The boy next to me in the computer lab punches
all the buttons on his calculator at once and cups

his face in his hands. He has been working on geometry
all period. I, on the other hand, frolic around the internet

with my two study halls in a row, prefaced by first period
yoga. I believe I did senior year right. This boy is probably

a sophomore, by the looks of his math worksheet. His jeans
are hemmed and I can see his white socks and black loafers.

His glasses have fingerprints all over them. I ask him
how he is doing. He is a deer, I am the headlights.

“Not so good,” he says, cautiously. “It’s my mom’s birthday
and I’m not going to have enough time to make her a card.”

I wish I could show him what I see. I wish
he knew now what I did not know then;

the homework is inanimate. You are walking
on a tightrope and cannot see what is beneath,

but let me tell you, it is a foam pit.
You will be fine. Make your mother the card.
This is the last time she will ever turn forty-nine.
Instead, I suggest he makes her a card during his

lunch period. His shoulders sigh. He has packed
too many AP classes into his suitcase of a schedule.

He does not have a lunch period. Oh—Right.
I forgot how common it is here to forgo

basic human needs for a report card
with a-a-a-a stuttering grades.