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  “Hey,” Jasmine says, “are you already at school?”

  “No, I’m still home. Mini fashion crisis. Don’t judge me. Are you excited?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Jasmine says. “We have so much to catch up on.”

  “It has been too long since I’ve seen you! I can’t wait to share my new poems and this essay I’ve been working on. And I have a new piece you’ll love. We are gonna totally shut down the patriarchal systems of oppression this year!” I can see Mia rolling her eyes and pushing me to get it together.

  “You’re out of your mind,” Jasmine says, “and I love it. See you soon.”

  We head to school, stopping to get Mia a bacon, egg, and cheese at the bodega, and run into Isaac on the corner of 181st Street and Wadsworth. He’s coming out of Esmerelda’s Bakery with a bag of doughnuts, and he looks super laid back, as always, wearing one of his signature worn superhero shirts. He’s the brainiest guy I know and is built like he could be a linebacker, even though he hates sports. He once told me that football is built on violence and racism, and it is corrupting and exploiting kids in low-income neighborhoods.

  “Cool shirt, Chelsea,” he says, giving me a quick hug. “Doughnut?”

  I shake my head no, while Mia reaches her hand in the bag. She is always hungry.

  “Nothing for you?” Isaac asks.

  “I’m too nervous, and I kinda feel sick to my stomach,” I say as we get closer to the school. I wipe some of the blush off my face. “Do I look like a clown?”

  “Are you serious?” Mia asks. “You look fine, Chelsea. Stop freaking out. Just be normal.”

  “I don’t even know what that is,” I say. “And I don’t know why I’m so nervous either. It’s not a big deal. It’s just junior year. It’s just . . . ​I guess I just want to make this year matter, and I’m not totally sure how, but it’s fine. It’s all gonna work out, right?” I ask, reaching my hand in the bag to grab a chocolate-covered doughnut, figuring a little sugar would probably make things better.

  “Well, I mean, it’s kind of a big deal,” Isaac says, pulling out a doughnut and eating it in two bites. “I mean, here’s the thing, Chelsea—this is our time. We gotta make the most of our junior year. This is what colleges are looking at, and this is the time we make our mark as artists. We have work to do, I mean serious work to do, so yeah, I get why you might be nervous.”

  “He’s right,” Mia says as we get to the front of the school. “That’s what everyone looks at for college, so it’s true, junior year is when it all really matters.” Mia smiles at me and gives me a quick hug before she runs off to join her teammates, who are standing in a huddle on the corner.

  “Great,” I say out loud, to no one in particular. “I’m glad this is a huge deal and I have a ton to worry about, and that I’m wearing way too much blush and that I definitely wore the wrong outfit.” I survey the crowd. Most of the girls are in sundresses and leggings. “Am I the only one who chose a quirky, cool, liberal shirt to kick off the year?”

  “Yes,” Isaac says, scanning the crowd, “and that’s why we love you. Hey, give this to Jasmine when you see her, okay?” he says, handing me the bag of doughnuts and turning to walk into school.

  “You got her a doughnut?” I ask.

  “I got everyone doughnuts.”

  “You love her,” I say, swatting him on the arm. “You totally love her.”

  “I totally hate you,” he says, smiling.

  If I had a superpower it would be to make myself invisible.

  Not so I could eavesdrop on people’s conversations to see if they were talking about me—although that would be pretty cool. I would use it only in moments when being seen causes me to feel like nothing. Like right now. Everywhere I turn, I am reminded that something is wrong with me. Today, it’s the posters plastered on the dingy tile walls of the subway station at 135th and St. Nicholas. I’m heading uptown from Harlem to get to school, and this is not what I want to see first thing in the morning.

  DID YOU KNOW?

  Overweight children may not outlive their parents.

  DID YOU KNOW?

  BIG kids become BIGGER adults.

  DID YOU KNOW?

  It’s not about being big boned.

  It’s about eating big meals.

  FIGHT THE WAR AGAINST CHILDHOOD OBESITY.

  War?

  America is at war with me?

