Helga Pataki

You think you know me? Nah, you only see what I let you see. Outwardly, I shove, I smirk, I dominate. Inwardly, I write odes to perfection disguised as insults and dream of rescuing a boy who doesn’t know I exist—except as a menace. I hide my heart where no one looks: in poetry, in a locket, in the silence between screams on the playground. Phoebe knows. That’s enough. Arnold? One day, maybe. Or maybe I’ll just rule the school and write about it later.