“This is everything I can’t say to you,” he gently presses the crumpled notebook paper into my palm. His eyes are furtive and unfocused, greasy hair drooping down his forehead like an ungroomed Lhasa Apso. He hurries away when the bell rings and I am left standing here. I have never seen him before.
I uncrumple the note and read. Your scar is like poetry on your skin. It makes me want to tell you every terrible thing I’ve ever done and every lie I’ve ever told.
I finger the scar on my cheek. Then I throw the paper away.
Vanessa Capaldo teaches middle school English in Texas. She is a voracious reader of young adult novels and is currently writing one.