The first Space Shuttle launch got delayed until

Sunday, so we had to watch the Shuttle’s return

to Earth in class instead—PS113’s paunchy black

& white rolled in, the antennae on top adjusted

sideways & down for better reception. That same

day, Garrett stole my new pencil box. That same

day, Cynthia peed her jeans instead of going

to the bathroom & letting Garrett steal her pencil

box. Both of us too upset to answer questions about

space flight, so we get sent to the back of the class.

I smelled like the kind of shame that starts a fight

on a Tuesday afternoon. Cynthia smelled like pee

& every-day Jordache. The shuttle made its slick way

back to Earth, peeling clouds from the monochromatic

sky & we all—even the astronomically marginal—

were winners. American, because a few days before,

a failed songwriter put a bullet in the President

in the name of Jodie Foster. The shuttle looked

like a bullet, only with wings & a cockpit, & when

it finally landed, the class broke into applause

& the teacher snatched a thinning American flag

from the corner, waved it back & forth in honor

of our wounded President & those astronauts.