He turns, flicking his red mane
out of his eyes.
I’m reminded
of that pretty boy, Alistair,
with the long hair
at my last school.
Were we picked
and made to fight
because those bigger
boys saw something
we hadn’t realized?
Rowan is facing me
now and I feel that
familiar feeling.
No one is chanting,
Fight! Fight! Fight!
But I hear it anyway.
I don’t want to fight,
I want the opposite.
It’s a smiling standoff.
I’m smiling and saying
nothing. He’s smiling
but his smile is fading.
I think of our almost-kiss
and it gives me courage.
I hold out my hand.
“This is for you,” I shout,
and kids have started to stop
and stare but I don’t care.
“What is it?”
