I tripped while taking my first step and I've been falling ever since. Girls put on makeup in front of the sinks. The bell rings in five minutes. My friends are on their phones outside. Scrolling,  suspended in motion, breathing in the summer. Here is the space you don’t have to occupy,  where you're not necessarily anyone. My shoes are too loud on the floor. 

I wrote a poem on a piece of scrap paper during first period. I ran out of lines by the end, but the beginning was good. Something, something the bitter taste of pine leaves when the air wasn't so stale. I folded it up three times and put it in my pocket.  

She has swirls of cotton candy on her cheeks and cigarette ash caught around her eyes. Brown hair. Dark eyebrows. She’s wearing this white hoodie with a really funny and ironic slogan I didn't stare at long enough to fully read. If I stare, she could stare back, and it’s like being scorched by the sun.  

I am just a bad disguise of myself, but she makes no comments. Being in close proximity with quality people can make your joints grow soft and fleshy. I think she hasn't noticed me, isn't noticing me. She’s focused on the mirror; she’s at this perfect stroke of eyeliner that will really make her eyes just POP. Like a balloon or a football. Pop.  

That’s her secret, what makes her special. I seem to have forgotten mine.  

I'm chronically dry-mouthed and tired. I have a water bottle that tastes like cotton and curdled milk. She smells like butterflies. She has a pretty makeup bag like a jar of love potions. I think I could be her friend. The kind of friend she will forget the name of after graduation goodbyes. I'll write her name down on a notepad. A petty gain. Forget-me-not. 

There are other girls. Giggling at Something, blowing birthday-cake smoke. Voices fast. That elusive Something.  

Some of them slouched through first period already while some have just arrived. It's German,  Spanish, or French upstairs and gym to the right. Miles of plastic grass on the field. Holes in the varsity shirt. Some are going home right after this. You don't even have to fake the flu or vomit anything up, you can just leave. You have to be good at it, though.  

I go to the stall in the corner because the tile walls are sparkly. I unravel the poem in my pocket and try to fix it up. Get rid of the pines, and there's only blanks left. I can't remember the pines. Even the bathroom AC whirs out dead air. I fold close the poem again.  

Girls write hearts and ‘dump him!!!’s on the wall. It’s fun. At least there’s nothing to do. I've never been good at leaving. Besides, I feel best when I'm standing still. Here's the toilet paper stand you can forget empty boxes on. Here's the bottle of water spilled on the floor. If you stare at the patterns in just the correct order, a secret passage may reveal itself to you. It only reveals itself to those who are of a pure heart. 

It could be gold in there; it could be gold for winning big. We'll all—one day—win big in this life. We'll all touch that gold medal, that winner's certificate. Perfectly folded cream paper.  Envelope glued together with liquid sunshine instead of spit.  

I don’t believe I can do anything I set my mind to but I hope it’s true anyway. I want to learn origami. With origami, you can create bird-likes that fly like real birds. If you can sing, the birds change in nature, but then you’d have to learn how to sing... Fold and crease a piece of paper as many times as you can, seven, twelve, twenty; it will never be enough.