Fiction Friday #7

Gunner Kerndus: After the Trip

I limped to the nearest bathroom, the one in the gym, to clean up. If I showed up in class with blood or massive bruises showing, questions would be asked. I knew that the teachers were only trying to help, but not one of them knew how to actually help.

If a teacher saw bruises, asked me where I got them, and I told the truth they'd make me confront Lloyd or Carter or one of the other. The idea behind the meetings was that we were supposed to talk things out, understand each other's point of view, and end up friends. Usually, the meetings ended up with me getting pounded on harder and longer after school or the next morning. Most of the times that a teacher found out about Lloyd and the others, they didn't give him a detention or anything. They said they couldn't since they didn't see it happen. Not that a detention would have helped much. What kind of a punishment is making a kid sit for an hour after school anyway?

I pulled the door open and limped to the only sink with an intact mirror to look at myself. I saw my father's weak chin, my mother's up-turned nose, my grandpa's springy hair, and my sad, dark brown eyes, but I didn't see any blood or bruises. Which was good. My neck and back and arms and legs were sore and were probably starting to bruise, but as long as I kept my hoodie on, the teachers wouldn't see them. My face was dirty and streaked where the tears fell when I sobbed into the grass, so I turned on the water, rolled up my sleeves, and started washing up.

If a teacher saw bruises, asked me where I got them, and I lied and said I fell or crashed my bike, they'd get suspicious. Someone would call my parent and we'd all have to talk because the school can't be too careful when it comes to child abuse. Going through that once was one time to many. My dad's never hit me or my little sister and neither has my mom. And even if they were the sort of people who'd hit a kid for doing something wrong at home, I'm not that sort of kid. Then I told the truth and guess who I got to speak with in front of the vice principal and the school councilor? Right.

Dad's advice was stupid. "Just turn around and pop him one in the face," he said. "Just stand up to him and he'll leave you alone. He's more scared of that than anything else."

Obviously, Dad never had a bully while he was growing up.

Once, earlier in the school year, after Leon took a swing at me and missed, I balled up my fist and swung back. I got him in his already twisted nose and hit him hard enough that he took several steps back. When he turned back toward me, blood was drooling off his chin. He just wiped his face, smearing blood all over his cheek, smiled, and kicked me in the balls. When I fell down, he jumped on top of me and started pounding my face, smiling a huge and drizzling blood all over me. Lloyd and the other just stood there laughing.

That was the first time that crying didn't get them to stop.

I stopped scrubbing and looked up just as the first bell rang. Five minutes until class started.