Me and Angie always kick it after school, but she’s not my girlfriend. She keeps bean dip and Cheetos snacks in her backpack for the days that she’s forgotten. I don’t care what anyone says. She’s not crazy, but she does bite. Angie chews on straws and counts my freckles and pops the pimples on my face. Sometimes when I talk to her I can tell she’s not really listening. She’s just looking for more pimples to pop. She loves it. It hurts, but I kind of like it. I only got to go to Angie’s house one time. We put some flowers in her dad’s gun rack for peace reasons, but it got me sent home and Angie had to hide. Sometimes peace makes people mad. Angie says her dad can’t see the beauty anymore and I know she’s gonna run. Angie’s spot on the schoolyard is next to me and I’m not looking forward to the empty. But I get it. When you’re in a rotten pot of dumplings, you gotta climb out. It just bugs me when the wrong people have to leave. Angie says, “When you got gum on the bottom of your shoe, you peel it off and keep walking, but families are different.” Angie writes poetry. She says if it makes sense, you’re listening to it wrong.
She wrote this one for me:
If you walk too fast you’ll miss the Bible cave, so slow your roll, Jimbo.
It’s on the left side-boob of the mountain by the tilty tree.
Why do I need therapy? Because of how much I love tornados?
You need a passion, Jimbo.
Or else you’ll end up like a zombie rockin’ fruit flies to work.
I run from some pretty nasty shadows.
I know you look out for me, but you can’t pick all the corn yourself.
Life’s important Jimbo, but hair grows back.
See why I’m gonna miss her?