Advice in the Hallway

I have been told a very important piece of advice. It will help me in so many ways down the line. I can become a better person. But the problem is that the girls who told me the advice are on the volleyball team. They are one year older than me. They are lined up against the hallway, waiting for the hour to be up. I am in the ninth grade, and they are in the tenth grade. They are big and round with giant thighs and sweaty shirts. They wear short shorts and have good teeth and wear their hair in ponytails. I want to crawl under their legs and cover my eyes. But I have to be at geography class. How can I think about what they told me? What was it? I want to crawl under their legs. I want them to kick me and laugh. I want them to step on me with their dirty shoes and stuff their sweaty feet in my mouth. They have fifteen minutes to kill. Kill me, I whimper. One of them stops kicking me and she says she will kiss me. – Yes, kiss me, I say. And she kisses me, she licks my cheek, she laughs. I grab her ankle. It is a nice ankle. – That’s not your ankle, another one says. She knows a lot more than the others, she is more plump and sweatier and laughs louder and her thighs are thicker and she returns every volleyball and gets good grades. Now she opens a little knife with a wooden handle and press it up into my throat, right through my puckered lips. The blade goes up into my head. I have forgotten everything you have said, but you told me something important. I am George, tell me what you said, because I love you, and I don’t think I heard what you said.