Mean Girl 101

Boys are rotten, made out of cotton! Girls are sexy, made out of Pepsi!

When he failed to beat her racing time tables, she nicknamed him the little engine who couldn’t and it stuck. She hung very close, a spitball in his matte. She bore in his brain. She stuck in his craw. Circle, circle, dot, dot, she named him pumpkin. As she picked him last for kickball. They fought. She won. He let her, circle, circle, square, square. She spied something like an ice cream headache she’d given him. He kept lurking. Around the monkey bars, and her Pocahontas underwear. He mooned behind her after school, walking home. Snips and snails, wagging his puppy-dog tail. Reigning supreme in her first girl-gang, she ate her sugar. Circle, circle, knife, knife. And off with the heads of her barbies. She peppered her jeers. Boys go . . . ! Unsure what a penis looked like, she accused him of getting one. He flushed. In confirmation.