  I try not to look at the posters, but it’s hard not to, since the print is so big and the chubby kids in the pictures look so sad and helpless.

  I walk down the platform so I can get on at the last car. It’s usually less full, so hopefully I’ll get a seat. It feels good to be out of the house actually going somewhere other than the store for Mom, the pharmacy for Dad, or the park with Jason.

  All of August was spent running errands and watching Jason after his summer camp ended. Now that Dad is sick, Mom has me on the tightest leash possible. That whole Brown Art Challenge excursion didn’t even happen—not for me anyway. Every time I made a plan to meet up with Chelsea, Nadine, and Isaac, an emergency would happen with Dad or Mom would need me to watch Jason. I couldn’t even stay at the summer drama camp the whole time. After all the auditions and fund-raising I did, I had to leave after only the second day because Dad was admitted to the hospital. But now with school starting, my time will be my time and I can get back to acting. I’m in the August Wilson Acting Ensemble, a social justice theater club at Amsterdam Heights. We’re known all over the city for being one of the best theater ensembles for teens, and we put plays on every year, inviting the whole community. We fill the auditorium every time. We even travel sometimes and get to take special workshops with Broadway actors.

  At Amsterdam Heights High School, all students have to join a social justice club. Clubs meet after school, and it’s my favorite part of the day. I could have chosen Animal Rights, Environmental Justice, the LGBTQIA+ Club, or the We Are What We Eat Food Justice Club. Our school is all about social justice and equity, so our clubs all have to have some kind of social consciousness to them. But even at a place like Amsterdam Heights, as a black girl who isn’t a size 4, I stand out. Maybe that’s why I chose theater club. I like experimenting with my voice, changing my look. It’s kind of freeing, being someone else.

  The train pulls in, more crowded than I expected. I squeeze myself into the jam-packed car. The door closes just as I bump into a man who is trying to keep his balance by holding on to the silver pole that is covered with sweaty hands of all colors and sizes. The train jerks forward, and I grab on to the man’s arm so I don’t fall. “Sorry,” I say.

  “No worries.” He steps back as much as he can to make room for me and moves his hand an inch up the pole. I hold on. Then he looks me up and down, leans forward, and says, “I like ’em big.”

  I really, really wish I was invisible.

  I refuse to look at him. I just stare ahead at the woman right in front of me whose back is to me, so all I can see is her twisted hair pulled back into a bun. I study her neat bun, wondering how she got it to stay that way.

  The train chugs along, stops at 175th Street. I wish I could get off here, but the walk is too long. I can feel sweat seeping through my clothes.

  The man keeps talking. Maybe to me, maybe to himself. “I sure do like ’em big.”

  An elderly woman sitting in front of us clears her throat, loud. I look at her—she eyes me to move to the other side of the train. “There’s a seat over there,” she says, pointing. I can barely squeeze my big body through the maze of people standing. I make my way to the seat, wondering the whole time why this woman told me to move instead of telling that man to shut up.

  Once I get to school, I go straight to the auditorium where club sign-up sheets are. We’re allowed to change every year, but pretty much everyone chooses the same club, so when Meg Rivers comes up to me and says, “Oh, so you’re choosing the ensemble again?” I don’t answer her. I mean, I’m literally writing my name on the list when she asks me.


  Meg is the best singer in the school—and she knows it, which makes me like her voice a little less. She’s white and rich and thin and so many things I am not. She’s always looking at me with a smile that seems forced, a high-pitched tone in her voice laced with pity or maybe disgust. I’m not sure. I finish writing my name.

  As I walk away to find Chelsea, Meg says to the girl next to her, “It’s so brave of her to keep joining the acting club. I mean, it would be one thing if she was just working backstage, but she actually auditions for leading roles.”

  My phone buzzes with a text from Chelsea. I walk faster. Their laughter trails behind me, lingers like cigarette smoke.

  I find Chelsea at the sign for the poetry club. She hugs me all dramatic, like she didn’t just talk to me this morning. I guess I’m more irritated about how today has started than I realize, because Chelsea lets go of me and says, “What’s wrong?”

