The Principal

Senior year he made us girls file into the gym for martial arts.

Next year, you may need to protect yourselves, he bellowed.

Girls, don’t think I don’t know. The rest of your lives 
will be spent shuffling around in cities, going on dates 
with idiots. Any bozo could grab you by the ponytail 
or find you at a bar and spike your drink, so I’m going 
to teach you a few moves.

We practiced on each other—creeping up in blind spots, 
whispering menace: Hey sweetie, hey honey, hey hot stuff!

Girls! he screeched, his suit too small in the shoulders, 
Remember: I have no peripheral vision. Like a T. rex. 
Make sure you’re punching right in front of my eyes
so I can see. 

We kicked ankles, aimed for temples, scratched at eyes. 
Casting personal relationships aside, we trained heartily 
for our lives as targets. I wondered who would live to 
tell the tale.

Good. That’s good, girls, good, he wheezed, his whistle shrieking.

You’ll use this a lot in the future. I myself used to be a rotten 
young man. A rotten young man.