precalculus m/w five thirty to seven fourty-five

every monday and wednesday night,
i slouch in my night precalc class.
the young adults and old women
sitting around me looking to further
their education seem appalled
that i know all the answers.

there’s this boy, this kid, roughly
twenty years old with a baseball cap.
he sits in the opposite corner
from me, in the back while my
face is pressed against the chalkboard.
he probably thinks i’m such a geek.

stereotypes are so last year,
but it’s not like i even know his name.
at least not yet. tonight is a monday,
it’s our seventeenth class out of thirty.
i’ll get my chance one day, maybe,
probably not.

so i shut up and slouch in my seat.
scribbling fake notes and pretending
to text. pretending to look like i don’t
care. why pretend? so that he feels
connected to a me that isn’t really me?
but maybe that is me, i mean,
i am writing this poem
instead of solving number fourteen.

glances at the scratchy chalk
it might be helpful to know
how to actually do that. because
when the test is passed out, in
seven days, i need more than just my
lame excuses for teenage prayers
of getting a good grade.

i slyly throw my pencil on the
mangled carpet, it looks like i dropped it.
i didn’t. i let out a silent yawn
as i curve my torso towards that boy.

i pick up my pencil
and,
he looks at me.
progress,

that’s enough for today.
i still have twelve more days,
give or take a few,
i should start paying more
attention in math.