B is bad for a boy
carrying eight years of straight A’s
and his mother’s high expectations
on skinny Freshman shoulders.
He drips sweat on my desk.
B is for beg.
My mom’s so mad!
If I don’t fix this,
she’ll call the Principal!
His lashes blink an SOS.
B is for bypass class rules.
WHY won’t you accept my
missed assignments? WHY
won’t you assign me extra credit?
His voice breaks.
B is for bear it. But he can’t.
Mom insists this B
on his permanent record
will haunt him forever.
His red face fades to wide-ruled white.
B is also for believe.
Believe what the syllabus says.
Believe high-quality, on-time work
will earn you an A.
He bites his bottom lip. Nods.
C is for choose.
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