by cheri block
Growing along the banks of the 7th-grade gym, having tentatively planted myself there for stability, with other flat-chested girls whose buds had not bloomed, whose stalks were thin and green, whose flowers were years away.
Waiting for an 8th-grade prince, that one clutching a voluptuous red rose and swaying with her as the clock ticked toward nine.
A seed packet waiting for a green house, we girls on the wall, fertilized with Shalimar and hydrated with punch.
The last slow dance announced, we, feeling like weeds instead of the pink tulips we were to become, edged back into the darkness, like cattails in a dark lagoon.
Romantic song, it.
Moon River, by Andy Williams.