Mindy didn’t like me like me, I knew.
Even when she put her hand on my thigh,
slid it close to my dick, squeezed it in
front of Brian—I forget his last name
but not his face, some beard straggling
his chin, sideburns already, diseased
leather jacket, garbage truck voice,
his 6 inches on me, his shoving me,
and all his—then everyone’s—names
for me. She liked him that way. I knew
they’d been to second and were heading
to third, his dirty fingers sliding under
her jeans, her panties, her writhing, moaning,
digging her nails into not me—she rubbed,
slung her arm around my shoulders when
he called me that, like my father did,
and my mother, though she’d say it worried,
her voice like cried-in tissues, Are you …?
You’re not? Mindy leaned her head to mine,
her hair on my cheek, pushed them into me—
her woman breasts—voted best in 8th grade,
including the teachers, according to me
and my friends. We voted on everything
from the cheap seats—smartest, dumbest,
worst, most hated, nicest—pushed them
into my side, chest, by my chin. They
were strong and soft and it made Brian
pull back from us like he’d been punched
in his face. I knew she gave him a look: leave
him alone or you aren’t touching kissing
sucking on these, which made him want to
kill me more, made him scream animal
in the yard. I saw him push her against
the fence. I did nothing—biggest pussy-
coward in the world award—watched her
shove him back, flip her finger and pull
her shirt up then down fast and laugh
and they hugged and kissed long, hard
and soft like in the movies and I thought
he’s such a stupid loser who’ll wind up dead
in the gutter after high school. I knew
she liked him liked him. She couldn’t help it.