School's twenty minutes away if the bus doesn't break down.It always does. The driver blames the road but I think it's the trees—they lean closer every morning.
I sit by the window. Naturally no one joins me. They say I talk to myself, but I'm not that rude. I'm talking to the seat beside me. It listens better.
At school, teachers smile too wide. They ask about home in that soft, scared voice people use when they smell rot. I tell them Ma prays, Dad builds, and the attic stays quiet. They nod like that's fine.
Recess is worst. The kids play tag, but no one touches me. They say I bring "static." Once, someone tried. His hair turned white.
I eat lunch alone, facing the fence line. Beyond it, the cornfield waves hello.
After school, I wander near the fence, toes curling into the dirt. The cornfield hums in a language I almost understand. It sways like it knows the names of everyone who ever lived here. I touch a stalk. It shivers.
Sometimes I think the field laughs at me. Or maybe it's just the wind that smells like old rain and something sweet rotting.