  On our way to our lockers, I tell her about the man on the subway and the woman who told me to move. And Meg Rivers.

  “I hate it when women reinforce sexism,” she says. “And you should have said something to Meg. I mean, she can’t treat people that way.” Chelsea is all fired up now. “If you don’t confront Meg directly, you should at least talk to Mr. Morrison,” she says.

  “I am absolutely not going to say anything to Mr. Morrison.”

  “Why not?”

  “Chelsea, if I spoke up every time someone at this school said a micro-aggression against me, I’d always be saying something. Sometimes for my own sanity, it’s just better to walk away.”

  When I say this, Chelsea’s eyes turn sad and she stops nagging me about it.

  I used to be so confused that at a school all about social justice, there was still a lot of racism and sexism—and actually all kinds of -isms. But I guess we’re all here to learn how to be better because we know we need to do better. Maybe that’s the whole point.

  Just before we get to our lockers, Chelsea says, “Oh, I almost forgot. Isaac asked me to give this to you.” And when she says Isaac, she drags out the syllables and adds extra emphasis. She hands me a brown paper bag. Inside there’s a glazed lemon poppy seed doughnut wrapped in thin, white wax paper. My favorite. I pull it out and take a bite. Chelsea says, “Why is yours so fancy?”

  I laugh.

  When we get to our lockers, Isaac and Nadine come walking toward us. Nadine’s mom is a celebrity stylist, so Nadine wears the most fashionable outfits out of anyone in this school. Her mom is Japanese, and her dad is Lebanese. She speaks Arabic and Japanese fluently, and she has been to more countries than any of us because she gets to travel with her mom for photo shoots and fashion shows.

  We all hug each other, and the first thing Isaac says to me is, “How’s your dad?”

  “Okay today,” I tell him. I take what I need and leave the rest of my stuff in my locker. Chelsea does the same.

  We all walk together, making our way to our classes.

  “What club are you doing this year, Chels?” Nadine asks.

  Chelsea says, “Um, if you have to ask I think we need to reevaluate our friendship.”

  Nadine laughs. “I was just checking to see if any of us switched it up.”

  “I did,” Isaac says.

  Chelsea, Nadine, and I all say, “Really?” at the same time.

  “Yeah, I wanted to do something different, so I switched from Art and Social Justice to the August Wilson Acting Ensemble.”

  “Really?” Chelsea sings. She grabs my hand, squeezes it.

  Isaac acts like his decision is no big deal, but we all know how much he loves to draw, how he is always doodling in his notebook. “What about you, Nadine?” he asks. “Still doing Music that Matters?”

  “Of course. I’ve already talked with Mr. Hernandez. We’re going to analyze songs by Chance the Rapper and Kendrick Lamar and compare the lyrics to poems written during the Harlem Renaissance.”

  We are midway down the hall when Nadine stops walking. “My class is that way,” she points. “See you at lunch.” She hugs each of us.

  Chelsea says goodbye, too, and goes the opposite way.

  Isaac and I keep walking in the same direction. “What class do you have first?” he asks.

  “Creative writing.”

  “Me too,” Isaac says.

  “With Mr. Valásquez?”

  “Yep.” Isaac smiles.

  “Same English class and the same club? We’re going to be together a lot this year,” I say. We turn right at the end of the hallway and walk upstairs to the second floor. “Hope you don’t get tired of me,” I say.

  Isaac smiles. “Never.”

  Three weeks into the school year and I’ve got my lunch routine down—if I bypass stopping at my locker and go straight to the cafeteria, I can secure a table for me, Jasmine, Nadine, and Isaac before it gets too crowded.

  “Beef patty day is officially my favorite lunch,” Isaac says, shoving his tray next to mine.

  “Every lunch is your official favorite,” I say, grabbing one of his onion rings. “But I have to admit, this is pretty good.”

  Jasmine and Nadine slide into our table with their trays. For the first five minutes, nobody says a word while we open milk cartons, apply heaping amounts of ketchup to our plates, and take our first bites.

  “I’m always hungry,” I say. “My entire morning is spent looking at the clock and waiting for this moment right here. This is my favorite part of the day.”

