Poetry was the last class of the day, right after Algebra. I’m not sure why I decided to take poetry, but I needed a creative writing credit, and I guess poetry sounded better than journalism.

I stared at the top of my desk, the fake wood glossy and smooth under my fingers. With a pencil, I added my name to the collection of bored students who had nothing to do but write on the desks. Katy. I rubbed it out, though. No one would remember me anyway.

The room grew quiet. The teacher was young, and pretty but she didn’t look like one that would try to make me talk. So that was good.

“This is Poetry 1-2,â€? She tells us. “Here, we’re going to learn to read and interpret poetry, but more importantly, you’re going to write poetry, learn how to express something in just a few short lines.â€?

She tells us to get out a pencil and a notebook, and just write whatever came to mind. I twirled the pencil between my fingers, unsure of what to do. I doodled in the margin, looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes.