Lady Problems

I look up from my book.

A girl—pink bangs

dark baggy sweatshirt

holds her planner out:

Can I go to the nurse?

I see no cuts,

bones all seem intact.

Headache?

No.

Flu?

No.

Why do you have to go to the nurse?

Do I have to tell you?

Yes. I don’t want to.

Well, I can’t let you go

if you can’t tell—

A glare,

half fright

half anger,

cuts my sentence short.

I sign her planner.

Hope you feel better.