I Don’t Really Care
the entire school by lunch time.
Liz came up to me.
“Did you hear about that girl
who brought pot to school?
Man, what an idiot!”
My mind was filled with images
of Gary and black envelopes
with poetry inside them,
so I took a long time to respond.
“Yeah, I think she was in my class.”
“You think?” Liz demanded.
When she looked at me,
I noticed a tiny stripe of blood
on her face.
(Remnants of a popped zit?)
I shrugged. “I don’t really care.
It’s her problem, not mine.”
Gary. The envelope.
After Julie left,
our teacher led us into the classroom
and started a lecture
about how bad drugs are.
No one paid attention.
We were all wondering just how much
Julie smoked to make her dumb enough
to bring pot to school.
We started speculating.
“Maybe her boyfriend hit her
and forced her into it.”
“Maybe he hid it in her backpack.”
“I don’t know her boyfriend.”
“He doesn’t go to this school.”
“He’s ten years older than her.”
“I heard her boyfriend’s in middle school.”
“Potheads? In middle school?”
We all agreed on one thing:
Julie has issues.
The confession came bubbling
from the girl’s mouth like a fountain
as her eyes began to pour tears.
“It was me! I’m so sorry!
My boyfriend told me to hold it
Even the cops seemed surprised
at her hysteria.
“I don’t even smoke pot!” she wailed.
“I don’t do drugs! None of them! Nothing!”
“Julie,” our teacher said,
Julie bawled so loudly
that teachers and students
poked their heads out of classrooms
to see what was going on.
The cops appeared embarrassed,
but they assumed authority and took Julie
(and the incriminating bag of marijuana)