousin, he’s in her class, he tried to go

with her, tried to kiss her, and she just yelled,

“Gross! Boy’s germs! I’ll tell my dad, he’s your pal,

remember?” So immature. If they held

one of those big contests for who to call

the biggest spaz, they wouldn’t even let

her play, they’d say she was a pro — ineligible.

She thinks she’s so great. I bet

she wets the bed. I bet she goes to hell.

 

 

© Michael Fleming

Brattleboro, Vermont

February 2011

 

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