Wednesday, Ventura H.S.
(for the girl in row three)
Matthew C. Powell
Entire high school classes are missed
when the girl in row three is far more
interesting than a lecture in economics.
Words fade, discussions die,
and nothing else matters.
The best student, the worst student,
they have all been pulled from lessons
by her mere presence. A faded denim skirt,
a loosely tucked white T-shirt.
The girl in row three does not take
notes, but rather holds her yellow #2 pencil in
her middle three fingers,
index up, middle down, ring up.
Her thumb twirls slowly, evenly, as if to a
soft melody that only she can hear.
Her arm is bent, resting on her black binder.
(Isn't it cute how her elbow has that little
fabric pattern embedded on it after class?)
The shirt grabs the eyes of the boys because
of the sleeves. She often positioned that resting
arm so that nearly every boy in row two
could see up her sleeve, see the creaminess of the
inside of her arm, catch a fleeting glance of
her white brassiere as she shifted.
Tests and quizzes held less fear for the boys
if they knew the girl in row three
would be there, too, finishing hers first,
gliding to the big desk in front, gently
placing it on top. (And that way she neatly
arranged it, matching the corners of the desk,
creating the prefect nest for the papers soon
to lie there...)
And she would return to row three quietly,
brushing past the other girls. Yes, there
were other girls in the class. She sat,
lifted her feet to the undercarriage
of the desk in front of hers where you are supposed
to put you books but never do,
and picked up her pencil.
Index up.
Middle down.
Ring up.
And the boys pause on question twenty,
"Describe a free market economy..."
waiting for the melody to begin.
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