That year we learned.
D’Nealian forms; the tinny reek
of Salisbury steak, the scorched
tomato-sugar sauce on square-cut crust;
markers scented like no fruit on earth;
ammonia, bleach, floor polish, chalk dust.
At the end of the week, torn
knees anointed in mercurochrome,
we became initiates reborn
into a new ritual.

“Friday!” sang the boys
(which boys? You know which boys),
“Friday!”—the minor third
of Airball! and klaxon wails—
the so-called calling contour
a leitmotif above the playground noise.
“Friday! Flip-Up Day!”

They dove then for our skirts,
yanking the hems to our waists
while we crushed our knees
together, counter-grabbed a flimsy edge,
twisting vainly to salvage
a modicum of modesty—

the opposing forces could
part zippers, tear seams;
the surprise could make you pee,
a sour damp scald of shame—
and though we’d holler
Stop! and screech their names
(you know which names)
they never did—

and nor, that I recall,
did any teacher:
It’s just a game;
boys will be boys;
and it’s not as though
you were getting hurt,
and you should have known
not to wear a skirt.

E.A. Bagby is a multidisciplinary artist based in Chicago. Her writing has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, as well as on stage with Strange Tree Group and Sansculottes. She is also the lead singer and songwriter for Liz + the Baguettes.