I’m
New Here
The
students are lining up for lunch.
I don’t
know whether to wait with them
or to
push to the front,
like
the other teachers do.
I’m new
here.
It’s my
first day of school.
The
dinner lady tells me to step forward,
to the
top of the queue.
She
spoons me an extra large portion,
with
four potatoes.
The
students get two.
They
sit in rows at long tables,
locked in
conversation
like
two sides of a zip.
I’m the
only one who chose fruit salad
instead
of chocolate cake.
I find
an empty space.
I’m new
here.
It’s my
first day of school.
They’re
prodding each other,
debating
where to sit.
They
eye the seats around me
and
decide they’d rather stand.
One of
them cracks a joke,
then
they all start laughing.
And I’m
ten years old again,
alone,
no one
to talk to, wanting to belong
more
than anything else in the world.
I’m ten
years old again,
whispered
comments prickling at my back;
my very
skin an ill-fitting uniform.
I’m ten
years old again,
the new
kid
on my
first day of school,
my eyes
searchlighting the exits,
desperate
to run away.
I take
my tray
and eat
in the staffroom.
I’m new
here.
