“Of course not. I’m not like you, dickhead.” Asher guffaws.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“Guys, stop!” I can see where this is headed, and it's not good. Mixing Liam’s short temper with Asher’s lack of sobriety means we’re one smart-ass comment short of a fight. These two have been pretty good about keeping their cool in public, considering they’re half-brothers and all. I don’t know what things are like behind closed doors, when no one is around. Judging by the tension that’s always looming, I’d say these two aren’t as close as I thought they were.
There’s chaos brewing in his eyes and it terrifies me. He’s got a wild streak he keeps hidden, but we all know it’s there. You can’t grow up on that side of the tracks and not get your hands dirty one way or another.
“I said,” Asher taunts, “I’m not like you. I don’t make a sport out of fucking with girls’ emotions.”
Liam crosses his arms and chuckles darkly. “Right, you just get them knocked up and then pressure them into abortions.”
Without warning, Asher swings, catching Liam off guard with a jab to the nose. Liam staggers back a step. Asher barely gives him time to find his footing before tackling him football style. Asher’s shoulder rams Liam in the stomach and they slam into a trash can.
People stand and gather in a circle, chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
I run to the nearest cafeteria monitor, a paraprofessional in her first year of teaching, who looks absolutely terrified. “Aren’t you going to do something?”
The woman stands there, mouth slack, watching it all go down. It’s no secret we are short-staffed, which is probably why there are only two teachers on lunch duty. I don’t know where the other one is, but this lady is useless. I snap my fingers in her face. She blinks twice, noticing for the first time that I’m in front of her, then reaches for her radio.
“Uh, Ms. Grant to the office.”
“Go ahead,” someone replies through the speaker.
“We have a fight in the cafeteria,” she says.
“I’m on my way,” a different, deeper, voice replies. I recognize it as our assistant principal and nervous tingles take over. If Liam gets caught fighting, he won’t be allowed to go to prom, which should make me happy. Except, I know he wants to go and, no matter how mad or hurt I am, I still want to see Liam happy.
I push my way through the crowd of people to the center of the circle of onlookers. Asher has Liam pinned. He’s sitting on his lap, throwing blow after blow into Liam's face. Liam has his arms up, attempting to offset the impact, but it’s not doing much good. His lip is busted and his left eye is already swelling shut.
“Stop!” I scream, but my words are lost among the sound of the crowd. I take a breath, trying to settle the nervous energy searing through me, and step closer. “Asher, stop.”
He still doesn’t hear me. I take another step and reach for his arm, thinking I can pull him off of Liam. Asher’s arm rears back and his elbow smacks me in the nose. Pain clouds my vision with purple spots. I cover my nose with my hands, adding pressure in an attempt to alleviate the sensation rippling through my face. It doesn’t take long before my hands are covered in blood. I must have made a noise because Asher stops hitting Liam and looks over his shoulder at me.
“Shit, Ellie, I’m so sorry!” Asher climbs off of Li
am and cradles my cheeks in his hands. His thumb brushes over the side of my nose and I flinch. He grimaces. I want to be mad, but can’t. Asher’s eyes are a pool of pain that runs deeper than him accidentally hitting me. He looks miserable.
“You three,” Mr. Roper, our assistant principal, declares, “come with me.”
Nurse Bell cups my cheeks in her hands, lifting my head towards the light to look at my nose. She presses her thumbs along the ridge, turns my face again to inspect what I’m assuming is bruising, then releases me to scribble something on a notepad. When she’s done, she grabs a handful of paper towels then holds them out to me. “It looks like most of the bleeding has stopped, but pinch your nose with these just in case.”
I don’t need a mirror to know I look like an extra from a horror movie. I’ve always been a bleeder, from scrapes to dental work: this is no different. However, just because I’m not freaking out about the amount of blood covering my shirt doesn’t mean I like it. “Is it broken?”
Nurse Bell shakes her head then meanders over to her rolling chair. She swipes her badge along the screen, probably to open my file and document that I was here. “It doesn’t seem that way, but with the amount of blood you lost, I can’t be sure. I’m going to recommend that your parents take you to a doctor to be sure.”
I groan and let the napkin fall from my face. It’s saturated. Not surprising, considering the brown paper towels our school buys are crap. They don’t even absorb water. They hold just enough to seem wet while spreading the rest of the liquid around like a toddler with his vegetables. “Do you have to call my mom? I could go to the doctor myself and bring you back the note. Will that work?”
Nurse Bells leans back into her chair, a playful smirk tugging at her tickle-me-pink lips. “Tell you what, I’ll wait to call until after Principal Baxa has made contact. That way you can play the sympathy card.”
I groan again and fall back against the hard clinic bed. The paper barrier separating me from the shittiest cushions in this universe crinkles under my weight. I’m so dead.
It takes thirty minutes of constant pressure to get my capillaries to stop leaking. We were doing good, until I sneezed and reopened the floodgates. By the time I make it to the chairs outside of Principal Baxa’s office, Liam and Asher are gone, probably suspended for the rest of the week. Before my ass can sit in the folding plastic chair, my name is called. With heavy footsteps, I walk into the room.
Principal Baxa is a tired-looking woman. Closer to thirty than she is forty, running a school with nine-hundred and twenty-two kids has taken its toll. Her foundation cracks where wrinkles have forced their way through. Her lips are always turned down into a frown, and then there are her eyes. What were probably once sparkling pools of blue are now empty holes of grey.
“Sit, Miss Walker.”
I follow her directions, taking the black rolling chair across from her. I look around the room, noticing the lack of personal decorations. For a woman who’s been in this position for four years, she’s made no attempt at making her office feel welcoming. If not for her degree on the wall nearest the door, there would be nothing hanging in the room. Even her desk is absent of photos or trinkets. I’ve never been in here before, but I get the feeling that this wasn’t supposed to be a permanent position.