  “Me too,” Jasmine says. “We can finally talk. So much is going on—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Isaac says. “How’s your dad doing?”

  I know how concerned Isaac is, but I also know that Jasmine doesn’t want to talk about her dad all the time. She doesn’t want to be known as the girl whose dad has cancer.

  “He’s fine. Everything’s fine,” Jasmine says.

  “Because I know when my mom was sick, we . . .”

  “It’s not the same thing, okay, and everything is fine,” she says again. I can see the hurt in her eyes, and I put my hand on her back. Isaac can’t help but compare the situation to his own mom. He is always asking me what we could be doing for Jasmine. I wish I had an answer. The only thing I know to do now is to change the subject.

  “Can we meet after clubs today?” I blurt out, trying my best. “I need a post-poetry-club support group.”

  “Sure,” Nadine says. “Let’s grab dinner at Burger Heights. Does that work?” she asks, eyeing Isaac and Jasmine.

  “Yeah, that works for me. That’d be good,” Jasmine says. Isaac nods that he’s in.

  “Welcome, young, brilliant poets,” Ms. Hawkins says, opening her door and ushering us inside. She welcomes us in the same singsong fashion every day of clubs. She is the guidance counselor/social worker/lover of poetry who has been our advisor since my freshman year. She really does love poetry in a deep way. The only real problem is that her love of poetry seems to have stopped accumulating in the seventies. Ms. Hawkins was born in the fifties, and I only know that because she mentions it every other week when explaining why it’s so important to look to our past and study our history in order for us to understand the work that’s happening today . . . ​but we somehow never quite get to the work that’s happening today.

  We all pile into her office, which is full of beanbag chairs and has two mini love seats, a round table with a few chairs, and posters of poets everywhere. There is one of Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Phillis Wheatley, and Allen Ginsberg. She has a quote by Audre Lorde on the back of her door that reads: Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before. I love that—I love the thought that poetry can be in our bones, can hold us up and shape our whole lives. I’ve been writing since the sixth grade, when my mom bought me a fancy gold journal that came with the smallest lock and key I’d ever seen. I wrote every day, and I’ve kept a journal since t
hen, with poems about my pet goldfish, the weather, food, and most recently, love, heartbreak, and beauty, or lack thereof. I look around the room. There are seven of us total, including two new freshmen who always seem ready to go, with their journals already out in front of them. The rest of us are sophomores and juniors, and one lone senior . . . ​my nemesis: Jacob Rizer. He’s obsessed with forms like sonnets and sestinas. He’s always answering every question and making sure we understand what he’s doing in his poems. And he’s always picking a fight with me, trying to push and get me to react. Sometimes I think it’s flirting, but there’s always an edge to it. Ms. Hawkins loves him the most, and since it’s the last year for both of them—with Ms. Hawkins retiring (finally) and Jacob graduating, I’m pretty sure they’re both gonna weep when spring comes. I had hoped there would be more new people this year, but September is almost over, and it seems like poetry is destined to stay the lowest-attended club at Amsterdam Heights. But as Ms. Hawkins always says, As long as I am here, and at least two of you, then we are considered an official club.

  “I hope you brought your fresh minds and open hearts this afternoon,” Ms. Hawkins says, smiling wide. “Let’s get started, shall we? I am eager to continue getting to know you, so let’s begin class today with the six-word memoir introduction.” Ms. Hawkins has spent the last couple of weeks on identity—we wrote an ars poetica, which is kind of like a vision for how we want to live our lives, an I Come From poem, and then wrote a poem about a food that represents us. Mine was about veggie patties from the Concourse Jamaican Bakery—they represent me because they’re spicy, unexpected, and completely addictive. I thought it was hilarious, but no one laughed when I read it out loud.

  “Get creative—show me something the rest of us don’t normally see,” Ms. Hawkins says. “And for an example, I’ll share my six-word memoir first: poetry is my heart and mind. There, see how easy it is?”

  “That’s really original,” I say, under my breath but loud enough for the freshmen to hear me. Neither of them laughs.