The Heckler

I can say with much certainty
that you don’t remember me.
Or the time I climbed up
the bleachers of the high school gym
at the varsity basketball game.

I was there to support my friends;
to watch the guy I liked,
running up and down the court,
sweating through his jersey,
his bare arms glistening and taunting me;
the closest I’d get to a hot night with him.

But it was enough for me then.
It had to be.
Because nobody wanted to date
the fat girl in the small town,
no matter how funny or sweet
or charming she might be;
no matter how the mothers
all asked “Why don’t you like her?”
to their sons who rolled their eyes.
We all like her, yes,
but to date her?
That might just end us.

And you knew that, too.
The boy in the bleachers
with the stuck-out ears,
and the too-big teeth.
I could see it in your
playful,
taunting,
sinister,
shining eyes
when you leaned over
to your friend
and pointed at me.
And you laughed as you yelled
“Hey Tony! Look! Look!
It’s your girlfriend!”

And he looked down at me,
his face a shade of shame,
and he hesitated for a moment
before punching you in the arm,
and calling you a “dick”
as he half-chuckled.